Hachirō took a bowl of pre-prepared ingredients—bell peppers, green onions, cucumber strips and smoked salmon—and arranged them over the sushi rice.

“His generation is louder than mine. The hangure crow about the money that they have made. I always found it a little pathetic.”

“It’s also not very bright,” Milton said. “It wasn’t hard to follow the breadcrumbs that he’s left across the internet.”

Hachirō lifted the bamboo mat from the side closest to him and rolled it, pressing down to make sure that the cylinder that he created was firm. He took a knife, moistened the blade, removed the mat and sliced the roll into half a dozen equal pieces. He arranged them on a plain white plate, took little jars of wasabi, soy sauce and ginger, and, together with a pair of chopsticks, he slid the plate across the counter to Milton.

Milton split the chopsticks and, a little clumsily, grasped a piece of the roll and dipped it in the wasabi.

“Just a little,” Hachirō advised. “It’s hot.”

Milton put it in his mouth and immediately raised his eyebrows. Hachirō was not joking; the wasabi paste was potent.

The old man went to the fridge and took out a bottle of sake. He held it up. “I know it’s early.”

“Not for me,” Milton said, feeling sweat prickling on his lip. “I don’t drink.”

“Some green tea, then.”

He dropped tea leaves into a clear pot, added hot water and, after allowing it to steep, he strained it into a cup. Milton sipped it. The sushi was salty and the tea was bitter; it was a pleasant contrast.

“Thank you,” Milton said.

He took out the sheaf of paper that he had printed at the hotel and tapped a finger against the first page. It was a photograph of Satoshi Furokawa with an attractive girl on his arm. He was dressed in a tuxedo and she in a cocktail dress, and, in the background, they could see a red carpet and a banner that advertised the premiere of a Christopher Nolan film.

“What’s this?” Hachirō said. He took out a pair of spectacles and put them on so that he could read the caption beneath the photograph. “‘Local entrepreneur Satoshi Furokawa and his sister Natsuki Furokawa attend Tokyo premiere.’” He snorted derisively. “‘Local entrepreneur.’ I’ve heard it all now.”

Milton laid a finger next to the woman’s photo. “He’s indiscreet, but it was even easier to find details on her. She’s younger than him—he’s thirty-five, she’s twenty-six. She runs a boutique selling furniture to customers with more money than sense. There’s a biography on the business’s website. Says she’s close to her family and particularly to her big brother.”

Milton flipped the pages. The next was a printout of a map.

Hachirō looked down at it. “And this?”

“Natsuki is a keen runner. This is from Strava.”