London, March 22, 2010
The Royal Albert Hall, a magnificent theatre built in 1871, was to see its most highly acclaimed performance of the decade, and everybody who was anybody could be expected to attend. Having staggeringly wealthy people streaming in through its doors was not an unusual experience for the famous theatre, which had been named after Prince Albert and whose distinctive elliptical shape and arena had been inspired by Roman amphitheatres.
Through the many decades that the hall had been in existence, it had hosted events such as the Chelsea Arts Club Ball from 1910 to 1959, the Titanic Band Memorial Concert in 1912 which had been described as the 'greatest professional orchestra ever assembled', and the Ford Motor Show. Now, 'The King's Passion' could be added to its list of honours, and organizers could boast that tickets had been sold out for four nights straight.
It was only half an hour more before the play commenced, and the high-class aristocrats were still drifting to their places, with laughter and idle chit chat rippling among those who were already seated. There were women dressed in the highest fashion of the day, practically dripping with diamonds, and tall, distinguished-looking men clothed in immaculate tuxedoes whose price could probably support a middle-class English family for a month.
James McGill made his way to his box seat and sat down, noting that he was the only one in the box. A tall, typically British man with soft curling brown hair and genial blue eyes, he gave the impression of a gentle, mild-mannered family man who cared more about his wife and children than anything else in the world. His appearance was deceiving. James McGill had neither wife nor child, and did not want either. They would only be cumbersome to his work, which was McGill's one and only love in life.
Just ten minutes before the play started, a man came into the box and sat down beside McGill. McGill, more engrossed in reading the programme, scarcely noticed him and started quite violently when a voice said, "James McGill?"
McGill turned his head to see an Asian man sitting beside him. Early thirties, rich and successful businessman, of Chinese, Japanese or Korean origins, McGill summed up instantly. Handsome. A bit of a womanizer, I'll bet. "Right the first time," he said, smiling.
The Asian man held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you. I am Nishikado Soujirou."
Instantly a bell rang in McGill's head. Nishikado. Nishikado Corporation, one of the biggest industries in Japan, invested in real estate, oil and mining. Net worth of hundreds of millions. McGill's eyebrows rose and he studied Nishikado Soujirou interestedly. "Are you by any chance connected to Nishikado Corporation?"
His box mate smiled. "I'm actually the CEO of Nishikado Corporation."
"Soon to be President, I expect," McGill guessed.
"Right first time, too," Nishikado said. "Mr. McGill, I have something very important to discuss with you."
"Did you know I was going to be sitting in this very seat?" McGill questioned.
"Quite right. I purposely came here to see you."
"And I came here to watch the play," McGill said.
"In that case, I shan't dally about," said Nishikado. "I have a case to offer you, Mr. McGill."
"Something that your local police has not solved?" McGill said.
"My local police will not solve it," Nishikado said crisply. "They are not smart enough to solve a crime committed a decade ago."
McGill was silent for a few moments. At length he said, "They were not able to solve it when the crime was committed?"
"They did not consider it a crime." Nishikado's voice softened. "Listen, Mr. McGill."
"The play starts in five minutes," McGill said grumpily.
"Then give me five minutes." Nishikado paused, then said, "A decade ago, two of my friends committed suicide a week apart. One of them took poison, the other shot himself through the head."
"Well then," McGill murmured. "I don't see the crime."
"They committed suicide." Nishikado drew out the words. "That was what everybody thought. But not me. Not me, Mr. McGill. You see, I knew both of them through and through. They were not the type who would kill themselves. In fact, I am absolutely sure that suicide would be the very last thing either would do." He leaned forward slightly. "For the past decade, their deaths have haunted me time and again, and finally I have arrived at the conclusion that foul play had actually been committed."
McGill said, "In order words, murder?"
"In other words…murder." Nishikado's eyes darkened. "Which is why I flew all the way down to London to meet you. So that after ten years, I can find out the truth. What really happened. Only you are capable of finding it out. I have investigated and found you to be the best." He scowled. "All the hard evidence is gone. The house that we were all in has been massively renovated. There are no skin samples, fingerprints have been wiped out. But there are memories. If you sit down with all the details at hand, and think, think, perhaps you might find something…a small detail awry…a little thing out of place…and then the truth will be brought to light…"
The lights began to dim. McGill did not answer.
"Think about it." Nishikado sat back in his seat.
The entire theatre darkened. And in those few moments of darkness, McGill heard a voice beside him saying, "Makino Tsukushi and Hanazawa Rui deserve that much, Mr. McGill."