Page 363 of The Black Trilogy

In my mind, I went through my days there. The trip from Narita airport to my apartment, a sleepless night, then onto the Metro at Azabu-Juban. I exited at Shinjuku, close to our office in the business district.

I paused. Backtracked. That was it! Each Saturday, at the entrance to Shinjuku station, an old man stood wearing a sandwich board. Every weekend I’d been there, since my first trip to the country almost a decade ago, he’d been outside, come rain, come shine. And every time I saw him, the light in his eyes had grown a little dimmer, his posture, once proud, stooped a bit more.

It wasn’t until five years ago, when I started to learn Japanese rather than relying on an interpreter, that I’d finally found out what the words on the board said.

Have you seen my daughter?

Akari Takeda disappeared on her way home from school, ten years ago.

A faded picture of a young girl in her school uniform smiled out at the passing commuters.

I will never stop looking for her.

If you have any information, please contact...

Dagnabit! I couldn’t remember the number.

One day a couple of years ago, I’d stopped to talk to him and offered him money, but he’d politely declined. “I only want people’s help to find my Akari, nothing more.”

I’d watched the number of years on his sign creep up from ten to fifteen, and still he stood there. Strong, determined, much like his daughter. Could I finally stop the clock?

“Excuse me a second.” I needed to make a call.

Thankfully, the plane was equipped with all sorts of electronic goodies, so I popped out to the main cabin and gathered up a laptop, camera, and phone, earning myself some curious looks from those still awake.

“Later.” I held up a hand and went back to the bedroom.

“Jane… Akari, can you smile for the camera?”

“What do you need a picture for?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute; I promise.”

I snapped a photo then fired off an email to the Tokyo office. The message was simple: Find me the phone number of the old man from Shinjuku station.

I looked at my watch. Japan was fourteen hours ahead of Colombia and thirteen ahead of Richmond, and we were somewhere between the two. It would already be the next morning in Tokyo.

And my Japanese team was good. By the time I’d made myself a cup of coffee, the satellite phone had pinged with the information I needed.

I didn’t want to get Akari’s hopes up, but neither did I fancy having this conversation in the main cabin. Partly because it was likely to get emotional, and partly because I didn’t want anyone to hear how bad my Japanese still was. Instead, I wedged myself into the tiny bathroom at the back of the plane and sat on the closed toilet. My coffee was still too hot to drink, so I balanced the cup in the basin and dialled.

On the other side of the world, the phone rang once, twice.

A man answered, his tone clipped yet polite. “Kon’nichiwa.”

“Hi,” I answered in Japanese then took a deep breath. “Are you the person who stands at the station looking for Akari Takeda?”

A pause. “No, that is my father.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“If it is about my sister, I would rather you speak to me. My father is not well, and every time he receives false hope, only to have it dashed, it takes another fragment of his soul.”

“Sure, I can talk to you. What’s your name?”

“Hiro.”

“Well, Hiro, I’m Emmy. I think I might have found Akari.”

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