Six Four (8 page)

The next room contained the Buddhist altar. The sliding doors had been left open, making it impossible to ignore the imposing object next to the far wall. There were two photos on display. Their daughter Shoko. Next to her, Amamiya’s wife . . .

He hadn’t known.

Toshiko Amamiya. When had she passed away?

He had to pay his respects. But it was difficult to find a chance to broach the subject. Amamiya was sitting at the other side of the low table, the very essence of an empty shell. His gaze was
hovering around Mikami’s torso, but there was a lack of certainty in the sunken eyes, as if he were seeing something else entirely.

Breaking under the weight of the silence, Mikami took out his card.

Amamiya saying his name first. Seeming happy to see him again.
Somewhere in his head, Mikami had built up a picture of how he’d expected the reunion to work. So he’d hesitated.
Press Director, not Detective
. He’d felt a growing feeling of shame about the admission, and as a result had missed the opportunity to present his card.

‘I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. This is my new position.’

Amamiya’s eyes showed no reaction. His right hand was resting on the table. The fingers, together with the skin on the back of them, were wrinkled and dry. The nail on his index finger was cracked at the tip, blackened along with the skin like a blood blister. Every now and then the finger would twitch. But it didn’t reach for Mikami’s card on the table.
Loss of social function. Reclusive behaviour.
It was as if Amamiya had crossed into that kind of category. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t working any more. Mikami had heard that, ever since the kidnapping, Amamiya had left the management of Amamiya Pickles in the hands of his cousin.

‘Excuse me, but . . .’ He had to ask the question. ‘When did your wife . . .?’

Amamiya looked dimly towards the altar. For a while he stayed like that. Eventually, his head came back around. Mikami thought he saw a dark glow in the man’s pupils.

‘She collapsed from a stroke six years ago. It was last year that she—’

‘I’m sorry.’ The man’s frozen emotions were beginning to thaw. Even realizing this, Mikami didn’t think to return the conversation to business. ‘She was too young to go.’

‘She was. To leave us like that. And without knowing the . . .’

She had died without ever seeing the kidnapper brought to justice. As he perhaps recalled his wife’s bitter disappointment, Amamiya’s unfocused eyes flickered shut for a moment. Mikami felt his heart ache. Each time he heard the case mentioned, he felt a sense of shame burning in his chest.

One fateful day.

The fifth of January, in the sixty-fourth year of the Showa period.
I’m going to get my New Year presents.
Shoko Amamiya had headed out saying these words a little after midday, only to disappear on her way to the house of a nearby relative. Two hours later, her kidnapper had called the Amamiyas, demanding ransom. The voice of a man in his thirties or forties, slightly hoarse, with no trace of an accent. The content of the call had been textbook.
I’ve got your daughter. Get 20 million yen ready by midday tomorrow, then wait. She dies if you talk to the police.
Her father had answered the call. He had begged to hear his daughter’s voice, but the kidnapper had simply put the phone down.

After a lot of agonizing, Amamiya had notified the police. That was after six in the evening. Within forty-five minutes, the four officers of a Home Unit dispatched from Criminal Investigations First Division in the Prefectural HQ had covertly entered the Amamiyas’ residence. At the same time, the local NTT office had called to notify the police that people were in place to trace any more calls. They’d been just a step too late. The kidnapper’s second call had come in just moments earlier.
I want used bills. Put the money in the largest suitcase you can buy at Marukoshi. Bring it to the location I’ll give you tomorrow, and come alone.

If we’d only recorded the bastard’s voice. If only that damned trace had been ready.
These were phrases uttered by every detective who ever came to work on the case, always mingled with a sigh.

At eight the same evening a Special Investigative Headquarters was established in the Prefecture D central police station. Another thirty minutes later Mikami was on his way towards the Amamiya
family home, appointed sub-leader of the Close Pursuit Unit, with orders to go through the details of the following day’s handover. The officers of the Home Unit were already interviewing the parents.
Did you recognize his voice? Has anything suspicious happened recently? Do you know anyone who might bear a grudge? Are any of your old employees having money trouble?
The parents just frowned, the blood drained from their faces, shaking their heads the whole time.

