Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Someone was speaking in the distance.

  ‘What is happening with Amamiya?’

  No reply.

  ‘Mikami, I am asking you a question. Please respond.’

  Akama’s voice was close. Too close.

  Mikami looked up. He realized his mouth was trembling. ‘I . . . we’re still in discussions.’ The words seemed to sap at his strength.

  ‘Well, look sharp. I need to report to the commissioner’s office early next week. Now, there’s one more thing you should probably know. The pensioner Committee Member Kato’s daughter ran into – he passed away just an hour ago. I have already relayed instructions to Sakaniwa that he not mention this unless the press specifically ask. I expect you to show the same discretion.’

  Akama got to his feet. He was a good ten centimetres shorter than Mikami, but it felt as though his eyes were bearing down on him from a great height.

  16

  The windows in Media Relations had no view. The field of vision was blocked by the archive building, built close enough almost to graze the HQ’s main building. Mikami was sitting back in his chair, half turned so he was staring vacantly out at the rusted, red-brown wall of the archive. It wasn’t that he was daydreaming. He doubted he would ever have the time to indulge in such an activity, not until the day he died.

  A serious accident had become a fatal accident.

  It had once been the case that accidents listed as ‘fatal’ only included those in which the victim died within twenty-four hours of it taking place. It was a trick the police had used to bring down the number of cases involving fatalities. The press had launched an offensive, and now the force integrated deaths outside the twenty-four-hour period into the statistic.

  Hiding the fact that the driver was a daughter of a committee member; concealing the fact that the pensioner had died. It was a perfect example of the police seizing control of the process, ‘from the beginning to the end’. A noise prompted Mikami to look around; Mikumo had just placed a fresh mug of tea on his desk. He glimpsed the thin frame of someone about to leave the room behind her, an SLR camera in hand.

  ‘And where are you off to?’

  Kuramae flinched and came to a stop, backtracking a little before he replied. ‘Just Fureai park. The police band is putting on a mini concert, so I thought I could go take a few shots . . .’

  The response already in Mikami’s throat came straight out. ‘Get Mikumo to do it. Didn’t I give you instructions to go next door? Hurry up and get over there. I want you to get at least a couple of them on our side.’

  Kuramae was standing bolt upright, utterly pale. Mikami averted his gaze. He’d seen an image of himself, superimposed neatly over the man. Kuramae excused himself. Mikumo followed from behind, the camera he’d given her over her shoulder. Mikami made a call, took a quick sip of the tea, then walked sharply out of the office.

  The outside world appeared somehow different.

  Perhaps it was because he’d become resigned to being Akama’s guard dog. He would fully commit to his role as a puppet of Administrative Affairs. He’d made his decision. Now he knew he’d lost even the option of handing in his notice, he no longer cared about the content of his work.

  He would keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. He would get results and see it through. That was all there was to it.

  There was no reason to let it get to him. Wasn’t it what he’d always done? He’d delivered a psychotic killer who had disembowelled three women to the execution chamber. He’d reduced a mayor who had resorted to taking bribes to support his lovers to a grovelling mess in the interrogation room. He’d waged a psychological battle with a con man with an IQ of 160, emerging victorious after staring into his eyes for twenty-two days in a row. He had no reason to consider himself any less capable – having come through the bloodbath of Criminal Investigations, following orders, getting the results – than the office executives who spent their days in a more mundane, nine-to-five existence.

  He could play the ferocious watchdog. All he had to do was fight his way through the current situation, through the department itself, then finally gouge out Akama’s throat.

  As he walked down the corridor Mikami checked his watch. It was just after 10 a.m. They had less than six hours until the deadline the Press Club had set for their response.

  He reflected on the situation with a cool head.

  He couldn’t reveal the woman’s identity. And he couldn’t ‘think out loud’. Which meant that, at 4 p.m., he would have to enter the Press Club and refuse their terms. The reporters would go on the rampage and descend on the captain’s office; they would force him to accept their written protest. If he failed to act, the unthinkable would become reality.

  There was only one way he could ensure a soft landing without compromising the department’s position. He had to get the press to agree to leave the written protest with either himself or Ishii, then consign it to sleep for ever in the depths of an Administrative Affairs safe.

