Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  ‘Um, sir . . .’ Mikumo said, keeping her eyes ahead.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘It was a great relief . . . that it wasn’t your daughter.’ She was talking about the day before. ‘I know they’ll find her. I’m sure of it.’

  Her voice sounded nasal. She looked ready to cry. It was at times like this that Mikami always struggled to find a way to respond. Just . . . leave it be. That was as close as he could get to what he really felt. Strict rules were in place to guard the privacy of police officers and their families. Yet this was only the case with regard to those outside the force; within it, stories spread in the blink of an eye. Colleagues would approach with no warning and ask after Ayumi. They did it out of kindness. It was because they were concerned. But no matter how often Mikami reminded himself of this, he was still unable to feel genuine gratitude. Akama’s motivations were clearly different, and there were many more who shared his philosophy. Despite the fact that they hardly knew Mikami, these people would assume a concerned expression and worm their way over as soon as they caught sight of him. Some actually seemed pleased, as if Mikami’s distress gave them an opportunity to either mend fences, or angle for something in return. These were the ones who were the most likely to voice what seemed like genuine, heartfelt compassion. They would look on, smug, as Mikami bowed and offered thanks. He felt a growing aversion to other people. It scared him. He’d had enough of it.

  Still . . .

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  It went without saying that the young female officer sitting next to him was one of the few who did actually merit his trust.

  ‘Oh, you needn’t . . .’

  She blushed and straightened her back. She was almost worryingly good-natured. Given that she had chosen to become a police officer, she was already likely to be more straight-laced and diligent than the average person; even with that, Mikami knew she was special. She had grown up in a world where morality, sex and even the values of basic human kindness were in chaos; despite this, nothing about her suggested even the slightest pollution. She was beautiful and innocent. In a way, she reminded him of Minako when she was younger. It was only natural that the majority of single officers were infatuated with her; even in the Press Room, more than a few of the reporters had designs on taking her back to Tokyo with them. Suwa had already mentioned that Akikawa was one of them. It was the main reason Mikami still refused to let her be directly involved with them.

  The landscape rolling ahead was rural with a smattering of private houses: the western limits of City D. After a while, the giant pickle factory – almost the size of a leisure centre – came into view, looming over the riverbank marking the boundary of the next village. The house appeared next, still on the factory grounds, a traditional Japanese structure with a tiled roof. Amamiya Pickles. The idea of pickling aubergines and cucumbers in small tubs and selling them had been a success, and the business had grown rapidly. The factory had regularly featured in the news; in hindsight, it was likely that it was this success which had caught the attention of the kidnapper.

  Mikami gestured for Mikumo to pull over, getting her to park in an empty plot of land a short distance from the family home.

  ‘Wait here.’

  It felt insensitive to leave her to sit with the girl’s parents. If none of this had ever happened, Shoko Amamiya would now be a young woman of roughly Mikumo’s age.

  Mikami got out of the car and walked resolutely down the narrow road – back then, an unsurfaced path – leading to the building.

  We’ll bring the bastard in . . .

  Mikami recalled the day he had first entered the house, the burning heat in his chest. Fourteen years had gone by. He had certainly never imagined that his next visit would be to arrange a PR exercise. Whatever the purpose, the visit brought very mixed feelings. Each time he blinked he saw Ayumi. It was going to be difficult to stay businesslike, meeting parents who had already lost their daughter. He straightened the front of his jacket and gazed, without pressing it straight away, at the buzzer marked ‘Amamiya’.

  8

  The heater, having just been turned on, started to click as a warm stream of air flowed into the room.

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  Mikami declined the offer of a floor cushion and placed both hands on the tatami before him. Keeping his head low, he slid the box of rice crackers over. Yoshio Amamiya only nodded faintly.

  While the walls had darkened a little, the layout and furniture of the living room he’d been shown into seemed unchanged. Amamiya’s transformation, on the other hand, had been dramatic and far surpassed that of fourteen years. Fifty-four. It didn’t seem possible. His hair had turned white and been left to grow. His skin was pale, leaden. His cheeks were morbidly thin and a mass of wrinkles clustered like knife cuts around his eyes and forehead. It was the face of a man whose daughter had been murdered. A face ravaged by grief and suffering – that was the only way Mikami could describe it.

  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.

  9

  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.