Since the day it first went on sale, One Cup Ozeki has been a success. It is sold in supermarkets, convenience stores and in vending machines, hot in winter and chilled in summer. Because it can be easily carried, it is popular for outdoor occasions like picnics, festivals, or cherry blossom viewing. But it is the people who spend most of their time outdoors, the homeless or day labourers, who have really made this drink their own. In areas such as Sanya in east Tokyo, thousands of One Cups are imbibed every single day, and most of these are purchased from vending machines.

In  Sanya there is a very distinct purchasing pattern that could be called the “Sanya Sake Shuffle,” and this is described in more detail in the book Blinded by the Night.

In the first chapter of the book, Blinded by the Night, Akira Toyoda, the detective and main character, is in a pub in Roppongi drinking his favorite beer, Newcastle Brown Ale. It is only in the past decade that Newcastle Brown Ale has become available in Japan, but it is gaining popularity because it is full of flavor and easy to drink. In fact, it is now considered chic to walk into a Tokyo English pub and order a Newcastle Brown Ale without as much as a glance at the menu.

Newcastle Brown Ale

Introduced in 1927, Newcastle Brown Ale was an immediate hit with beer drinkers on Tyneside, and its fame soon spread. One year later, in 1928, Newcastle Brown Ale won two gold medals at the International Brewers’ Exhibition. This naturally helped to increase the popularity of the beer, especially in the North East of England, where it became a symbol of the tough, working-class men employed in the shipbuilding, mining and steel industries.

Over the years it has acquired a fearsome reputation as a drink that drives men crazy, and for almost half a century there have been rumors of a special ward in Newcastle General Hospital for those who have lost their minds to this fearsome drink. There is, however, no truth in these rumors. Newcastle Brown Ale is no more likely than any other beer to send men, or women, mad—if consumed in moderation!

Newcastle Brown Ale is a dark brown beer that has Protected Designation of Origin (PDO), Protected Geographical Indication (PGI) and Traditional Specialty Guaranteed (TSG), which are all European Laws to protect the names of regional foods. It is the top selling bottled beer in the UK and Europe and the second most popular imported ale in the US.

In Newcastle, the beer is called the “Dog,” which is abbreviated from the two phrases “I’m going to walk the dog” (take the dog for a walk) or “I’m going to see a man about a dog” (thinking of buying a dog), both of which mean ‘I am going to the pub.“ It is also called “Broon,” which is the Geordie pronunciation of the word “brown.” In other parts of England, it is called “Newkie Brown.”

The logo of Newcastle Brown Ale is the famous five pointed blue star, the points of which represent the original five Newcastle breweries that had amalgamated in 1890. The center of the blue star features a Silhouette of the Tyne Bridge. The label consists of the blue star and images of the gold medals on either side.

In 2006, to honor the Newcastle United striker Alan Shearer on his retirement from football, a special Shearer edition was released. This unique packaging for this edition features a black and white label, the colors of Newcastle United.
]]> http://chapan.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/newcastle-brown-ale/feed/ 0 chapan http://chapan.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/mooning/ http://chapan.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/mooning/#comments Wed, 18 Jan 2012 16:31:58 +0000 chapan http://chapan.wordpress.com/?p=390 ]]> In the opening chapter of Blinded by the Night, as Toyoda returns to the pub, he is greeted by the sight of a foreigner’s bare buttocks. The practice of dropping one’s pants, bending over and displaying one’s buttocks is called mooning.

In some cultures, mooning is a form of protest, contempt, or irritation; in others it is used to shock or amuse. Although mooning is usually considered impolite and offensive, it is practiced by a wide range of people from all sorts of backgrounds in different parts of the world.

There are numerous mentions of mooning throughout history. In 1346, during the Hundred Years War, hundreds of French soldiers mooned the English army at the Battle of Caen. This was a painful mistake for many of them because the English archers were armed with very powerful and accurate longbows, and they seized the opportunity for a free shot at the French buttocks.

Mooning was first recorded in North America in around 1524, when the Italian explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano and his crew were mooned by Native Americans of the Abenaki tribe along the coast of Maine . Verrazzano was astonished by the “barbarous” behavior of the natives and called the state of Maine “onde la male gente” (land of the bad people). The Abenaki, however, had previous contact with Europeans and did not think very highly of them. Mooning Verrazzano and his crew was the Abenaki’s unequivocal way of telling the Europeans exactly what they thought of them.

According to legend, in 1534 the city of Nice in southern France was saved from the Turkish invaders by a local washerwoman, Catherine Ségurane, who mooned them from the walls of the city. Although there is no evidence to support this legend, the people of Nice celebrate Catherine Ségurane Day annually on November 25.

Members of the British royal family have been victims of mooning incidents in recent years. Queen Elizabeth II was mooned by a Maori while on a visit to New Zealand. Tame Iti, a Maori activist and serial mooner, claimed that mooning was a traditional Maori form of protest and not indecent exposure. And in 2000 an event called the Moon against the Monarchy took place outside Buckingham Palace in London. A large group of people gathered to protest against the Royal Family by mooning the palace, and some of them were arrested for doing so.

In the United States there is even an annual event to celebrate the practice of mooning. The Annual Mooning of Amtrak is now in its 28th year. The event started in 1979, when a man called K. T. Smith, who was drinking in The Mugs Away Saloon, offered to buy a drink for anyone who mooned the next train. What probably started out as a joke for a few fellow drinkers has turned into a carnival with thousands of participants each year.

Mooning has frequently featured in movies and television series. Marlon Brando in Last Tango in Paris responded to being kicked out of a dance hall by mooning the patrons. In the movie Braveheart, the Scottish army mooned the English just before the start of a battle. And two of televisions biggest stars, Homer and Bart Simpson, are enthusiastic mooners.

Sportsmen are also partial to the practice of mooning. The most famous mooning incident is English football occurred in the 1979 FA Cup semi-final, when Arsenal’s Sammy Nelson mooned the crowd to celebrate scoring a goal for both teams in the 1-1 draw. Mooning is often part of the after-the-game celebrations for American football or rugby teams. Rugby players usually accompany their mooning sessions with rousing choruses of obscene songs.

Rock stars—many of whom have behavioral problems—are also known for their mooning stunts. Ozzy Obsourne of Black Sabbath mooned the audience at the UK Music Hall of Fame ceremony in November 2005. The audience responded by giving him a standing ovation.

