‘I assume the press were . . . vocal again this morning?’
Had Akama noticed his unease? No, someone had probably already told him about the situation in Media Relations.
‘What’s it really like?’
‘Worse than before. I refused to give way on the anonymous reporting.’
‘Very good. We mustn’t let down our guard. They will only get cocky, try to take advantage, the moment we show any signs of weakness. Force them into submission. We provide the information, and they accept it. You need to drum that into them.’
His talk apparently over, he had started riffling through his jacket pockets, as though having remembered that he had been looking for something. Mikami peered at Ishii out of the corner of his eye. He was scribbling something in red, as exuberant-looking as earlier. Mikami’s foreboding had been right on the mark. He felt more weighed down than when he had entered the office.
‘Right – if that’s everything . . .’
Mikami snapped his notebook shut and got to his feet. Perhaps there was something in his bearing that suggested to Akama a false obedience – he called out just as Mikami was leaving the room.
‘You are the spitting image, you know. You must really cherish her.’
Mikami stopped. He turned around cautiously. In his hand, Akama was brandishing the photo of Ayumi the police were using for the search. The spitting image. Mikami hadn’t told Akama the reason why Ayumi had run away. His face burned regardless. In that instant, his façade of calm crumbled. Akama looked smug.
‘The fingerprints, dental records – why don’t you discuss it some more with your wife? I just want to do all we can for you.’
Mikami’s struggle lasted only seconds.
‘Thank you.’
He bowed deeply from the waist. As he did so, he felt the blood coursing through his body.
6
‘I don’t think I can make it back for lunch.’
‘That’s fine, there’s no need to worry.’
‘What will you do for food?’
‘I’ll manage. I can make do with leftovers, from this morning.’
‘Why don’t you go and get something from Shinozaki?’
Minako was silent.
‘Take the car. It’s only fifteen minutes there and back.’
‘I think I should finish the leftovers . . .’
‘At least order in some soba, from Sogetsuan.’
Again, silence.
‘It’ll be nice.’
‘. . . Okay.’
‘Great, do that for today. But it’ll really help if you get out a little more.’
‘Darling . . .’
She was dying to end the call. The determination expressed itself, as always, through her silence. She was terrified that Ayumi would call, only to find the line busy. They had switched their old phone for a new model, adding call waiting to their contract, alongside the new caller-display functionality that had been rolled out locally in the previous year. Yet Minako refused to be placated, continuing instead to obsess over ‘what ifs’.
‘Okay, I’ll hang up. Just make sure to order something healthy with the soba, okay?’
‘I will.’
Mikami ended the call, stepping out from under the wooden pavilion in Joshi Park. The call wasn’t the kind he could make from the office, and he didn’t like to creep around the station building; instead, he had walked the few minutes it took to reach the park. The north wind was getting stronger still. In lieu of a coat, he turned up his jacket collar and hurried back along the path to the station. The weight of Minako’s voice lingered in his ears. He couldn’t let them drag each other down. When Ayumi had first gone missing, Minako had almost never been at home. Desperate for news of Ayumi’s whereabouts, she had combed the local area with a photo in hand, asking questions and chasing what few leads there were; she had even gone to Tokyo and Kanagawa. Now, she hardly stepped out of the house. The shift had taken place a month ago, after the silent phone call. The call had been followed by another. A total of three in one day. Ayumi, still hesitant. The idea had spread and taken root in her mind. She had shut herself inside ever since, waiting all day, every day, for another call. She wouldn’t listen when Mikami told her it was bad for her. Buying a new phone had had no effect – her life had changed completely. She started to buy the things she wanted by mail order. She would use food from the delivery companies to make dinner, make do with what was left for breakfast and lunch the following day. Mikami doubted she even ate the latter, when he wasn’t there to check.
It had become his daily routine to buy two bento boxes at the supermarket near the station and take them home for lunch. This, at least, made him glad he was no longer a detective. In Media Relations, he could leave relatively early to go home. When something major happened, he still needed to visit the scene of the crime ahead of the press, but, in contrast to his time in Criminal Investigations, he was no longer required to camp night after night in the dojo of whichever station had jurisdiction. Most of the time he was free to go home. To be at Minako’s side.
The truth, however, was that, even then, he couldn’t be sure that his presence was actually providing her with any reassurance. When he was back early or home during lunch he would encourage her to go out, maybe do some shopping, telling her he would keep watch over the phone. She would nod in response but fail to show any signs of leaving. He saw Ayumi reflected in her stubbornness, the way their daughter had locked herself in her room in the days that led up to her running away.
And yet . . . he understood all too well the emotions that drove her to cling to the phone. After two months of silence following their daughter’s running away, the moment of the call coming in had, for two parents on the edge of despair, represented confirmation that their daughter was alive. That evening, torrential rain had swept the northern area of the prefecture. The office had been inundated with reports of landslides and Mikami had been late home, so Minako had answered two of the three calls. The first had come in a little after eight. As soon as Minako had given her name, the caller had hung up. The second had come in at exactly half past nine. Minako had later explained to Mikami that she’d known it was Ayumi the instant it had started to ring. The second time she had kept quiet and just pressed the receiver to her ear. Ayumi tended to shrink away from pressure. It was best to give her space. She would talk, she just needed time. Minako had waited and prayed. Five . . . ten seconds. But the caller had remained silent. When Minako finally broke and called out Ayumi’s name, the line had been immediately disconnected.
