Year of the Talking Dog: A Hana Walker Mystery (The Hana Walker Mysteries Book 2) Read Free Page A

death, I will throw myself over the edge. I can see it. I can see the ground. Exactly where my body will come to rest. So far away, but so easy to reach if I lose my footing.
    I close my eyes and shake my head. I scrunch myself up in a ball and rock myself against the wall opposite the balcony. But I know one thing. It’s the same terrifying view down I’ve seen before. This is the right floor and the right flat. I wait to gather my breath and focus. The lock. Try the lock again.
      I do. No luck. I stare at the stainless steel lock. Has it been changed? Has my key been replaced? I look at both, but can’t see why I can’t make either work. I press the button. I hear the usual electronic imitation of bells going ding dong on the other side of the steel door. But there is no movement. No sound.
    I bang on the door and call out: “Steve!” I do it all again.
    I lean against the door and slide down to the doorstep. I look at the single window on the walkway. I know even if I could find something to unscrew the metal bars with I would still have trouble breaking the reinforced glass. And really, what is the point if Steve isn’t there? Nothing about today is making any sense. Like Steve has been erased from my life.  
    The last door in the row of five flats opens out a crack. A neighbour? I smile in his direction and bend my head in a sort of bowing gesture to mimic the Japanese when they are apologising for imposing or making too much noise.  
    He says something, but I can’t catch the meaning. All I can tell is the tone of voice. Not friendly, matter-of-fact. I push myself to my feet and walk to the door. I try to remember who it is who lives there. Steve says there’s an old man on his floor who plays 1940s big band music all day, but I can’t remember which side of him that is. He doesn’t even know any of the people, beyond the names on the doors. At least Steve can speak reasonable Japanese, better than mine. So I let him. And mine stays at the beginner stage.  
    As I reach the door, it clicks shut. I stand for a moment, unsure what to do. I study the name on the door. He has a name written in kanji, the Chinese characters that Japanese names use. That much I can figure out. But the two characters are a mystery to me. One of them looks a little like one of the characters in Aunt Tanaka’s name, but whether it’s the same and how you say it, I have no idea, really. It’s rude to knock on the door, but what else can I do? I look up and down the passageway. And look down at my feet.  
    I hear the sound of a chain being removed. I jump out of the way as the door swings out into the passageway.
    An old man stands in the doorway. He has white hair, bloodshot eyes and is wearing a white vest. His chicken-bone arm props open the steel door. He speaks in stops and starts, but doesn’t say more than five or six words.
    Me too: “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese.”
    He smiles. He shrugs. He pulls his arm in and the door eases back.
    “Wait! Please!”
    He cocks his head to one side.
    I point to Steve’s place.
    “Please. Have you seen Steve? The man? Do you know? I’m his fiancée. Er, his girlfriend.”
    He shrugs his shoulders. He speaks some numbers, I think, then shakes his head.
    I point at Steve’s place and hold both my hands with palms up and make a questioning face.
    He shakes his hand the way Japanese do to mean no. And points downstairs. Then waves both hands about above his head. He shrugs his shoulders. I shrug my shoulders. He bows to me and smiles wearily. I bob my head in a little bow. He bobs his head to me slightly less than I do. And closes the door.
    So.  
    There’s nowhere I can go and nobody I can ask to work out what is going on. Steve can’t be dead. But he’s making it hard for me to prove he isn’t. I have nothing to go on but the miming of an old man who may or may not like 1940s big band music. Think, Hana. He pointed downstairs so that’s where I’ll go. I pass the