Six Four (62 page)

‘Sir, you just reminded me, when you mentioned food. You should eat before you head across.’

On a shelf in the refreshments area was a plate of what looked like fried rice, wrapped in cling film. The surface was clouded with condensation, making it difficult to discern the contents. Suwa said that Mikumo had ordered them all food. Mikami realized he needn’t worry, if she’d remembered that in the middle of everything else. She would be on top of everything that needed to be done.

By the underground passage, the west wing of the government office was five minutes on foot. Two if he ran. Mikami started on the food, deciding to eat half. It was cold and soggy, but it filled his stomach.

‘Are you going to check in with the first floor?’

‘I’ll leave that until later.’

‘They took quite a beating. The press had Akama in a corner at one point.’

‘Did they say anything about the commissioner?’

‘No, not yet. But, realistically, it’s not going ahead, not with all this.’

‘Right.’

‘The timing really is crazy,’ Suwa said, reaching towards his desk. The phone was ringing again.

The timing . . . crazy.
The comment had doubtless been offhand. He wouldn’t have meant anything by it. But it had been enough for Mikami’s spoon to pause in mid-air. A kidnapping mimicking Six Four, one day before the commissioner’s inspection into the fourteen-year-old case. That had to be the source of the cloudiness he felt.

‘Sir . . .’ Suwa’s hand was over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Chief Ishii. The commissioner’s office just called. The commissioner’s visit has been cancelled.’

Mikami thought back to Futawatari as he climbed the stairs.

It would mark his first failure since coming to the Prefectural HQ. He’d lost because of a kidnapping that was beyond his control. No . . . he’d lost even earlier. His threats concerning the Koda memo had come to nothing. He’d acted boldly and out of character, but he’d only managed to provoke Criminal Investigations unnecessarily; without any tangible results, he’d been forced to stage a quiet retreat. It looked that way at least. Whatever the truth, Mikami knew he no longer had to worry about those eyes. He could concentrate on his job without fearing he was going to be cut down from behind.

Administration was half dark. The fluorescent ceiling lights were off, leaving the curtains, couches and carpet pale orange in the glow of the wall lamps.

‘Because we’re not here, officially,’ Ishii said, before anything else.

The reporters had left him frayed. Partly it was the lighting, but each wrinkle on his face seemed to convey the shadow of exhaustion. Akama was . . . lying on one of the couches, shoes still on. Hands and legs sprawled, eyes were empty. He showed no interest in Mikami. Mikami felt the same.

‘Definitely not postponed?’ Mikami directed the question at Ishii.

‘They just said it was called off. We can assume cancelled, although they didn’t say it outright.’

Was he unhappy? Relieved? His voice seemed to contain both emotions. Mikami realized he’d sounded the same when he’d told him about the kidnapping.
But, that means the commissioner can’t—

‘Is the coverage agreement going to be okay?’

‘Yes, just about.’

‘Well, I guess that’s something. They gave us a real beating, you know. What can we do? Doesn’t matter how much they shout at us to give them the girl’s name. I told them to go to Criminal Investigations, but . . . they were so confrontational . . . wouldn’t stop yelling.’

‘I’ll tell the press the visit’s cancelled, then.’

He was already on his feet. Mikami bowed silently at Akama still lying on the couch, then started for the exit.

He heard a voice from behind.

‘Is this Criminal Investigations’ work?’

Mikami turned back around. Akama was still staring at the ceiling, his eyes glazed over.

Mikami felt a chill run through him.

‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s the work of a monster.’

Inside was Tokyo.

It was 10 p.m. Mikami entered the conference room on the fifth floor of the regional government’s west wing. The first thing he noticed was the difference in temperature compared to the corridor. The room was the largest they had, but it was cramped and airless. Countless rows of desks and chairs. Lines of TV cameras. He almost tripped on a cord running across the floor. It was impossible to navigate the walkway without hitting a shoulder or an elbow or bumping into a bag. The room buzzed with conversation, the voices overlapping to form an oppressive low-level drone.

