Free Revenge by Yōko Ogawa Page A

somewhere. There was no blood, and the man’s head was squarely on his shoulders.
    “No, I’ve never seen him,” I said after examining the photo.
    “Do you know anything about the woman who lives upstairs?” The detective was well built, but he seemed very young and quite nervous. I wondered whether it was because he had been looking at a dead body just moments ago—smelling it, maybe even touching it. He appeared to be on edge, almost as if he had committed a murder himself. He kept his head down, and he seemed uncomfortable as he took his notes.
    “No, I didn’t see her much. Just the occasional ‘hello’ in the elevator.”
    “Did you notice men coming and going to her apartment?”
    “I’m not sure. I suppose I’ve seen her with a man, but I don’t remember whether it was the one in the picture.”
    I took another look at the photograph. The man was wearing a white lab coat with a fountain pen and a pair of scissors and a penlight in the breast pocket. He had a stethoscope around his neck. There were wrinkles at the corners of his mouth from the effort of smiling.
    “Did you hear any suspicious noises at about eleven o’clock two nights ago?” He spoke each word so distinctly that he was almost stammering.
    “I certainly did.”
    “What kind of noises?” For the first time since the beginning of the interview, he looked me straight in the eyes. I could see he was genuinely interested now.
    “It sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. I thought she was rearranging the furniture.”
    “And what time was that?”
    “I was brushing my teeth before bed, so it must have been a little past eleven.”
    “About how long did it last?”
    “Just a few seconds. So I didn’t think anything of it.”
    “Did you hear anything that sounded like an argument, any screams?”
    “No, nothing like that.”
    The detective listened to me with his full attention, as though afraid of missing any little detail, and then he scribbled everything down in his notebook. Even though we had just met, I felt I was already indispensable to him.
    “By the way, a patient at the university hospital was stabbed to death the other day as well. We’re trying to figure out whether there’s any connection between the two incidents. Would you know anything at all about that?” He took a second photograph from his pocket.
    The woman in the picture appeared to be singing in a bar. She was thirtyish, slender, with a pointy chin and a pout. She had split ends and the roots of her dye job were showing. As a hairdresser, I notice these things.
    “The attacker used scissors to gouge a hole in her chest.”
    “How awful! One in the throat and the other in the heart.” I could hear the minestrone bubbling in the kitchen. My apron was splattered with juice from the tomatoes. “No, I’ve never seen her either,” I told him.
    “No?” he murmured, clearly disappointed. I felt as though I’d let him down. “The tiniest detail could be helpful. If anything at all comes to mind, don’t hesitate to call.” I wanted so much to be useful, to say something that would keep him interested. But nothing came to mind. “Well then,” he said, bowing politely, “if you think of anything, please get in touch.”
    “Of course,” I said.
    *   *   *
    My boyfriend arrived just on time. It had been a while since we’d spent our day off together. In fact, we’d been so busy I hadn’t seen him in almost three weeks.
    We were planning to watch a video and have a quiet dinner at home. Then we might go out to a bookstore or record shop, or take a walk in the park. Or maybe I would cut his hair on the balcony—though he always says it embarrasses him to be seen like that by people in the neighborhood.
    Dinner was almost ready. I had seasoned the shrimp, and they just needed to be grilled. The salad was in the refrigerator, and the wineglasses sparkled. The minestrone had boiled a bit too long, but it would still taste