Although there are no gender prohibitions for mooning, it is usually practiced by men, and more often than not, drunken men. It can be fun, but it can get a person into trouble if practiced at the wrong time or place. Ken Mitsuda of the popular Japanese comedy duo “Tommys” was questioned by the police and severely warned by the Chinese authorities for mooning a group of tourists at a Buddhist temple on Hainan Island in China. He was obliged to write a letter of apology before being allowed to return to Japan.

“What are you doing up here?” asked Hara. “I thought you were strictly central Tokyo these days.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” replied Toyoda. “In my case, I go where the action takes me. What about you?”

“Pretty much the same,” replied Hara. “What’s the action that brought you here today?”

Toyoda told him and said that he was heading back to Roppongi.

“Where’s your car parked?” asked Hara.

“Azabu police station,” replied Toyoda.

Hara’s facial expression asked the question.

“I was off duty and having a drink when I got a call to come up here. There was no way I could drive up after what happened last month, and I couldn’t get a car; so I came by subway. I tired to get a lift back but Watanabe wasn’t in the benevolent mood. So I’ll go back the way I came.”

“Come on,” said Hara. “My car is over there.”

When they were buckled up Toyoda asked Hara what case he was on.

“Stolen cars,” replied Hara. “You would hardly believe the number of cars stolen nowadays. The thieves are very well organized and they seem to be working to order. They are targeting Toyota Land Cruisers, Mitsubishi Pajeros and luxury sedans.”

“High-end stuff,” said Toyoda. “I wouldn’t have thought there would have been a big demand for such high-profile vehicles. They are so easy track down.”

“There is in Russia, the Middle East and Africa, places where the roads are rough.”

Toyoda nodded. “That means they have to be shipped out. Who is doing this?”

“The usual suspects—the yakuza in partnership with the Russian mafia.”

“What’s the connection with Senju?”

“It looks as if the cars are being stored up here somewhere. We’ve had a tip off, and we’ve now got a group under surveillance. That’s what I was looking into today. Whatever you think of the Senju cops, or at least some of them, you have to admit that they know their own turf. I’ll probably be coming up here on a regular basis until we crack the case.”

“Rather you than me,” said Toyoda.

Hara laughed. “Don’t speak too soon! If foreigners are involved in the car racket, and I think they are, you could end up working with me. The globalization of crime has finally reached Senju.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Toyoda, “Senju is Watanabe’s turf; so he can deal with any of the foreign crooks that are stupid enough to move in here.”

“I hear what you are saying,” said Hara, “but Watanabe is not in the Foreign Crimes Division; you are. Of course, if there are any crimes involving foreigners in Senju, Watanabe could easily be involved.”

“He already is,” said Toyoda, and he briefly explained the situation.

“That’s bad luck,” said Hara. “I hope you get it cleared up quickly or this could be just the start of a long tortuous relationship.”

Toyoda sighed. “That would be my worst nightmare.”

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” asked Hara.

“Anywhere in Roppongi,” replied Toyoda.

“If you are going drinking, I’ll join you,” said Hara. “It’s a bit hectic at home right now, so I could use a beer or two before heading back.”

Toyoda looked sideways. He knew that Setsuko, Hara’s wife, was heavily pregnant with their third child. He had seen her coming out of the police housing compound in Tamachi a week earlier with the two boys, when he had dropped off a colleague after an all-night stakeout of a Chinese gambling club. She was obviously taking the elder boy to kindergarten and looked more than a little stressed.

“How is the family,” Toyoda asked.

“Hara sighed. “If anyone else had asked that question, I would have said that everything is fine at home. But I know I can talk openly to you without it getting around headquarters. The thing is that Setsuko is pregnant again, and she is having a hard time with this one.”

Toyoda didn’t let on that he had seen her. Instead he asked what the problems were.

“The first two pregnancies were fine,” replied Hara. “But this one is really difficult. She is vomiting a lot and complaining of nausea and fatigue. The boys are a real handful and I am not much help. You know what it is like with this job, never enough time off.”

Toyoda nodded. “That’s the nature of this job. Practically every Friday I get called out. It’s starting to put a strain on my relationship with Yelena, that’s the Russian girl I live with. She wasn’t very happy when I left her in a pub this evening.

“A Russian girl?” Hara took his eyes of the road for a brief moment and had to swerve as he almost didn’t see the taxi shoot out from the side of the road in front of him. “I thought that you were living with an English girl.”

“I was,” said Toyoda, “but she gave me the red card.”

Hara again took his eyes off the road. “The red card?”

Toyoda laughed. “It’s a football term. If you commit a bad foul or get two yellow cards, which are warnings you get a red card and are sent off the field. You are obviously not a fan.”

“No interest in team sports. You know me, the dojo is my preference. Anyway, what did you get the red card for?”

“The usual things,” answered Toyoda, “irregular work hours and heavy drinking.”

“It’s the same for us all,” said Hara. “I suppose the family is the only thing keeping Setsuko and I together. We’ve had a hell of a lot of fights over the past year. And it’s getting worse.”

Toyoda looked at his watch. It was almost ten-thirty. “Just a minute,” he said. “I’d better make a quick call or I’ll be getting into another row.”

He dialed and waited: no answer. “Out of range,” he said.

“I’ll park the car behind the station,” said Hara, turning into the narrow lane next to Azabu police station. “There’s a great izakaya just down the road, do you know the place I mean?”

“I know the place, but I’ve never been inside.”

Hara laughed. “It’s not just another tavern: it’s dirt cheap and the food is as good as you’ll get anywhere in Tokyo, including any of the fancy places you frequent.”

Toyoda dialed Yelena’s number once again. She did not respond. He fleetingly thought about leaving the photos of the victim at the station, but decided against it. If he went inside, he might get lumbered with something else to do, and he figured he had already given up too much of his free time for one night.

“OK,” said Toyoda. “I’ll join you for thirty minutes, then I’ll have to track Yelena down and make up for letting her down again. I can’t afford another red card.”

The door opened automatically as they approached the izakaya and they went in. The place was crowded, noisy and smoky, but they managed to squeeze in among some red-faced salarymen who were aggressively putting down their boss. One of the flushed fellows turned to look menacingly at the newcomers, but quickly changed his manner when Toyoda made eye contact with him.

Hara ordered two large Sapporo draft beers and half the items on the menu. Then he said, “I heard a little about that incident at the back of Azabu police station last month. What really happened?”