He caught sight of Kuramae. He had on an armband that said
Media Relations
, and was standing at the stage towards the back. It took a few minutes to reach him. A long desk had been set up for the announcements; towards the centre was a huge jumble of TV and radio microphones.

‘Tomorrow’s been cancelled.’

Kuramae’s eyes lost focus; no doubt, he’d forgotten all about the commissioner. ‘Ah, the visit. Cancelled?’

‘Yes. Can you tell our lot? Use your phone if you can’t get to them in person.’

‘Our lot . . .?’

‘Our reporters.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. No problem.’

He jumped down from the stage and disappeared into the crowd, apparently able to guess their whereabouts.

Mikami made a fresh survey of the room. It was the first time he’d faced this many reporters. It would probably be the last. A horde of cameramen had set up camp directly below the stage. They were roughly dressed and squatting; ‘loitering’ seemed the best way to describe them. The reporters were gathered behind them. Their heads were packed together, behind long desks that were joined to make a jagged horizon. Not all wore serious expressions. Some looked puzzled; others nonchalant, or anxious; some looked excited. There were defiant eyes. Impatient mouths, desperate to be heard. A veteran-type wearing black-rimmed glasses, sitting, relaxed, with his arms folded. Another in a long coat and scarf, the playboy kind, probably with the TV. People were yawning. Yammering on the phone. Making others crease up with laughter. Some were there for the long haul, with rucksacks and sleeping bags. A few groups had rudimentary tents. There were a good number of women. One was angrily shouting instructions to a younger man. Another was calling out in a high-pitched voice, happy to see someone she knew. A round-faced woman, probably a news reporter, was using a compact to fix her make-up. All of them looked at home. The confidence and arrogance that accumulated from travelling the country, hopping from one big case to the next, showed through in a shamelessness they weren’t even aware of.

The local reporters were buried somewhere inside. If Mikami hadn’t kept his eyes on Kuramae’s back, he would have struggled to find them. He caught sight of Tejima, from the
Toyo
, who was handing his business card to a middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a down jacket. No doubt a star reporter from head office. Tejima’s smile was forced. He saw Utsuki next, from the
Mainichi
. He looked worried. Then he burst into a smile. Kuramae had just called out to him. Takagi was there, too, from the
Asahi
, standing by herself. The group next to her seemed to be co-workers, but she wasn’t joining in their conversation. Kasai was there from the
Yomiuri
, Yamashina from the
Times.
Both looked
decidedly uncomfortable. They were the locals, but they were acting subdued. That was why they didn’t stand out. Whenever Mikami looked away, he all but lost them in the swell of unknown faces.

He’d suffered from being too close to the local reporters, with each side having to be careful about what they said. He felt nostalgic for it now, with the air in the conference room so fully transformed into that of the capital.

Ochiai would have to stand in front of them all. With each announcement, he would be made to declare himself a simple puppet. As press director, Mikami could hardly bear to think of it, about the bloodshed that was to come . . .

He saw Mikumo; she was standing towards the entrance. In uniform, it was easy to make her out, even from a distance. Realizing he was looking her way, she stretched up a hand and waved. She looked like someone who’d spotted a lover’s face in a crowd. He’d never seen her look so happy. She’d made sure the press adhered to the rules that came with a kidnapping case. She’d directed every last one of their cars into the underground car park. She had no doubt forgotten to smile, too. She started making her way over but came to a sudden stop, ambushed by a group of reporters who’d seen her armband. A group crowded around her, at least half due to her looks he thought. Mikami called her phone, watching as she hurried to pick up.

‘Thanks for all the help.’

Her face lit up before she replied. ‘It was nothing.’

‘Did you get to eat?’

‘Sir?’

‘The fried rice.’

‘I’m actually in the middle of a diet so—’

‘I need you to do something, then you need to eat.’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘Lend Kuramae a hand. The commissioner’s visit has been cancelled. He’s letting the local press know.’

‘Okay. Do you know where he is?’

‘The middle of the room, towards the passageway on the right. Give him a call on his mobile.’

Mikumo was dialling. Kuramae reacted. Mikami kept watch until Kuramae had the phone next to his ear, then stepped off the stage. The after-image of Mikumo’s smile was already fading.

