Keigo Higashino: Malice

Rie walked me to the door. “Sorry to rush you out like this.” She pressed her hands together apologetically, one eye closed in a wink. She was short and slender enough that the expression made her look like a young girl. It was hard to believe she was over thirty.

“That’s okay. I’ll come see you off the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, it’s all right. We don’t want to trouble you. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“No, it’s no trouble at all. See you.”

“Good-bye,” she said, and stood watching me as I walked out the gate and turned the corner.

I was back at my apartment doing a bit of work when the doorbell rang. My place was a lot different from Hidaka’s: a large studio apartment in a five-story building. The room was divided down the middle, with one side functioning as a combined workspace and bedroom, while the other, slightly larger side served as living room, dining room, and kitchen.

I didn’t have a Rie of my own, so when the doorbell rang, there was no one to answer it but me.

I looked through the peephole, then opened the door. It was my editor, Oshima.

“Punctual as always,” I said.

“It’s the only thing I have going for me.” He held out a nicely wrapped box from a famous Japanese sweet shop. “Here, a bribe.”

He knows me too well.

“Sorry you had to come all the way out here.”

He shook his head. “It was on my way home.”

I motioned him in and poured some tea. Then I stepped into my office and brought out the manuscript that had been lying on the desk. “Can’t say how good it is, but it’s done. Here.”

“Let me take a look.”

He set down his cup and reached for the manuscript, beginning to read immediately. I opened a newspaper. It always made me uncomfortable to have people read my stuff in front of me.

He was about halfway through when the cordless phone on the dining-room table began to ring.

I got up and answered it. “Yes, Nonoguchi speaking.”

“Hey, it’s me.” Hidaka’s voice was somewhat muted.

“Hey there. What’s up?” What I really wanted to know, though, was what had happened with Miyako Fujio.

He paused for a moment. “You busy?”

“Well, I’ve got someone here right now.”

“Right. How long before you’re free?”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just after six. “Not long, I think. What’s up?”

“Eh, it’s not really a phone conversation. There’s something I want to ask you about. Think you could come over?”

“Sure, no problem.” I almost asked if this was about the Fujios, but I resisted. I’d almost forgotten Oshima was sitting right next to me.

“How about eight o’clock?”

“Sure thing.”

“Great, I’ll be waiting.” He hung up.

I set down the phone and Oshima started to get up from the sofa.

“If you’re busy, I can head out—”

“No, it’s fine.” I waved him back to his seat. “I made an appointment to meet a friend at eight. I’ve got plenty of time. Please, read.”

“I see. Well then.” He sat back and resumed reading.

I made another attempt to distract myself by reading the newspaper, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Hidaka. He’d written a novel a couple of years earlier, Forbidden Hunting Grounds , which was about a woodblock artist. It was supposedly fiction but its main character was based on a real person: Masaya Fujio.

Fujio had gone to the same middle school as Hidaka and me, and a lot of what the three of us had done and seen together ended up in the book. This would have been fine, especially since he changed everyone’s name, but the novel revealed some things that Masaya Fujio wouldn’t have been particularly proud to see in print. All of the various misadventures of his student life were detailed pretty much as they’d happened in real life, including the shocking finale, where Masaya is stabbed to death by a prostitute.

The book became a bestseller. Anyone who’d known Masaya could easily guess who the model for the novel’s main character had been. Of course, someone in the Fujio family eventually saw it.

Masaya’s father had already passed away, but his mother and sister raised a fuss. They said it was obvious that Masaya was the model for the book and that they had never granted permission to Hidaka to write such a book about him. The book was a violation of their family’s privacy, and a stain on Masaya’s reputation. They demanded that all copies of the novel be pulled from the shelves, and that the novel be extensively rewritten before it was republished.

As Hidaka had said, it didn’t seem to be about money. Though there was still some doubt as to whether the demand for rewrites was sincere, or simply a negotiation tactic.

Judging from his voice on the phone, the negotiations hadn’t gone well. Still, I wondered why he’d called me. Maybe he was really in a fix. Maybe things had somehow gotten worse. I wondered how I could help.

As I sat there lost in thought, Oshima finished reading the manuscript. “Seems good to me. Laid-back, a bit nostalgic. I like it.”

“That’s good to hear.” I was genuinely relieved. I took a long sip of my tea. Oshima was a good kid, not the type to offer empty praise.

Normally, we would then have discussed what was to come next, but I had agreed to go see Hidaka soon. I looked at the clock. Six thirty.

“You good on time?” Oshima asked.

“I’m fine, but I was thinking—there’s a decent restaurant near here. Why don’t we eat while we talk?”

“Sure thing. I have to eat, too, after all.” Oshima put the manuscript in his bag. If I remembered correctly, he was almost thirty, but still single.

The restaurant, one of those family places, was only a two- or three-minute walk from my apartment. We talked over casserole and mostly we just chatted about this and that. But I brought up the subject of Hidaka.

When I did, Oshima looked surprised. “You know him?”

“We went to the same elementary school and middle school. We grew up right around the corner from each other and not far from here. You could walk to our old neighborhood from here, though, of course, neither of our houses are still there. They were torn down to build apartment buildings years ago.”

“So, you were childhood friends.”

“We keep in touch.”

“Wow.” Oshima was obviously impressed. I could see the envious longing in his eyes. “I had no idea.”

“Actually, he was the one who brought my work to your magazine.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, your editorial director asked Hidaka to submit a piece but he turned them down, saying he didn’t do children’s fiction. Instead, he brought me in to meet with the editor in chief. You could say I owe him one.” I lifted a forkful of macaroni to my mouth.

“Huh! I hadn’t heard that. It’d be interesting to see what Hidaka would do with children’s literature, though.” Oshima looked up at me. “What about you, Mr. Nonoguchi? Have you ever thought of writing something for adults?”

“Someday, maybe. If the opportunity presents itself.” I meant it.

We left the restaurant at seven thirty and walked to the station together. We were going in different directions, so I said good-bye to Oshima at the platform. My train came soon after that.

I reached Hidaka’s at exactly eight o’clock. I first noticed something was wrong when I got to the front door. The house was completely dark, and even the entranceway light was off.

I tried the intercom button anyway, but there was no reply.

At first, I thought I’d misunderstood him. Hidaka had definitely asked me to come at eight, but maybe he hadn’t meant for us to meet at his house.