“Stupidity!” replied Toyoda. “I’d been drinking with a couple guys from Kyushu who were following up on a Chinese gang that is smuggling people in through Fukuoka. You know what it is like: I volunteered to show them the night life in Roppongi. The next thing I knew it was three o’ clock in the morning. I don’t know what got into me, but instead of walking home—as you know I live right on the edge of Roppongi—I went back to the station and got into my car. Just as I was pulling away a squad car came in and I had to swerve to miss it. Unfortunately, the squad car also swerved and smacked into a wall. There was a bit of a scene, and I was up in front of the chief inspector the next day. Old man Tanaka came to my rescue and I got off with just a warning.”

“You’re lucky Tanaka likes you,” said Hara. “I bet he wouldn’t have stepped in if it had been Watanabe instead of you.”

The beers came. Hara raised his glass and proposed a toast to Superintendent Tanaka. Then he took a long thirsty swig that practically emptied the glass. The speed at which Hara attacked his drink took Toyoda by surprise, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he raised his own glass and took a moderate mouthful of the chilled draft beer.

“So it looks like you’ve got a rape and murder on your hands,” said Hara. The others at the table suddenly fell silent and tuned in to the conversation. “Do you have any idea who the victim is, where she’s from or what she’s doing in Japan?”

“We don’t know much right now, but I have the feeling that we will find that she worked in the mizushobai,” said Toyoda.

Hara took another swig and emptied his glass. He took a quick look at Toyoda’s glass and shouted for one more large draft. “What makes you think that she is working in the night trade?”

“As you know,” said Toyoda, “most of the eastern European women in Tokyo, and many of the western Europeans, too, are working as hostesses, strippers or hookers.”

“Of course I know that, but what makes you think that this particular woman was working in the night trade? I saw a program on TV a few weeks ago that featured foreign women who worked in the financial sector. I didn’t realize there were so many.”

“Well, to begin with,” replied Toyoda, “the victim was young and very attractive, and nobody has reported her missing yet. I bet she’s not registered anywhere, so there’ll be no fingerprints on record. Work it out! If she had been dead for at least twelve hours before she was found, as Amakawa estimates, she must have been killed some time between six and seven o’ clock this morning. Surely any woman working in the financial sector would have been reported missing by now.”

Toyoda picked up a piece of marinated octopus and chewed it slowly, before adding “But I don’t go along with Amakawa’s estimate.”

Hara’s beer arrived and he took a quick swig before asking Toyoda why he disagreed with Amakawa’s estimate of the time of death.

“It was already daylight at six o’clock and the construction site opposite the waste ground where the body was dumped was crawling with people. We know she wasn’t killed there; so that means the killer must have brought the body in from somewhere else. That alone means that she was killed much earlier.”

Toyoda stopped to take a swig of beer. Hara did the same and Toyoda realized that he was almost a liter of beer behind his friend. The last time they had been drinking together the roles had been reversed, with Toyoda guzzling at the rate of a seasoned Geordie drinker and Hara sipping his beer like the average Japanese.

Hara called for more beers and Toyoda continued. “There is only one way into the dump site, so nobody could get in without being seen. Anybody dumping a body at that time would have been taking a hell of a chance. I’ll bet my balls to a large beer that it was dumped much earlier. Even though some old guy walking his dog claims it wasn’t there at seven this morning, I think he is mistaken.”

“Sound logic,” said Hara, “I’ll not bet against you. What does Watanabe think about your theory?”

“I didn’t mention it to him. Amakawa is his brother-in-law, so I thought it best to keep my mouth shut until he has done the autopsy. If he still maintains that she was killed between six and seven o’clock after the autopsy, I’ll bring the subject up.”

Hara called for more beers, again taking Toyoda by surprise at the speed he was drinking.

“I’m struggling to keep up with you,” said Toyoda. “It used to be the other way round; you were always one or two drinks behind me. What have you been doing? Practicing?”

Hara laughed but did not answer the question.

Toyoda continued, “I reckon the body must have been dumped between midnight and four o’clock. There is hardly any chance of being seen then.” He picked up a skewer of grilled chicken and popped it into his mouth. “If we take that as a starting point, add the fact that she was murdered somewhere else after being raped, we can safely say that she must have been missing since yesterday evening. Anyone living a normal nine-to-five life would surely have been reported missing by now.”

Hara nodded as he reached for a piece of broiled squid, dipped it in mayonnaise and started chewing. “Good logic! Where do you think she is from?”

“She’s a blonde Caucasian so it’s got to be North America, Europe or Australia,” said Toyoda. “Right now, Tokyo is packed with Europeans, with East Europeans and Russians topping the list. They are working as dancers, hostesses and prostitutes.”

“What’s your girl doing here?” asked Hara.

“Yelena is working as a hostess in The Golden Slipper. Do you know the place?”

Hara shook his head and put another piece of squid into his mouth.

“It’s one of the most expensive clubs in Roppongi. The thing is, she has a degree in computer science. Back in Russia she was earning thirty dollars a month. Now she earns that an hour. You can see the attraction for these girls, can’t you?”

“You bet,” said Hara without looking up from the fish he was now carefully dissecting. “How did you meet her? Surely you can’t afford to drink in a place like that?”

“I met her in one of the bars that was showing a Premiership football game. She came in after work one night and we hit it off. She told me later that I stood out because I was the only Japanese man in the place.”

“I’ve never been to one of those bars where all the foreigners drink. It would be pointless because I can’t speak English,” said Hara.

“Some of the foreigners can speak Japanese.”

Hara took another hasty swig and then continued. “But back to this case, how are you going to start trying to identify the victim?”

“I may as well start in here in Roppongi. I know most of the clubs and it is practically on my own doorstep. There are about a hundred; so that should take me a few days. If nobody reports her missing by then, I will turn to Shinjuku. Somebody should recognize her, but whether they will cooperate or not is a different matter. Most of the girls are working illegally so they don’t want anything to do with the police. As a rule, they don’t trust us, but I get on all right with most of them. I’m a cop not an immigration officer; so as long as the girls are not committing a crime, I don’t care about their visas.”

Hara nodded as he ate a piece of chicken. “Have you got the photos with you?”

Toyoda opened the A4-sized envelope. “Here they are; have a look at them.”

Hara looked at the photos and whistled. “What a waste,” he said, “just get that photo on the evening news and someone is certain to recognize her. Nobody could forget a face like that.”

“I agree,” said Toyoda, “but let’s be honest; in the eyes of the media she is just another foreigner, and probably an illegal working in the mizushobai, so who really cares? This story will never hit the evening news.”