The inspection
. . .
cancelled.

The reporters weren’t the only ones who needed to know.

The commissioner general is our highest-ranked official. I’m confident the media coverage will be significant. It will be broadcast on TV. The news will reach a great number of people.

He walked to a corner of the room, where a small administrative area had been set up behind a partition.
Prefecture D Police Headquarters: Authorized Personnel Only.
There were five folding chairs behind the screen. No one was inside.

. . . there is a real chance of this bringing in new leads.

A promise, he’d thought, at least for a while.

He opened the phone in his hand and called Yoshio Amamiya’s home number. He checked his watch. Twenty past ten.

No one was picking up. The phone rang ten times. Was he already in bed? This wasn’t something Mikami could leave until the morning. Twelve times. Thirteen. Each ring weighed heavy in his chest.

Someone picked up. But . . . no one spoke. All Mikami could hear was silence. He had to force the words out.

‘Sorry to disturb you so late. I’m trying to get hold of Yoshio Amamiya.’

‘This is Amamiya.’ The voice was indistinct.

‘This is Mikami, from the Prefectural HQ. I came by the other day.’

‘Yes. What is it?’

‘Tomorrow’s visit. I’m sorry to say this, but . . . due to unforeseen circumstances . . . we’ve had to cancel it. Please accept my apologies for not letting you know until now.’

There was a long silence. It seemed to last for ever.

‘So . . .’ Amamiya’s voice. ‘No one’s coming?’

Mikami could see the man’s neatly trimmed grey hair. Was he disappointed? Had he – even if just a little – perhaps hoped that something would come of the commissioner’s visit?

A promise. In Amamiya’s mind, Mikami’s words might have been exactly that.

Mikami’s head slumped.

‘I don’t know how I can make this up to you. You listened to me, even though I’d turned up out of nowhere. You even agreed to let us go ahead. And yet this . . .’

Another long silence.

Why was it cancelled?
Mikami wanted to run from Amamiya’s unspoken question.

‘Thanks for letting me know . . .’

Mikami’s head sank lower as he listened to the man’s voice. Then . . .

‘How are you now?’

What?

‘Are you better?’

Mikami was stunned.
Of course
. His shameful display of tears before Shoko’s altar. ‘My last visit . . . I don’t know how to express my . . . having to—’

‘Not everything is bad. There’s good out there, too.’

The words were soft. It felt like the first time he was hearing the man’s real voice. Amamiya had lost his only daughter; the kidnapper was still out there. How could a man who had been through that sound so gentle?

Mikami apologized again then ended the call. He was at breaking point. His fingers were tight over the bridge of his nose. If he’d stayed on the phone any longer, he would have shed tears again.

He took a deep breath and punched himself over the chest; two, three times. There was one more call he needed to make. He cleared his throat, tried out his voice until he felt ready.

‘Honey, your voice . . .’

Minako picked up on it straight away.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Is something wrong?’

The standard question hit him harder than it usually did.

‘Sort of. I’m not going to be back tonight. Make sure you lock all the doors, and get some rest. One more thing . . .’

I should ask
. Mikami tensed his stomach.

‘Matsuoka wanted you to help with something. On an investigation.’

‘Help? What investigation?’

‘There’s been a kidnapping.’ Mikami felt his voice tighten. ‘Matsuoka wants people for an undercover unit, for tomorrow.’ He heard her take a sharp breath. ‘He said he’d understand if you couldn’t help out. It’s up to you.’

‘Who . . . who was kidnapped?’

‘A seventeen-year-old girl, still in high school.’

Silence.

‘It’s fine if you want to say no; I don’t mind, and Matsuoka said the same. Only . . .’

If it means she can help someone.
Mikami wanted to convey Matsuoka’s words.

Or maybe Amamiya’s . . .
Not everything is bad. There’s good out there, too.

‘Minako?’

A pause.

‘Minako . . .’

‘Yes, I’ll do it.’

Mikami’s head came up. He could almost picture the determination on her face. It was because of him that she’d said it. But that was okay. It felt like progress, if only a fraction. When the phone rang immediately after he’d ended the call, he answered without even checking the display.