CHAPTER 62 — Saturday, 14 July

The waves were high by the time Kit’s taxi reached Kamakura. Families clung to their spots on the beach, but the atmosphere was sullen and no one seemed to be enjoying themselves. As Kit cleared a long stretch of sand, the rain arrived and people began to fold beach blankets and tidy away picnic ware.

“Storm soon,” the taxi driver said.

“Hai,” said Kit, nodding.

The driver smiled. Having decided Kit was new to Tokyo, he’d been busy pointing out shrines, famous buildings, and women in kimonos ever since they left West Shinjuku. He’d even tried to teach Kit a traditional song about Lord Tokugawa, who turned the swampy village of Edo into his capital.

The directions Yuko had delivered to the Hilton were for a new marina on Enoshima, an island opposite the Oriental Miami, the most popular of the bathing beaches on the Shonan coast. She made no mention of the fact that Kit was staying at the hotel under another name.

“Here,” said Kit, indicating a road-side bar, where two Japanese boys were buying Pink Health, one of the newer amino-acid drinks. A double surf board rested against a road sign beside them.

“See Myo-on Benten,” said the driver.

Kit looked blank.

“Goddess of karaoke and rock stars, many arms and very nude, also white and very detailed. You can see her…” The driver shrugged, leaving the rest to Kit’s imagination. “Very famous,” said the driver. “Also lucky.”

Having thanked and paid his driver, Kit thanked him again, promised to keep the Benten statue in mind, and watched the car pull away. It left him standing in the rain, along with the surfers and a handful of tourists preparing to cross the bridge.

“Oxygen?” asked Kit, nodding to a small silver tank resting next to the upturned surf board.

The younger of the two boys wore his hair like a Shinjuku Yakuza, but his accent belonged in Tokyo’s western suburbs and he’d probably spent most of that morning just getting to the beach. “Emergency flotation,” he said, patting the tank.

“Emergency…?”

“Yank the cord and whoosh.” Unrolling a wafer-thin orange wet suit, the boy indicated a puffy white strip running along the spine and across the shoulders. “Latest thing,” he said, “very expensive.”

Nodding, Kit smiled his approval. And that was the way the three of them passed onto the bridge, talking and smiling, under the lazy eye of a local policeman, whose attention centred on an Australian girl in sodden tee-shirt and high-sided briefs.

No picking wild flowers. No unguided cave trips. No dropping litter. No public indecency of costume. In English the rules were blunter than their Japanese equivalents, though the message was the same. The Australian girl’s outfit just about obeyed the law.

“There’s going to be a bad storm,” said Kit, repeating what he’d been told by the taxi driver.

“Cyclone,” said one.

“Typhoon,” said the other.

Both grinned. “It’s going to be extreme,” they said together, then laughed at what was obviously a tag line or shared joke. “Everyone’s here,” said the first, indicating other surfers lugging boards or heading towards the bridge. “The call’s been going out all morning. We want to get in the water before the police arrive.”

Fantastic Far View of Mount Fuji. By the time Kit and the two boys reached a teriyaki restaurant just beyond a botanical garden, the rain had stopped and the café’s canvas awning was dripping lazily onto the tiles of a small terrace. The far views of Fuji-san might well have been wonderful, but they were also obscured by cloud.

With its cafés and tourist shops Enoshima island reminded Kit of Mont St Michel. Small islands off a mainland, their causeways hidden at high tide. Although in the case of Enoshima the bridge had dealt with that particular problem. And tourists, lots of tourists.

“It’s busy,” he said.

Both boys grinned. “This is deserted,” they said, almost in unison. “The storm warning has kept most families away.”

Kit left them at the Fantastic Far View, paying the bill for three take-out teriyaki before he said goodbye. He’d arranged to meet Yuko at 2 pm and it was now fifteen minutes after that. It was time Kit worked out exactly what he was going to say.

Your husband did it.

Tamagusuku-san killed my wife. No, I have no real proof.

Even marinas in Japan had league tables to establish their status, and the new marina on Enoshima island was one of Tokyo’s most exclusive, a sign at the entrance announced this fact. As did the uniform of the guard who stalked out to meet Kit, once it became obvious that was where he was headed.

White gloves, a dark blue uniform, and an officer’s cap with high brim and a glistening gold and enamel badge, the guard’s uniform was designed to impress and reassure in equal measures. The centre of the man’s badge mirrored the emblem on the gate, a yacht silhouetted against a blood-red sun.

“Your business?”

Kit stared at the guard, and kept staring until the man finally blinked. Then Kit waited for him to ask again, using polite form. When Kit replied it was in near-fluent Japanese. His business, however, was his own.

“Suijin-sama?”

The guard gestured towards a far jetty in answer to Kit’s question.

It would be. Named after a water god, the Suijin-sama had steel masts and gleaming brass work. The hull was black, with a white strip around the top, so it looked from the gateway like a floating tray of Guinness. A smartly dressed woman with shoulder-length black hair stood on deck, staring towards Kit. Her nod ordered the guard to let him through.

Maybe it was looking identical that had forced the Tanaka twins to be so different in the choices they made. This woman wore Yoshi’s face and body, but the expression of distrust was entirely her own. Yoshi would never have revealed herself to that extent.

Yuko Tamagusuku didn’t offer to shake hands or even bother to walk down to meet Kit, she just stood at the top of the gang plank and scowled.

“Yuko,” said Kit, when he reached her.

After a second, Yuko nodded.

Their exchange was watched by a small man near the wheel. Unlike Yuko’s husband, who habitually wore expensive suits and still looked like a chimpira pretending to be a Yakuza grandee, this man wore his like he meant it. A ruby ring glittered from one little finger and his watch was a Seiko, with a heavy gold bracelet, half a dozen dials, and three winders. It was a point of principle for senior Yakuza to wear only Japanese clothes, jewellery, and watches. Although what really gave the man’s status away was a tiny and understated lapel pin.

What looked silver was platinum, and what looked like enamel was ruby, pearl, and emerald, cut to fit and framed by the tiny circle of the pin.

Kit bowed.

The man bowed back.

“My uncle,” said Yuko. “Nureki-san.”

A couple of teenagers appeared. The crew, Kit imagined. At least, they wore striped jerseys, blue chinos, and deck shoes with rope soles; but they fumbled raising the sail and after a second the man waved them away and pushed a button on a console in front of him. Winches turned and the sail began to raise itself.

“My sons,” he said. “You’re Yoshi’s English friend?”

“Husband,” said Kit.

Mr. Nureki raised his eyebrows. “More of that later,” he said. “First we need to discuss her lamentable death.”

On the jetty below, the guard with the strange uniform had already unhooked a bow rope. Once the rope was discarded, Yuko’s uncle tapped his console to winch it in.

“Wait,” said Kit. “I just need a quick word with Yuko.”

“Too late,” said the man, glancing at the sky. “Already the weather warning says stay in harbour. The rains will be back, worse next time. And besides”—he paused—“you believe my niece was murdered. Is that true?”