Hara threw the photos on the table and stood up. The others at the table, flushed but all ears, suddenly became all eyes. Simultaneously, they leant forward for a closer look at the photos. But they drew back quickly when Toyoda banged the table, picked the photos up and put them back in the envelope.

While Hara was in the toilet, Toyoda looked at his watch; it was already past two o’clock. He called Yelena’s cell phone. It was switched off. He called his home number; it was engaged.

Hara suggested one for the road when Toyoda told him that it was time for home. Nevertheless, they drank two more before Hara called for the bill. Then they stumbled out into the muggy and still vibrant streets of Roppongi. Hara jumped into a taxi and Toyoda staggered home.

Strictly speaking, the term Geordie refers to a person from the Tyneside region (River Tyne) of England, or the dialect spoken in the region. But this definition would be so restrictive that people generally use the word Geordie to mean anyone from the North East of England, from Durham in the south to the top end of Northumberland in the north.

Although the origin of the term is disputed there are two theories that sound logical enough for either of them to be true. The first is that during the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 the people of Newcastle took the side of King George II, while the people of Northumberland were largely Jacobites. Hence the people of Newcastle became known as Geordies. The other theory is that miners in the North East used Geordie safety lamps, invented by George Stephenson, and not the Davy Lamps invented by Humphry Davy that were used by miners in other part of the country.

Well-known Geordies

Well-known Geordies include: footballers—Alan Shearer, Jackie Milburn, Bobby and Jackie Charlton, Paul Gascoigne, Chris Waddle; musicians—Sting; Eric Burdon, Alan Price and Chas Chandler of the Animals, and Mark Knopfler; writers—Catherine Cookson (one of the best selling authors in the world), Jack Higgins (pseudonym for Harry Patterson, horror writer Stephen Laws, playwright and screenwriter Alan Plater, and poet Basil Bunting; actors—Stan Laurel, Robson Green, Imogen Stubbs, and Jimmy Nail; industrialists—George Stephenson, who is known as the “Father of the Railways,” Robert Stephenson, Lord William George Armstrong, and Sir Charles Parsons.  And, last but not least, there is Detective Akira Toyoda, the honorary Geordie and central character in the novel Blinded by the Night.

Geordie — The Spoken Language

The Geordie dialect and accent is closer to Anglo-Saxon pronunciations and accents than standard English because it was originally derived from Scandinavian languages brought to the north of England by the Angles and Vikings. Personal pronouns, for example, are pronounced differently in Geordie than in Standard English: I – aw; you – ye; my – me; our – wor. The “er” at the end of words sounds like “a”, as in “father” becoming “fatha.” The “ow” in words like “down” or “town” becomes “oo” as everyone in the United Kingdom knows, thanks to the famous football team, Newcastle United, which is know locally as “the Toon.” But it is not just the pronunciation that distinguishes Geordie from standard English: there are many words that are completely different. Geordies still uses many Anglo Saxon words like, for example: larn – teach; aad – old; claes – clothes; dyke – ditch; gan – go; lang – long. They also use Viking words: lass – girl; bairn – child; hyem – home; in fact, the phrase “gan hyem” means exactly the same in Danish as it does in Geordie.

* Taken from the Popout Cityguide Tokyo, published by Compass Maps Ltd. UK and written by Charles Pringle

Bar in Roppongi

Most people probably think that the scene that greeted Toyoda as he entered the bar from the street—a bare backside—is something inverted by the author. In fact it is the kind of thing that frequently happened, especially on Fridays. A group of brokers gathered there every Friday to let off steam and one of them invariably dropped his pants every week.

That the bar no longer exists is indeed regrettable, but while it was is business it was definitely a fun place to drink in. It had a great staff, friendly and very efficient, and they kept the drinks flowing as long as people were still standing and able to enjoy the party spirit.

The only negative aspect about the bar was the fact that there was only one toilet s — problematic with the amount of liquid consumed on the premises — which often called for creative solutions to the call of nature. It was not unknown for some of the clientele, usually foreign men, to relieve themselves over the balcony at the back of the bar. This occasionally caused offense to some of the more vociferous denizens of Roppongi, especially when they were the recipients of an unwelcome shower.

* The name of the bar has been changed in accordance with the original owner of the bar.

He glanced at the man sitting opposite and he lightened up. He practically smiled at the man, but that would have been a wasted gesture.

Dressed in an expensive suit and an elegant Italian necktie, the man had the face and the posture of a coolie. He was slumped in his seat with his legs spread wide and his chin on his chest. His mouth was wide open and spittle drooled from his protruding bottom lip. And every now and then he groaned. If he had been dressed in a loincloth and had his hair in a topknot, Toyoda thought, the man would not have been out of place in a mid-nineteenth century daguerreotype scene of the Yokohama docks.

Toyoda could not resist the temptation. The man had such a classic face that he simply had to record it. He took out his cell phone and surreptitiously snapped a shot. A young woman sitting along from the man adjusted her skirt and threw an accusing glance at him. Toyoda quickly put away his phone. The last thing he wanted to do now was to answer questions about his photographic tastes.

For the rest of the journey, Toyoda kept his eyes focused on his magazine. He did not even look up as the young woman, just as she got off at Ginza, screamed that he was a pervert.

The main feature in the magazine was the Wakayama curry-poisoning incident that had happened a month earlier. Toyoda shook his head as he read about the incompetence of the local police. Four people had died and 63 had been sickened after eating curry spiced with arsenic. It had taken the police a week to identify arsenic as the poisonous ingredient. For a few weeks they had run around like the Keystone Cops, bungling one lead after another. Meanwhile, the whole country was practically overwhelmed by a spate of copycat poisonings.

Fingers were pointing and tongues were wagging, but still the local police had neither made an arrest nor questioned a likely suspect. That’s the case I would like to be on, thought Toyoda, instead of riding the subway to east Tokyo on a Friday evening.

The thirty minutes flew by and before he had even read the article to the end, he arrived at Minami Senju and entered a world much different to the world he was used to. Although he was familiar with the reputation of the area, he was shocked at what he actually saw. There were new buildings around the station, but there was also an air of desperation about the place.

Walking away from the station, he felt as if he were in the Tokyo of half a century earlier. Minami Senju resembled the Tokyo that Toyoda had only seen in photographs, a city overwhelmed by economic depression and despair following defeat in the Second World War.

