This is another by Seicho Matsumoto (who also wrote Tokyo Express and Inspector Imanishi Investigates). In fact, the latter came out in the same year as this one (1961).

It's another book where the variations on the title are super-confusing. In Japanese it's called Kiri no Hata (Flag of Mist), which is evocative, but definitely not informative. The English translation is called Pro Bono (it will become obvious why below, but again this is a bit obscure); the Spanish version (by Marina Bornas), which is the one I read, is called The Girl From Kyushu.

And that's a very good title, because it is Kiriko Yanagida, a young woman from Kyushu, who dominates the book. This is a much more psychological piece than either of the two I'd read before, and much darker, too.

Briefly, the story (beware spoilers):

Kiriko comes from "the town of K", in the north of Kyushu (and of course we can't help speculating that it is Kokura, now part of Kitakyushu).


Kitakyushu as we knew it, 2022

When we first meet her, she has travelled all the way to Tokyo -- a journey that takes 20 hours in a steam train, as opposed to the five it takes today in the Shinkansen -- with the aim of petitioning crack lawyer Kinzo Otsuka to defend her brother, Masao, who is charged with murdering an elderly moneylender he was unable to repay.

The lawyer gives Kiriko the brush-off, because A) he already has a heavy workload; B) he's keen to get off to play golf with his mistress, Michiko; and C) it's clear she won't be able to afford his fees, and he's not up for contemplating a pro bono.

From the outset, Kiriko is presented as a striking character. Firm, reticent, forbidding, and forceful, she has a cold, direct intense gaze, and is described as "hard as steel". She does everything in her power to persuade Otsuka, but is forced to leave empty-handed, lamenting that "the poor are defenceless before the justice system".

Journalist Keiichi Abe, who has accidentally become acquainted with Kiriko's story, thinks so too. But he can't persuade his boss to let him report the case for his magazine.

So everything is stuck.



But when Otsuka receives a postcard from Kiriko, telling him that her brother died in prison -- before his appeal could be heard, and therefore unexonerated -- you know there's going to be no happy ending here. Something has happened that can't now be put right.

So the focus shifts to Otsuka, whose conscience is well and truly pricked by this missive. The lawyer admits to himself that Kiriko had bad luck. If she had come at a different moment, then he would probably have listened to the summary of the case, and delegated one of his employees to investigate it. He now has the presentiment that if he had accepted the case, he could have saved the accused man. He therefore begins to investigate pretty much with the intention of proving himself wrong.

He is haunted by the case. He keeps hearing Kiriko's voice, seeing her gaze. He tries to persuade himself that he couldn't have done anything. Yet he continues to be restless and anxious. And then he does find a flaw in the case. He knows for sure now that there has been a miscarriage of justice, and if he had taken the case, he would have been able to demonstrate Masao's innocence: "There was no turning back now, and it felt as though a cold black shadow was enveloping his heart."

But he takes no measures to put anything right, even when Keiichi potentially gives him the opportunity to do so. He doesn't even acknowledge to Keiichi that he has investigated the case (the journalist finds this out for himself). Why? Because he can't bear to publicly own the fact that he could have helped Masao, and what he did was wrong? If we can at least understand, though maybe not condone, his rejection of Kiriko's initial request, it's harder to remain sympathetic when he so clearly misses the chance to redeem himself.

Kiriko obviously thinks so too, because it soon becomes clear that she's out for revenge, and has moved to Tokyo with that aim in mind. She takes a job at the Kaiso, a Kyushu-dominated bar, and waits... And eventually circumstances play into her hands.



Eventually, there's another corpse. Kenji Sugiura. He ties the rest of the characters together very nicely. He's the maitre of Michiko's restaurant, and also the secret lover she's trying to give the heave-ho; he is the brother of the woman who owns the Kaiso bar; and he's the boyfriend of Nobuko, Kiriko's friend and workmate. These multiple roles converge to offer exactly what Kiriko needs.

She is able to engineer a nifty bit of evidence manipulation, with the result that Michiko finds herself in the crosshairs for Kenji's murder.

Kiriko has left the Kaiso by now, and taken up employment at a lower-class bar in Ginza. Otsuka, desperate to save his beloved Michiko, starts to frequent this bar, and pleads with Kiriko to come clean about what she actually saw at the scene of the crime. To try to persuade her, he tells her what he has discovered about her brother's case. Kiriko doesn't want to know: "I don't care who the killer is, I just wanted to save my brother, help him while he was still alive."

Otsuka confesses: "I was wrong. I know that no matter how many times I say it, it won't do you any good, but I am aware that I didn't act well, and I assure you that I am sorry. I would do anything to make it up to you." Kiriko is obdurate, however: "If my brother were alive, perhaps I would do what you ask of me. But he died in prison. It's not fair that Michiko is the only one left unscathed."

Ultimately, exploiting the unwariness that his dedication to Michiko sets him up for, she inveigles him into a rape set-up. Otsuka ends the novel in the depths. His wife has left him. His mistress is in prison. His career is in tatters. Though you blame him, you can't help feeling more than a bit sorry for him...

Kiriko, meanwhile, is off somewhere else. Where she will undoubtedly wreak more havoc, because that's the sort of person she is. Beware the victim...

The psychological portrait of the vengeance-seeker is very interesting, I think. She proactively situates herself in a zone of opportunity, where she bides her time. She has to wait for a stroke of luck (or somehow summons it...), but when it comes, she is clear-headed, and ready to pounce. She is single-minded, and unsusceptible to distraction or pity.

The double-murderer, meanwhile, walks free...



I'm not entirely convinced by the actual solution (realizing that the first murder was committed by a left-handed person -- and therefore not Masao -- is a breakthrough, but extrapolating from that circumstance that the two murders were the work of the same killer is definitely a bit of a leap). But that doesn't matter. The looming, overwhelming theme of the book is the cold, unwavering pursuit of vengeance, and that's what will make it live with the reader.

Some people criticize Matsumoto's penchant for repetition. Personally, I love it. Saves so much leafing backwards and forwards...

He's also adept at atmospheric social history. The old woman's house, with the sliding doors, the cushions, and the tea-making equipment... The bar, where the young women towel their guests off when they come in drenched from the rain, and escort them to the corner of the street when they leave. The way women generally behave around men (the yuckiest scene, by a million miles, is the one where Michiko cuts Otsuka's toenails...). The way the well-off lawyer stands out in Kiriko's second place of work, the lower-class bar...

And, of course, the social commentary is as relevant as ever. The rich have a much easier time accessing justice than the poor. Unless an avenging angel stands in their way, that is...