It was a long night. Nobody slept a wink, just glared at the phone. Not once did Amamiya break his formal
seiza
sitting position. But the third call didn’t come in, even after it had started to grow light outside. Toshiko had been making rice balls in the kitchen. She’d made more than everyone could eat then made more rice and started over, mechanically repeating the task. The posture had made it seem like she was praying. But . . .

Her prayers had been ignored.

The sixty-fourth year of the Showa period had lasted for only a week. The fanfare welcoming Heisei had swept it away, as though it had been an apparition. It had most certainly existed. It was during that final year of Showa that a man kidnapped and murdered a seven-year-old girl, before disappearing into Heisei. The code name ‘Six Four’ was a pledge that the case didn’t belong to the first year of Heisei, that they would drag the kidnapper right back into the sixty-fourth year of Showa . . .

Mikami gave the altar a hesitant glance. Toshiko was smiling in her photo. Her youth caught him by surprise. The shot was probably one from a time when she’d still been carefree, from before she could even have imagined that her daughter might be kidnapped. The relaxed smile wasn’t that of a mother who had lost her daughter.

Amamiya had fallen silent again. He still hadn’t asked Mikami why he was visiting. The emotion was draining from his eyes.

Somewhere else . . .

Mikami cleared his throat. He had no choice but to take the
initiative. He couldn’t let Amamiya retreat back into his shell, not before he’d outlined the reason for his visit.

‘There’s something I have to tell you – that’s the reason I’m visiting today.’

Ask, not tell. He should have phrased it like that. He carried on, hurrying as he sensed a shift in Amamiya’s mood.

‘The truth is, our top executive has expressed a wish to visit you next week. Commissioner General Kozuka, from the National Police Agency in Tokyo. We know a long time has passed since the kidnapping, but it still goes without saying that we want to bring the perpetrator to justice by whatever means we can. The commissioner wishes to encourage the officers working on the case by attending the scene of the crime; he also wishes to visit you here and pay his respects to your daughter.’

It was hard to breathe. The more he spoke, the more his chest seemed to fill with a pungent gas. Amamiya’s eyes were on the floor. That he was disappointed was obvious. It was hardly surprising. Mikami wondered if anyone in his position would take what he had said at face value – to be told only now, fourteen years later, that the commissioner general wanted to inject new life into the investigation.
Police politics. PR
. Had he perhaps seen through to the man’s true motivation?

Having no other choice, Mikami continued.

‘I won’t deny that the case has been in limbo. But that’s exactly why the commissioner wants to visit. With enough press coverage, there’s a chance it might help new leads come to light.’

There was a pause before Amamiya dropped his head in a bow.

‘You have my gratitude.’

His voice was relaxed. Mikami breathed out silently, but his relief was tempered by his discomfort at having prevailed on the man. In the end, they always did as the police said. With no other means of exacting revenge, victims were dependent on the force to bring the perpetrator to justice. Mikami understood it now. His hands were tied because his daughter had run away from
home, and now he was here, stringing empty words together for the sake of a PR exercise.

Mikami took out his notebook. He flipped to the page with his notes from Akama’s office.

‘The commissioner’s visit is scheduled for Thursday, 12—’

Before he could finish his sentence, he heard the muffled sound of Amamiya’s voice. Mikami tilted his head to one side.

But it won’t be necessary
.

It had sounded like that.

‘Amamiya-san?’

‘I appreciate the offer, but it won’t be necessary. There’s no need for someone as important as that to come all this way.’

No need?

Mikami pulled back a little. Amamiya had turned them down. His look was as distant as before, but there had been an unmistakable force to his words.

‘But . . . can I ask why?’

‘I don’t have any specific reason.’

Mikami swallowed spit. Something had happened. He knew it intuitively.

‘Have we been amiss, in our—’

‘No, that’s not it.’

‘Then, why . . .?’

Amamiya had stopped talking. He made no attempt to look Mikami in the face.

‘What I said just now – there is a real chance of this bringing in new leads.’