The faces of many of the people he passed were different to the faces of the people encountered in central Tokyo. These faces, with their tired and downtrodden expressions of despair, definitely belonged to a bygone era.

There was something else that differentiated Senju from central Tokyo—and that was the air. Senju exuded a strong exotic aroma that was difficult to categorize, but seemed to constitute a blend of temple incense and body odor with a kick. The further away he moved from the station, and the closer he got to the down-and-outs sprawled over the sidewalk, the more powerful and pervasive the smell became. As a wizened old man in filthy rags shuffled past him, his nostrils instinctively contracted.

Why on earth do they let themselves get like this? Toyoda asked himself. After all, there was quite a colony of homeless men in one of the parks in Azabu Juban, just behind Roppongi, but they managed to keep themselves clean. In fact even their blue tarp tents and other improvised shelters were well kept. He knew that they used the public toilet behind the police box at the corner of the park to wash and shave. One of the uniforms stationed at the police box had once told him that the homeless men had a system for cleaning the toilet and the area around their shelters. He had been impressed when he heard that. But things were different here. These people had given up.

Toyoda watched the malodorous old man stop at a vending machine and purchase a one cup Ozeki, the drink of choice for the down-and-outs, which was 200ml of hot sake in a glass cup with a ring-pull top and a plastic cover. The old man opened it and gulped it down without stopping for breath. Then he threw the bottle into the trash can and shuffled off.

Toyoda suddenly realized that he didn’t know where the police box was. He strode briskly back to the station kiosk and asked for directions. The man in the kiosk ignored him. He asked again, this time with a sting in his voice. Without looking up, the man told him that it was back the way he had just come from. He set off again for the police box, moving as quickly as he could in the hope that the air would get better: it did not. When he arrived at the police box he found it closed. There was a notice informing him that there were two police boxes at Minami Senju, one either side of the track. The one he had just arrived at was temporarily closed.

The police box was right next to a small temple. Toyoda looked at his watch; it was just before eight o’clock. Another five minutes would be neither here nor there, he thought, and decided to take a quick look at the temple. He discovered that it was called the Enmeji Temple and that it housed the Kubikiri Jizo, a statue of a Buddha dedicated to the 200,000 criminals beheaded at the nearby execution ground during the feudal period. He made a mental note to read it up later. Then he turned toward the bridge that crossed the track.

Three day laborers who had been arguing over a bottle of sake fell silent when he approached the bridge. As he walked past them, one of the day laborers shouted that he looked like a twat and threw some soy bean shells at him. Toyoda ignored the provocation and quickly climbed the stairs of the bridge. As he crossed the bridge he could see that the area he was approaching was even worse than the area he was leaving.

The crossroads at the other side of the tracks is called Namidabashi, or Bridge of Tears, and it marked the northern boundary of the miserable quarter known as Sanya. There is no bridge here anymore for the canal it crossed was filled in long ago. But this was the bridge that the condemned crossed on their way to the execution ground of Kozukappara. Here the unfortunate were beheaded, burnt or boiled alive, sawn in half or crucified. Another testament to the suffering endured here is Kotsu Dori, or Street of Bones, a section of the road where the heads of the executed were displayed on poles as a futile warning of the consequences of crime or dissent.

From its very beginning Sanya has been cursed. Located in the northeast of Edo—the former name of Tokyo—a direction considered to be prone to evil spirits, Sanya has always been inhabited by social outcasts. Formerly the outcasts were called eta, a derogatory term that means full of filth. The eta were employed as executioners and torturers, undertakers, butchers or leather workers, all professions considered unclean. Another group of outcasts were the hinin, or non-humans, a group that included ex-convicts, street cleaners or vagrants. Now the outcasts are the day laborers and the homeless.

As he crossed the road at Namidabashi, Toyoda realized that the name was still appropriate today. There were a number of new buildings scattered among the shabby shells that housed many of the indigent temporary residents of the district, and some people had obviously made an effort to uplift the image of the area with flower boxes and colorful murals. But it was the drunks and down-and-outs sprawled all over the sidewalks that a visitor would remember, not the flowers. They were in various stages of undress: most retained their trousers, but there were many in just their underwear. Toyoda notice that one man, dressed in a loincloth that exposed his genitals, was arguing with himself as he staggered around trying to drink from a two-litre bottle of sake.

There were two patrol cars parked outside the police box and two uniformed cops were struggling with an older man in a well-worn suit. The man in the suit was mounting stiff resistance for a man who had obviously been on a prolonged binge. One of the uniforms looked up briefly at Toyoda; then he focused his attention back on the drunk.

When Toyoda flashed his card and introduced himself the altercation stopped. The uniforms and the drunk all turned to look at Toyoda.

“Are you here about the murder?” asked one of the uniforms, as he looked Toyoda up and down.

“Yes,” said Toyoda, “I’ve been told the victim is a foreigner. Where is the crime scene?”

The struggle started up again as the drunk tried to break free, and the cop answered breathlessly so Toyoda had to ask him to repeat himself.

“It’s on the container park at the other side of the track. If you wait a minute, I’ll drive you over there.”

“I’ve just come from that side,” said Toyoda. “I can walk back myself. You look to have your hands full.”

“Please yourself!” The uniform straightened out his shirt and wiped the sweat off his brow while the other one took the drunk inside the police box. “It’s over the other side, but you are going to have to walk right around the fence to get there. It would be quicker in the squad car.”

Before they got into the car, the uniform took another good look at Toyoda and said, “Does everybody in your division dress like that?”

Toyoda had no wish to explain why he was wearing a white Guayabera shirt and Faconnable flat front linen slacks to a murder inquiry, so he replied, “Yes, it’s part of the image.” His answer seemed to impress the uniform, who fell silent until they were in the car.

It took less than three minutes to reach the scene where the body had been found, just long enough for the uniform to tell Toyoda that more and more foreigners were coming to Minami Senju these days. It had something to do with the hostels advertising on the Internet, he claimed. Most of the foreigners were young backpackers, and they were quite well behaved, which was contrary to the image of foreigners portrayed by the media. He also told Toyoda that he was learning English—he pronounced it Ingurish—so that he could be more helpful when visitors asked him directions.

Although he was impressed by the attitude of the uniform, Toyoda was not impressed by the area they were driving through. If they have cleaned up their act, he thought, it must have been a hell of a mess before. He had been to Kita Senju, or North Senju, a number of times a few years earlier on a case involving stolen credit cards, but this was his first time in Minami Senju, the southern sector of the district. The area around Kita Senju station was a bit scruffy, he recalled, but it was definitely up-market compared to Minami Senju.

