Blinded by the Night - Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Akira Toyoda’s mobile started vibrating in his pocket. He ignored it and took another swig of Newcastle Brown Ale. The vibrating persisted. Shit, he thought, it’s got to be headquarters. He was tempted to switch the device off. But there was no point getting into bigger trouble.

He took the phone out of his pocket and checked the call number on the screen. Yes, it was headquarters. Goodbye to his Friday night. He leant over the table and shouted, “Back in a minute.” Yelena poked her tongue out and continued speaking in Russian on her mobile.

Toyoda pushed his way through the rowdy foreign brokers, some of whom must have been drinking since lunchtime, and stepped into the grimy air of Roppongi.

The second-floor terrace outside Inn for the Night was as crowded and as noisy as the interior. The overhead speakers blasted out Cream’s ‘White Room’, and everybody seemed to be shouting.

A lard-arsed American virtually drowned out Eric Clapton’s meaty guitar solo, boasting about his business acumen to an awestruck young Japanese woman who was apparently the only person who cared about the man’s monologue.

Toyoda felt like shoving the boring bastard down the stairs but thought better of it and squeezed past him to go down to the street.

It had rained until mid-afternoon. Then the sun came out, driving the mercury up to thirty-five degrees. But the humidity—standing at about ninety percent—hit Toyoda the hardest. On reaching street level, Toyoda was already drenched. He dialled headquarters and got an answer at the first ring.

“Where the hell 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 are you doing there, anyway? Don’t you see enough foreigners when you’re on duty?”

“It’s Friday, 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 to Minami-Senju. And I mean now, not after another damned drink!”

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

“Suspicious death,” said Tanaka. “A dead foreigner, so we’re involved.”

“Homicide?” asked Toyoda.

“How should I know?” growled Tanaka. All I know is that we have a dead foreigner on our hands. Enough questions. Get up there as fast as you can. And don’t even think about driving up there in that flashy Mercedes of yours! I’m not covering for you again.”

“It’s not a Mercedes, it’s a Porsche,” said Toyoda, cringing at the reminder of his latest cockup, one that could have cost him his career. Tanaka had covered up for him, and would call in this debt at some point. 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 won’t risk taking my own car up to Senju. It wouldn’t last two minutes before someone tries to steal it.”

He hung up and looked at the time before putting the phone back in his pocket. It was just on seven o’clock. The evening had hardly begun, but for him it had 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 brokers 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 frozen, turned and fled straight back down the steps. But Toyoda was made of sterner stuff. Besides, he had seen it all before. He passed the mooner, shoved a short, bald foreigner to one side and forced his way through the crowd.

One foreigner, a very large man, was slouched back in a chair, with his legs stretching out across the floor. Toyoda tripped over the legs and fell into the foreigner, elbowing him in the chest. The foreigner 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, all of the revellers fell silent and stared after him.

“What the fuck was that all about?” asked 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 doubt that would’ve worked,” said another. “Look at the size of the bastard. He’s almost as big as you.” He pointed at the man who had lost his drink. “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 mobile 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 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 and said, “You want to be careful who you flash around here, mate. A lot of fellows might find it too tempting. And you wouldn’t want to lead anyone on, would you?” He tapped his nose and left the pub. Raucous 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 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, savouring 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. “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.”