Having interrupted his Tokyo trilogy for 12 years and two other books, long enough for the optics of a Yorkshireman writing books set in Japan to change quite a lot, David Peace finally wraps it up. One of the novel's time-jumps, which might once have seemed like tidy chunks of years, is only a little longer than the delay in its arrival – though that said, the section set around a previous Tokyo Olympics could be argued to have arrived at just the right time. Not that he's ever exactly been a writer to chase after topicality. The initial incident, the real-life death of Sadanori Shimoyama, the first president of Japanese National Railways, is perfect Peace material – a mysterious and gory death, a day after America's national celebration and in a country they were occupying, while the dead man was in the middle of sacking 100,000 of his own employees*. The establishment are keen to pin the crime on disaffected (ex-)employees, trade unionists, or Reds – three categories they consider more or less synonymous, and this provides a handy opportunity to put them all in their place. The detective protagonist, though, has that inconvenient terrier habit of digging where he's not supposed to...
In the sections set in later years, the case has become a great unsolved, a sort of Japanese equivalent to our own Ripper obsession (the parallel is even made explicit when we're told that a shadowy group "are not to be blamed for nothing"). But for some reason it seems to lack the same forceful, incantatory power as Year Zero, Occupied City, or earlier Peace in general, gesturing in that direction yet not really getting further than being a fairly good crime novel stripped of the expectation of justice. The repetition is still there, whether the 'shu-shu pop-po' of the trains, or the way initial protagonist Harry Sweeney is Harry Sweeney over and over, when another writer would have cut to one or the other name for most of the scene, and even an incidental player such as Joe the barman gets all three of those words each time. But somehow it now feels more like a writer being paid by the word than that old black magic. Maybe reading on screen rather than paper didn't help; Hell, I remember the first time I encountered Peace was a reading, and that didn't do it for me at all either, so perhaps whatever spell he normally casts depends on the ink for its effect? And some of the characters' names are pushing Dickens territory: Captain Jack Stetson, Dick Gutterman, Donald Reichenbach? Still, by the end, it's accumulated a portion of that terrible inexorability for which we come to Peace: "But he has, they have, it's all come back, is back, returns, always, already returned..."
*Nobody ever really explains how the railways even have that many spare employees to start with.