Looking out of the car window, Toyoda could not figure out what it was that was attracting the foreigners to Sanya. The uniform, who seemed almost clairvoyant, told Toyoda that it was the hostel prices that attracted the foreigners. He also added that he had been inside a few of the hostels and that they were very clean with good amenities, including free wireless internet.

They arrived at the scene and before he even got out of the car, Toyoda knew that he was in for an unpleasant night. The first person he saw was Inspector Hideki Watanabe, the last person he had ever wanted to meet again. Watanabe was talking to someone who looked like a medic.

Watanabe threw away his cigarette when he saw Toyoda get out of the car and he said something that made all those in hearing distance laugh and turn to look at Toyoda.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Watanabe was obviously on home turf, and felt confident enough to be belligerent. “This is a murder scene not a stable.”

The last time Watanabe had mocked Toyoda for his hobby—horse riding—Toyoda had broken his jaw. And for that he had almost been thrown off the force.

“No, it’s not a stable,” responded Toyoda, “but there’s just as much shit on the ground.” He walked up to a member of the scene-of-the-crime scene team and asked for an evidence bag and a pair of tweezers. He went back to where Watanabe had thrown away his cigarette butt, bent down and picked it up with a the tweezers. Then he made a show of dropping it into the evidence bag.

Watanabe nearly exploded but, realizing that all eyes were on him, he managed to keep himself under control. “Well watch you don’t slip and start rolling around in the shit,” said Watanabe. “We’ll have to go back to the station when we’ve finished here and there are no showers.”

Toyoda ignored the remark and went over to where members of the scene-of-the-crime team were examining the area around the body. “What’s the cause of death?” he asked.

“Can’t be sure yet,” replied one of them, “but she certainly wasn’t killed here.”

“So she was definitely murdered?” said Toyoda.

“I would imagine so,” answered the officer. “Take a look for yourself. You can see marks of restraints around her wrists and bruising on her throat. It looks as if she’s been tied up and strangled. It doesn’t look like suicide to me.”

“Point taken,” said Toyoda. “Is there anything else you can tell me about her?”

“Nothing except that she’s Caucasian. Oh, and she’s got a hell of a pair of tits. At a guess I would say that she has also been raped, but you will have to wait for him to finish with her before you know that for sure.” He gestured to the man talking with Watanabe, and Toyoda assumed that he was the pathologist.

“They seem pretty chummy,” said Toyoda.

“Dr. Amakawa is Watanabe’s brother-in-law,” replied the officer.

Toyoda walked over to the two of them and, ignoring Watanabe, spoke to Dr. Amakawa. “How long do you think she has been dead, doctor?”

“About twelve hours, I would estimate,” he replied, “but I will be able to give you more precise details after the autopsy.”

“Who found the body and when?” asked Toyoda.

“It was an old man,” growled Watanabe. “He walks his dog here twice a day, seven o’ clock in the morning and six in the evening. He’s regular as clockwork, and he swears it wasn’t here this morning.”

“So that means the body was dumped sometime between seven this morning and six this evening.”

“Well done,” said Watanabe miming a round of applause. “You’re starting to talk more like a detective than a sheriff. By the way, I see that you came up with a squad car today, what happened to your horse?”

Sensing the confrontational atmosphere between the two men, Dr. Amakawa was starting to look uncomfortable. He tried to change the subject. “I will start the autopsy as soon as we have finished here and get the body back to the morgue.”

Toyoda looked past Dr. Amakawa and spoke directly into Watanabe’s face. “The last time you spoke about horses, you got a kick in the face—and it wasn’t a horse that did it!”

Toyoda was referring to the incident between them. When Watanabe had learnt that horse riding was one of Toyoda’s hobbies, he had brought up the subject at every possible opportunity. Eventually Toyoda, tired of all the comments and drawing on the humor he had become accustomed to growing up in England, said that constant references to horses was a sign of penis envy. The joke was, unfortunately, lost in translation and Watanabe responded by throwing a punch at Toyoda. He missed, which was a big mistake. Before he could throw another one, Toyoda caught him with two left jabs to the face and a cross-cut punch that knocked him down. He finished him off with a kick to the face, which broke Watanabe’s jaw.

Watanabe, the big mouth and bully of the precinct lay on the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth and his jaw hanging loose. Nobody made any move to help him to his feet. Unfortunately, a senior officer was passing at precisely the moment the fight started, and he had them both hauled over the carpet.

Their superintendent at the time, a man of constant ill humor, had torn into them. He asked Toyoda to explain why he had kicked a man who was down. Toyoda had just shrugged and said that it was an instinctive reaction. The response had infuriated the superintendent so much that Toyoda thought the man was going to have a stroke.

Toyoda covered his smile with his hand as he remembered the scene. Watanabe, blood still trickling from his nose, held his jaw in place and desperately tried not to show any sign of pain or discomfort. The verbal battering had lasted thirty minutes, during which time the superintendent, his face burning with rage, had stood to attention behind his desk screaming at them. It only ended when a phone call from the justice ministry came in.

Before he answered the phone, the superintendent made them shake hands. As Watanabe removed his hand from his chin, Toyoda thought he was going to faint. But somehow he managed to bear the pain and shake hands.

The next day, they were both transferred: Watanabe went to Osaka, and Toyoda joined the International Criminal Investigation Division. In a way, Toyoda thought, he ought to thank Watanabe. If it had not been for the fight, he would probably still be in a domestic division.

Watanabe broke into his thoughts. You threw a lucky punch, but you’d never be able to do it again.”

Toyoda, who recalled landing three punches before Watanabe went down, shrugged. “I hope I don’t have to. That was eight years ago and we were both young. Why don’t you just forget about the past and concentrate on the job in hand. That way we can get this case cleared up quickly and both go our separate ways. Like it or not, we have to cooperate on this, and I intend to do so.”

“This is a murder investigation,” said Watanabe. “Murders aren’t as easy to solve as visa violations.”

“The International Criminal Investigation Division investigates murder, too. If you have been reading the tabloids, you would probably see that the number of murders we are investigating is on the rise. I’ve had three cases this year, how about you?”

Watanabe did not respond. Instead, he walked over to his car, got in and lit a cigarette.

Dr Amakawa almost heaved a sigh of relief when Watanabe walked away. He nodded courteously to Toyoda, and practically trotted over to his car.

