[More like 3.5 stars really]
There are, I believe, two types of mystery, which differ based on their attitude to crime. The first type, the classical, sees crime as an aberration in a fundamentally healthy society. Criminals commit their crimes purely for personal reasons: there is no connection between crime and larger societal ills. Agatha Christie novels of the 20’s and 30’s, for instance, often have a Communist character, and suspicion naturally falls on him, because he’s a Communist, but he is never the criminal, not because Christie was a fellow traveler but because she refuses to admit that there could be any connection between the injustices a Communist is (at least nominally) opposing and crime, which occurs only because some people are bad. In the classical type of mystery, the police may not be very good at their job, but even if they are idiotic bunglers their goal is to see justice done, and they work with the detective, often quite closely. Once the crime has been solved and the criminal arrested, society can return to its previous placid equilibrium, confident that everything is for the best. The second type, the noir, takes the opposite view, in which crime is the natural result of a fundamentally corrupt society. Wealth and power lead to crime, and also make it difficult for justice to be done. The police are usually working against the detective here, even if, as is sometimes the case, he or she is one of them: sometimes they are, of course, simply corrupt, but even if honest and well-intentioned, they are inevitably compromised by their position in a corrupt power structure, the dictates of which they are forced to follow because that is, in the end, their job. (Noirs need not be ideologically left-wing, by the way: right-wing fantasies of vigilante justice can also fall under this rubric.) Even when the crime is solved in a noir, there’s no guarantee that justice will be done: the detective can discover whodunit, but, unlike in classical mysteries, sometimes that’s not enough.
“All She Was Worth” falls on the noir side of the line, because it is very clear that the real culprit is the uncontrolled rise of consumer lending in Japan in the late ’80s and early ‘90s (when the book is set). However, rather than using the format to make this abstract problem more concrete by creating a crime which is directly tied to, say, an executive at a credit-card company, Miyabe chooses to leave a fair amount of distance between the social forces that gave rise to the crime and the criminal herself. This is an interesting gambit, one that is admittedly more realistic -- most credit-card company executives don't commit crimes -- but makes most of the usual elements of the noir unusable. For instance, there is no violence in the book, not because Japan is not a very violent country — it isn’t, of course, but our detective, Shunsuke Honma, is a policeman taking a leave of absence after being shot in the leg, so clearly violence is possible — but because the powers-that-be, not being directly implicated in any crimes, have no need to send goons to beat Honma up. In fact, Honma encounters virtually no opposition to his sleuthing, which is a problem, as the noir detective usually figures out who’s responsible by finding out who’s trying to stop the investigation. Without this, it’s hard for us to connect the dots Miyabe wants us to connect, so she gives Honma a long (but entirely friendly) interview with a bankruptcy lawyer to make sure we acquire the necessary background. Even the usual order of the investigation is disrupted, as we learn who the criminal is very soon after we learn that a crime has been committed: it’s the questions of how and why that occupy Honma for most of the book.
The result is that there’s not much in the way of suspense. We know the criminal, and we know, roughly, the nature of the crime: most of the book just consists of Honma filling in the details. It’s a rather bureaucratic procedure, so it makes sense that bureaucracies also produce many of Honma’s clues: for instance, you will learn quite a bit about Japan’s family registration system. (The whole investigation is very modern [for a 1990 value of modern]: the trails that Honma follows are of paper, not footprints.) But bureaucracies are not, generally speaking, intrinsically interesting, and in the absence of suspense all that’s left to keep the reader reading is the character of Honma himself. Luckily, he is mostly up to the task, with some of the book’s best scenes being the domestic ones in which the investigation only barely figures. Honma is a widower with a 10-year-old son, who still hasn’t quite gotten over the loss of his wife and worries that his job takes him away from home too often. Such worries are especially pronounced in this case, given that it’s not part of his job: he starts investigating as a favor to a cousin of his late wife, and keeps going after the cousin repudiates him — he didn’t like the results Honma was getting — because he’s curious. And also because he feels increasing sympathy for both the victim and the criminal: it’s this empathy that makes him in turn an easy character for the reader to empathize with. The secondary characters, many of them young women who knew either the criminal or the victim (both young women as well), are also quite well done, and serve to create a secondary theme around the paucity of options available to young women in Japan in 1992. All the young female characters are either doing some sort of essentially secretarial job, or are engaged in one form or another of sex work. Almost as much as the credit card debt, it’s this sense of limited options that seems to have trapped both the criminal and victim: and of course the two work together as well, as sex work, which pays better than the secretarial jobs, is often the only way to pay off that debt. This general feeling of walls closing in creates a sympathy for the characters that makes us want to know more about them, and it is this, rather than the usual desire to solve the mystery, that drives the book. However, the nature of the mystery is such that we never meet either the criminal or the victim, so there’s a limit to the extent to which this can replace good old-fashioned suspense. “All She Was Worth” is better than you would expect a non-mysterious mystery to be, but it’s still not entirely successful.