Minako had been beside herself when she called Mikami on his mobile. He had rushed home. Call, just one more time. He had waited, hoping against hope. The phone had rung a little before midnight. Mikami grabbed the receiver. A moment of silence. His pulse was racing. He called out to her. Ayumi? I know it’s you, Ayumi. There was no reply. Mikami let his emotions take over. Ayumi! Where are you? Come home. Everything will be fine, just come home right away! The rest, he couldn’t remember. He suspected he’d continued to call her name, over and over. At some point, the line had gone dead. He’d fallen into a stupor. For a while, he’d just stood there, rooted to the spot. It was only later that he realized he’d neglected to remember his training as a police officer, as a detective – he’d changed into a father, nothing else; lost sight of the fundamentals; forgotten even to pay attention to noises in the background. They hadn’t bought Ayumi a mobile. The call seemed to have been made from a pay phone. He thought he could remember a faint sound, present throughout the call. Had it been breathing, or the murmur of the city, or something else? He’d tried desperately to remember, but nothing came. All that was left was a vague sensation, nothing he could call memory; a continuous sound, one that varied in intensity. His imagination had run wild. A non-stop stream of traffic, a city at night. A phone box on a pavement. An image of Ayumi inside, curled into a ball.
It had to be her, Mikami muttered to himself. His steps were becoming irregular. Wit
hout realizing it, his hands had clenched into fists. Who else apart from Ayumi would call three times without saying anything? There was also the fact that they weren’t listed in the telephone directory. They didn’t live in official police accommodation. After their marriage Mikami and Minako had moved into Mikami’s family home in order to take care of his ailing parents. The number had, at the time, still been in the directory, under his dad’s name. Illness had eventually claimed his mother, and it wasn’t long after Six Four that his father passed away from pneumonia. Mikami had become the new head of the family and, in line with police tradition, applied to remove their personal number from the register. Ever since, it hadn’t been included in the annually updated directory. Mikami knew from his experience as a detective that the directory was used for the majority of prank (and obscene) calls. Compared to households with listed numbers, this meant the likelihood of their number being targeted for such calls was minute.
Someone pressing random numbers had got through on a fluke. Emboldened after hearing a woman’s voice, they had dialled a second, then a third time. That was, of course, possible. And there were a number of officers in the force who knew his number – after twenty-eight years of service, it was easy enough to imagine two or three who might bear him a grudge. Still . . . what was the point in lining up possibilities? Ayumi had made the call. He believed it. Insisted on it. They had no other palpable means, as parents, of clinging to the hope that their daughter was alive. Ayumi had called. She had survived for two months. She was alive now, after three. It was all they could hope for.
Mikami entered the station grounds through the back gate. It had been on his mind the whole month: her hesitation, the three calls. Had Ayumi been trying to tell them something? Or, perhaps, instead of wanting to say something, had she simply wanted to hear her parents’ voices? She had called twice, but Minako had answered both times. So she’d tried a third time. Because she’d wanted to hear her father’s voice, too.
Occasionally, the thought would come. That Ayumi had wanted to talk to him and not Minako. He’d finally answered on her third attempt. She had tried to speak, but the words hadn’t come. She’d wanted him to know. So she’d uttered the phrase in her heart. I’m sorry. I accept my face as it is.
Mikami felt a sudden attack of dizziness. It hit him the moment he was through the staff entrance leading to the main building. Shit, not again. His vision blackened even as he cursed, his sense of balance deserting him. Crouch! His brain issued the command but his hands stubbornly reached for support. He felt the cold surface of a wall. This being his only guide, he waited. Eventually his vision began to creep back. Brightness. Strip lighting. Grey walls. He recoiled from a full-length mirror fitted into one of the walls. He saw the image of himself, his shoulders heaving with each breath. His slanted eyes. His thick nose. His harsh cheekbones. His look was that of an exposed rock face.
Shrill laughter piped up from behind. Someone was mocking him – that was his first thought.
He held his breath and glared into the mirror: a couple of beaming faces passed by. The image was of two women officers from Transport, playing with a training dummy as they walked by.
7
Mikami washed his face in the bathroom. The sweat on his hands was oily enough to repel the water. He dried himself without looking in the mirror then returned to Media Relations. Suwa and Kuramae were sitting on a couch, heads together in conversation. He had expected them to be ensconced in the Press Room, checking on the state of the reporters – why were they back in the office together?
‘Something happen?’ The words sounded sharper than he had intended.
Suwa stood. He looked crushed, as though his earlier enthusiasm had been a figment of the imagination. Kuramae drifted back to his desk with hunched shoulders.
Suwa’s voice was a whisper. ‘Sir, I’m sorry. They booted us out.’
‘They kicked you out?’
‘Yes . . . I don’t know what to say.’