Back at Senju police station Watanabe addressed the murder team with more self confidence than Toyoda expected. “We know only three things. She’s young and attractive, she’s foreign, and she’s dead.”

That’s four, thought Toyoda, and he struggled to keep a smile off his face. After all, he did not want to provoke a confrontation with Watanabe in Senju.

Watanabe continued, oblivious to the gaff he had just made. “At the moment we don’t know why she was murdered, but I am sure that we can assume there is a sexual motive.” He gestured to Toyoda and said, “You are our expert on foreigners, do you know where she is from?”

“No, but I would guess East Europe or Russia,” answered Toyoda. “I will need photos of the face; then I can start looking. When can you get them to me?”

Somebody coughed and started to speak. “Most of the backpackers around here are from western Europe, the United States or Australia.” Everybody turned to the speaker. He was a young, fresh-faced, tall young man.

“Who said she is a backpacker?” Watanabe fixed his eyes on the young man.

“Well, nobody. But the only foreigners we get up here are those staying in the cheap inns.”

“Exactly,” said Watanabe. “And most of those, especially the women, are traveling in pairs. If one of those had gone missing, somebody would have noticed. Has anybody reported a missing person?”

Nobody spoke.

Not bad, thought Toyoda. Watanabe must have been reading the manuals.

Watanabe looked at Toyoda. “You can have Polaroid shots now.” He gestured to a junior officer to hand a file over to Toyoda and then continued. “I will get the others to you by tomorrow morning.”

Toyoda took the file from the junior officer and asked for an envelope. The officer picked one up from the table in front of him and gave it to Toyoda. Watanabe sighed loudly and shook his head. Toyoda thought he heard him mutter something about powers of observation, but he let it go.

“There is not much I can do here until we have the crime scene and autopsy results, so I will head back,” said Toyoda. Is there any chance of a car to take me back?”

“What happened to the car you came in?”

“That’s from the police box at the other side of the tracks,” said Toyoda.

“How did you get here?” asked Watanabe.

“Subway.”

“That’s the quickest way back,” replied Watanabe. “We don’t run a chauffeur service here.”

“Thanks for the help,” said Toyoda as he turned and left the room. He heard someone say that working with foreigners must wreak havoc with your dress code, followed by a sudden outburst of laughter. He stopped, thought about going back into the room and confronting them, but he changed his mind and left the station.

Chapter 3

The dohyo is considered sacred ground and is blessed by a Shinto priest before every bout. When the wrestlers enter the dohyo they perform an elaborate series of Shinto rituals, starting with a foot-stomping exercise to drive away evil spirits. Foreign visitors to a sumo tournament have been known to panic when stomping starts, mistaking the mild rumblings from the dohyo for the start of an earthquake.

After the foot-stomping, the wrestlers rinse out their mouths with a ladle of chikara mizu, or “power water,” and dry them with paper tissues called chikara gami, or “power paper.” Finally, before a bout begins, the wrestlers toss a handful of salt into the dohyo to purify it. Although as a tactic throwing salt into the eyes of an opponent would certainly give a wrestler an advantage, there is no known case this ever happening.

Once the bout begins, the action can be fast and furious with the wrestlers slapping, shoving and pushing or trying to trip each other. The winner is the wrestler who forces his opponent out of the dohyo or to touch the ground with any part of his body except for the feet. A wrestler who loses his mawashi during a bout is automatically disqualified as the sight of a male sumo wrestler naked from the waist down can be a traumatic experience for those unfortunate to experience it.

The sight of a female sumo wrestler losing her mawashi during a bout, however, has never shocked anyone in Japan. Moreover, totally naked women sumo wrestlers were once revered. In times of drought, for example, naked women wrestled in shrine precincts to provoke the anger of the Gods and cause rain.

In the eighteenth century onna zumo, women’s sumo, took off as a sport in Osaka, where it was popular in the brothel quarter. As well as bouts between women, there were also bouts between women and blind men (men who could see were ineligible as it was considered that they would not be able to concentrate on the sport).

By 1744, women’s sumo bouts featured regularly at the Sensoji Temple in Asakusa, Edo (now Tokyo), and they were immensely popular, especially with the owners of the nearby brothels. In 1926 the authorities eventually prohibited naked female sumo on the presumption that it promoted immorality. Female sumo did, however, manage to survive until after World War II in cabarets and beer halls, where there was no false pretense of modesty.   

In recent years sumo has been beset by scandals that have seriously damaged the reputation for sportsmanship and purity it had long enjoyed. These scandals include match-fixing, betting on baseball and golf as well as other professional sports, and drug taking. One of the top foreign wrestlers, and perhaps the greatest of his generation, Asashoryu, was forced to retire after beating up the former head of a biker gang after an argument in Roppongi. Other foreign wrestlers have been sacked for smoking marijuana.

Whether sumo recovers from the recent scandals or not is uncertain. Younger Japanese do not seem to have the spirit to put up with the rigid discipline of life in a sumo stable. There are also more attractive sporting opportunities for those with athletic ability, including careers in soccer or baseball.

One should not, however, write sumo off. As a sport, it has been around for a very long time, longer than most sports still practiced today. It is culturally ingrained in the Japanese psyche, and it has overcome crises before. Expect it to do so again.

He took the phone out of his pocket and checked the call number on the liquid crystal display screen. He was right: headquarters. That could mean only one thing—the end to his Friday night. He leant over the table and shouted, “Back in a minute.” Yelena stuck her tongue out.

Toyoda pushed his way through a rowdy crowd of drunken foreign brokers, some of whom looked as if they’d been drinking since lunchtime, and stepped out into the balmy, grimy night air of Roppongi.

Although the second-floor terrace that fronted Inn for the Night was not as comfortable as the interior—there was no air-conditioning—it was just as crowded and just as noisy. The overhead speakers blasted out White Room by Cream. Everybody on the terrace was speaking at full volume.

One man, an American, was drowning out Eric Clapton’s meaty guitar solo with boasts about his business acumen. And a young Japanese woman, the only person trying to follow the man’s one-way conversation, was awestruck.

For a split second, Toyoda thought of giving the man a shove that would send him crashing down the stairs and knock the wind out of him. Then he relented and squeezed past him to go down to the street.

The humidity was stifling. It had rained until mid-afternoon, then the sun had come out, and the temperature had risen to thirty-five degrees. But it was the humidity—it stood at about ninety percent—that hit Toyoda the hardest. By the time he arrived at street level, Toyoda was drenched. He dialed headquarters and got an answer at the first ring.