Silence.

‘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.’

‘I do appreciate the opportunity—’

‘Please, Amamiya-san. To let a chance for new information like this just slip by . . .’

Mikami realized he was raising his voice and broke off. This wasn’t something he could force. The victim was refusing. Wasn’t it his obligation to back down? The family home could be struck from the commissioner’s schedule without necessarily diluting the importance of his visit. It would reduce the overall impact, yes, but it would still work – internally and externally – if the commissioner visited both the scene of the crime and the members of the Six Four Investigative Team.

But . . .

Akama’s profile flashed before his eyes. How would he react if Mikami’s report told him the commissioner’s offer had been refused? Mikami’s pulse throbbed in his temples, punctuating the silence like the ticking of a clock.

‘I have a feeling I’ll be back.’

Amamiya offered no words in response. He put his hands on the tatami and got to his feet, giving only a cursory nod before he disappeared further into the house.

Why turn them down . . .?

Mikami glanced at the business card and rice crackers, untouched and left behind; he massaged his numb legs before raising himself from the floor.

The situation had moved on in Mikami’s brief absence.

Members Only: Meeting in Progress.

The cardboard notice had been posted on the door to the Press Room. Suwa was back in the office.

‘What’s that for?’ Mikami motioned his chin towards the corridor. An embarrassed-looking Suwa got to his feet.

‘They’re discussing anonymous reporting again. It sounds like they’re considering a formal written protest.’

Mikami clicked his tongue in irritation.
A written protest.
It would be the first time during his term as press director.

‘And the commissioner’s visit? Were you able to notify them about that?’

‘Mmm . . . I managed to tell them, but they just said they’d discuss it in the meeting. I suspect they’re planning to throw a spanner in the works.’

Mikami thumped into his chair and tore the seal off a fresh pack of cigarettes. It was worse than he’d feared. The outlook regarding the press was clouding over, especially now Yoshio Amamiya had said no to the commissioner’s wish to go and pay his respects to his daughter.

The commissioner general himself. Six Four. He had been certain the press would bite. His head had been sluggish after the conversation with Amamiya, but now he felt a sudden clarity. He focused on a single point on his calendar.

Thursday the 12th
.

He had until then to win over Amamiya and make peace with the press.

‘Anyway, I’m planning to take them out for drinks tonight,’ Suwa remarked. His breezy tone jarred somehow, amplifying the pressure in the air. Mikami had expected Suwa to gain a new lease of life now he was free from the constraints of Mikami’s reforms, but he seemed to be already at an impasse. It didn’t bode well, if that was the case.

Suwa had grown as a Media Relations officer, but he remained a man who thrived best on the front line. He hadn’t abandoned the traditional methods and would spend his time in the Press Room chatting with the reporters to get a feel for their activities and what they expected. He would advertise his easy-going nature by joining them in games of Shogi, Go and Mahjong. He regularly joined them for drinks, sounding off about a few arrogant executives to gain their trust. To these crude but time-honoured tactics he would add his conversational nous and skills as a negotiator, guiding the reporters until – converted to him – they were converted to the police. He had been to university in Tokyo and could talk about the city, reminisce on classes they’d attended. With the younger reporters, he was able to act as a kind of elder brother. He used these advantages as tools to position himself inside the Press Room, where he could gauge first hand any changes in the atmosphere, and adapt accordingly.

But . . .

There were no guarantees that Suwa’s image as a ‘young reporter’ was still held by the reporters who were holding a meeting in the next room. They were more than just young, they were different. That was Mikami’s impression, dealing with them now after a twenty-year hiatus. They were, perhaps in part due to an increase in women reporters, unlike any he had seen before. They were upstanding and straight-laced, almost eerily so. They preferred not to drink and, when they did, they never lost their composure. They were hesitant to spend time on Shogi
and Go. He couldn’t imagine them sitting around a table in the Press Room, enjoying a game of Mahjong with the police. Some went so far as to speak out against the Press Club, denouncing it as a breeding ground for collusion with the police; this they did with a straight face, even as they reaped the benefits of their membership.