It felt like a significant blow. Mikami accepted that the Press Room granted its occupants a certain amount of independence. It was also true, however, that the room was on loan from the police, to assist the press in their reporting. It was disquieting to see that they were willing to shut the police – their landlords – out.
‘That bad?’
‘There’s definitely something happening in there.’
‘You think the Toyo’s behind it?’
‘I do. They’re stirring things up, trying to get the others worked up.’
A picture of Akikawa’s expression came into Mikami’s mind. Meaning you, the police, have no trust in us whatsoever. Yes? The words had been cutting.
‘Is there anything you can do?’
‘Oh definitely . . . I’m sure I can defuse the situation. It’s just that I’m not sure we’ll be able to do it straight away.’
Suwa’s answer lacked confidence. And he didn’t seem to be playing it down for effect. Perhaps the issue was serious enough to make even someone as experienced as Suwa feel out of their depth. Mikami sat at his desk. He lit a cigarette and pulled his notebook from his pocket.
‘The commissioner’s going to pay us a visit.’
‘Sir?’
Suwa’s eyes widened. Kuramae and Mikumo stopped what they were doing and looked up, too.
‘It’s an inspection. He’s going to visit the crime scene of Shoko’s kidnapping, also the family home.’
‘When?’
‘This time next week.’
‘Next week?’ Suwa yelped. After a moment he let out a breath and spoke again. ‘Well, the timing’s particularly bad.’
‘For now, if you could just let the press know,’ Mikami said, leafing through his notebook. He got Suwa to take a copy of the commissioner’s schedule.
‘We have ten minutes for the walking interview. That’s time for three, maybe four questions?’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘How do the press decide on their questions?’
‘They usually each come up with one, then that month’s representative compiles the final list. Most of the time they all ask the same sorts of thing.’
Mikami nodded. ‘If you tell them now, when do you think you can get them to submit their questions?’
‘That would be . . .’ Suwa’s words trailed off. Mikami couldn’t blame him. It was only moments earlier that the press had unceremoniously booted him out of their room.
‘Just tell them I’ll need them first thing next week. The executives want a chance to vet them.’
‘Sure. I’ll give it a go.’ He said it with a look of being imposed upon, but followed this with a few quick nods for Mikami’s sake.
It’ll be fine. Mikami forced himself to feel optimistic. The commissioner general inspecting an unsolved kidnapping: he was sure it would be news enough for them all. They would fall into line. All they needed to do was agree a ceasefire on the issue of anonymous reporting. That would be easy enough. Suwa was partway back to his desk when he did an about turn. He cocked his head to one side.
‘I wonder, though . . . why would he be looking into Six Four at this point?’
Six Four. It disturbed Mikami to hear the phrase uttered again, although less so than when it had come from Akama’s mouth.
‘It’s PR, for Criminal Investigations,’ Mikami said dismissively, getting to his feet.
Fourteen years since the kidnapping. The term no longer seemed to be the sole possession of the detectives who had worked on the case. Even so, it had made him wary to hear two people, both outsiders to the investigation, deploy the prestigious code name so soon after each other. He’d had the same thought in Akama’s office: that information from Media Relations was leaking to Akama. That it had been doing so consistently, since the first day of his appointment.
He spoke without looking at Suwa. ‘Right, I’ll need you to sort things with the press. I’m going out for a while.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Shoko�
��s parents’ house. I need to arrange things for the visit.’ Mikami glanced at Kuramae. ‘Can you come?’
He didn’t make a habit of asking his staff to drive him around, but his attacks of dizziness were worrying him. Today wasn’t the first time it had happened. He’d been suffering them for close to two weeks.
‘Ah, actually, I have to go out to interview the railway division; the police brought in a group causing trouble on the trains.’
While he excused himself Mikumo craned her head upwards from behind, as though to advertise her presence. Not you – Mikami swallowed the words rising in his throat. In terms of enthusiasm for her work, Mikumo was many times Kuramae’s superior. She had also come up through Transport, meaning she could drive a minibus in her sleep.
Clouds of dust blew through the air outside. As soon as he and Mikumo stepped out of the main building, she raised a hand to her forehead and dashed off into the wind, aiming for the parking area. Within a minute, the press director’s car appeared, pulling confidently around to stop alongside the entrance.
‘Do you know the address?’ Mikami asked, getting into the passenger-side seat.
‘Of course, sir,’ she said without pause, already navigating forwards.
Mikami supposed he’d been thoughtless to ask. Anyone who worked at the Prefectural HQ but didn’t know the address was, it felt fair to say, a fraud. It was Mikumo’s youth that had caught him off guard. She had just turned twenty-three; she would have been nine at the time of the kidnapping, only a couple of years older than the murdered girl. Now she was driving him to that girl’s home. There was no escaping the fact that an unimaginable span of time had passed.
They stopped not long after leaving the station to buy a gift of rice crackers. The national highway was quiet. The rows of buildings disappeared after they turned right at the junction to the prefectural road, where even the road-side stores began to taper off. Now they were approaching what had, before the city’s expansion, been the old Morikawa district.
Six Four Page 5