“Where are you?” snapped Superintendent Tanaka. “I’ve been ringing for ages.”

“Roppongi,” he answered. “I didn’t hear the phone ringing.”

“I bet you didn’t,” said Tanaka. “What the hell are you doing there? Don’t you see enough foreigners when you’re on duty?”

“It’s Friday evening so I was just ….”

Tanaka cut him off. “Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself, because you’ve got work to do now. Get yourself off to Minami-Senju. And I mean now, not after another drink!”

“Minami-Senju?” groaned Toyoda, “What’s going on up there?”

“Suspicious death,” said Tanaka. “A dead foreigner, so that means we are involved.”

“Homicide?” asked Toyoda.

“How the hell should I know?” growled Tanaka. All I know is that we have a dead foreigner on our hands. Don’t ask any more questions; just get up there as fast as you can. Oh, and by the way, don’t even think about driving up there in that flashy Mercedes of yours! I’ve no intention of covering for you again.”

“It’s not a Mercedes, it’s a Porsche,” said Toyoda, cringing at the reminder of his latest, and most serious cockup, areckless act of stupidity that could have cost him his career. Tanaka had covered up for him, but that meant he owed his boss something. And Tanaka would wait for the right moment before calling in his debt. Meanwhile, Toyoda had to jump every time Tanaka barked. And Tanaka had just barked.

“I’ll get a squad car from Azabu police station,” said Toyoda, “I wouldn’t risk taking my own car up to Senju. It would probably get stolen.”

He rang off and looked at the time before putting the phone back in his pocket. It had just turned seven o’clock; the evening had hardly begun but for him it had already ended—in tatters. He cursed his luck as he climbed the stairs back to the pub.

As he pushed the door open and entered, one of the foreigners dropped his pants and mooned him. The others cheered and howled with laughter. It was a sickening sight. The mooner was grossly overweight and carried a great part of his weight on his buttocks. Most Japanese would have froze, turned and gone straight back down the steps. But Toyoda was made of sterner stuff. Besides, he had seen it all before. He walked straight past the mooner, shoved a short, fat bald foreigner to one side and forced his way through the crowd.

One of the foreigners was slouched back in a chair with his legs stretched out across the floor. On his way past, Toyoda tipped over the legs and fell into the foreigner, elbowing him in the chest as he did so. The man grunted and dropped his glass, sending beer cascading across the floor. Before the foreigner realized what was happening, Toyoda apologized: “Sorry mate, tripped over some bugger’s foot!” He patted the foreigner on the shoulder, winked and walked into the back of the bar, where Yelena was waiting for him. As he walked away the foreigners all fell silent and stared after him.

“What the fuck was that all about?” said one of the foreigners.

“A Japanese with a Geordie accent!” said another. “I’ve heard it all now.”

“You should have decked him,” said the first one who had spoken.

“I don’t think it would have worked,” said the other. “Look at the size of the bastard. He was just hoping you would try something, and then he would have decked you. Confident bastard; he’s got to be connected.”

Yelena was talking into her cell phone when Toyoda dropped into his seat. She flashed a perfunctory smile and went on talking. Toyoda picked up his cigarettes, put them in his shirt pocket and stood up. Yelena covered the mouthpiece with her hand, “Just a moment, I’m almost finished.”

“Take your time,” said Toyoda, “I have to go.”

Yelena spoke hurriedly into the phone and rang off. “What do you mean, you have to go?” she said sharply. “You promised to take me to that new German restaurant. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m starving.”

He shrugged. “Sorry. Something has happened, and I have to go. I’ll get back as soon as I can,” he promised, then he left her at the table and pushed his way through the crowd again. This time the foreigners saw him coming and moved respectfully out of the way.

He stopped at the door and turned back towards the foreigners. He looked the mooner straight in the eye. “You want to be careful who you show your arse to around here, mate. There are a lot of fellows who might find it too much temptation. And you wouldn’t want to lead anyone on, would you?” He tapped his nose and left the pub. A raucous bout of laughter followed him out the door.

He turned towards the Roppongi Intersection and set off for Azabu police station. The street was bustling. Although it was still early, the African touts were out in force. One of them grabbed his arm and tried to drag him towards a club. Toyoda shook himself free.

Another of the Africans, a gigantic man in a floral shirt, baggy trousers and a beret laughed out loud. He shouted something in Yoruba to the other African, who responded in the same language and then laughed.

“What’s the joke, Sonny?” Toyoda stopped in front of the large African, who held out his hand. Toyoda took it.

“He’s new on the street. I told him that he’d just tried to hustle a cop.”

Toyoda smiled. “That’s nothing,” he said. “A guy up there,” Toyoda pointed to the pub he had just left, “flashed me as I walked through the door.”

The African laughed “You should have flashed him…..with your warrant card. That would have brought him back to reality.”

Toyoda shook his head. “No point in giving that kind of information out unless it is really necessary.”

The African nodded in agreement. Toyoda turned and waved his hand in the air as he walked away.

Roppongi is certainly not Japan, he thought, savoring the aroma of roast chicken wafting across the sidewalk from the illegally parked rotisserie van. The Chicken Man, as the African who owned the rotisserie was known, interrupted his conversation with one of the Turks from the kebab van parked next to him to greet Toyoda. Toyoda nodded, but did not stop. A ten minute walk along Gaien Higashi Dori, he thought, and you practically go through the United Nations.

Toyoda strode into Azabu police station and went straight up to the front desk. The uniform sitting there looked surprised when Toyoda walked in. “You’re back early,” he said. “What happened, I thought you had the night off?”

“So did I,” replied Toyoda, somehow managing not to sound bitter. “The old man called me, and now I am off to Senju. Have you got a car and a driver to take me up there?”

The uniform gave a twisted smile and shook his head. “On a Friday evening? You’ll be lucky to get one before midnight. Anyway, what’s wrong with your own car? I thought you had it parked out back.”

Toyoda leant over the desk and breathed into the younger man’s face.

The uniform jerked his head back, waved his hand in front of his nose, and pulled a face. “That’s enough! I get the picture. It’s a taxi or the subway. And if I were you and I were in a hurry, I wouldn’t even bother trying to get a taxi. You’ll only end up sitting at the crossroads for the next thirty minutes or so. You’d be there by then on the subway.”

Toyoda grabbed a magazine from the desk and turned towards the door. “See you later.”

Chapter 2