  Akikawa had intimated that the Press Club would hold another meeting after the announcement was made. That was where the outcome would be decided. I propose, this time, that we leave the protest with Mikami. He would have to make sure somebody raised the motion. Even given the uncertainty of the club’s ‘chemical reaction’, he suspected Suwa would be able to narrow down a list of reporters who might be receptive to the idea. If they were thorough enough in laying the groundwork, they would be able to convince at least a few of those already on the fence.

  The main obstacle would be the hard-liners, those who insisted on protesting directly to the captain. It was no doubt correct to assume that they had overwhelmed the moderates. The issue came down to numbers. They stood no chance of victory, even if the issue was taken to a majority vote, without first converting a few of the more vocal agitators.

  I need some kind of hook.

  Mikami climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The entire floor belonged to Criminal Investigations. It had the smell of his old stomping ground. The air was clearly different to that on the first floor. Criminal Investigations, Second Division. Mikami pushed open the dark, blackened door.

  Kazuo Itokawa’s head rose to greet him. His desk, that of assistant chief, had been Mikami’s until the spring. Mikami had called ahead from Media Relations in order to confirm that Division Chief Ochiai was out of the office. In the regions, the post of Second Division Chief was essentially a spot reserved for young career officers. Their network meant Akama would immediately learn of Mikami’s visit if he showed up in front of Ochiai. Mikami gestured to Itokawa to follow him, crossing into the detectives’ office in the next room. He stepped into the ‘soft’ interrogation room at the far back of the office, then closed the door behind them.

  ‘I owe you one for yesterday,’ Mikami said, opening up a folding chair.

  ‘Oh, remind me what for?’

  ‘The kind welcome you gave a member of my staff: Kuramae.’

  ‘Ah, that. I hadn’t meant to—’

  ‘No scraps for us dogs, right?’

  Itokawa’s eyes betrayed a flash of panic.

  He was four years younger than Mikami and had worked under him for three years when Mikami had led a team in Non-violent Crime, First Division. He was good. Especially when it came to numbers. The skill had stayed with him after he’d completed a bookkeeping course he’d enrolled on in vocational high school.

  Itokawa settled into the seat across from him; Mikami put both elbows on the metal table and clasped his hands together. Between two detectives, there was no need for preamble.

  ‘Where are you with the bidding over the museum?’

  ‘It’s in order, I guess.’

  ‘You’ve made eight arrests so far?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is the CEO in today?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t say . . .’ Itokawa said, clearly not telling the truth.

  Mikami tipped his head to one side, exaggerating the gesture. We’ve got the CEO
of Hakkaku Construction – the biggest company in the prefecture – in for questioning. Mikami had received the leaked information just two days earlier, from none other than Itokawa himself.

  Mikami let his tone develop an edge.

  ‘The CEO of Hakkaku Construction. He’s been called in. Correct?’

  ‘Right, yes. I believe so.’

  Believe so?

  He was refusing to say for definite. As the division’s second-ranking officer, it was highly unlikely he hadn’t been informed of whether or not the CEO was being questioned. Mikami decided to switch tack.

  ‘What about the papers? Have any of them started to suspect that he’s been brought in?’

  ‘No. Not at the moment.’

  In which case, he could use it as bait. Mikami went on without altering his expression. ‘Just thank your lucky stars they’re a bunch of morons.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Far as I know, they still have their sights on Sogawa.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  Sogawa Construction was a mid-size company run by the younger brother of a minister in the prefectural assembly that was plagued by constant rumours of administrative corruption and even involvement with local crime syndicates. Growing tired of this, Hakkaku Construction had severed all ties to the company, meaning that Sogawa was in the clear when it came to the current case. Despite this, however, Second Division had still investigated the company when it had first come to light. The press, unable to declare Sogawa’s innocence, due to Chief Ochiai’s continuing insistence that the Hakkaku proceedings remain confidential, continued to trail behind.

  ‘So when do you think you’ll make the arrest?’ Mikami asked, switching neatly back to the matter at hand.

  ‘I can’t really say.’

  ‘Just give me a ballpark figure. Today, tomorrow? Sometime next week?’

  ‘Look, I really shouldn’t be . . .’

  Itokawa looked distraught. That wasn’t like him at all. When Mikami had still been making his pilgrimages to Criminal Investigations, all he’d had to do was sit down with the man to convince him to part, albeit reluctantly, with even sensitive information.

  ‘You’ve been banned from talking to Media Relations.’

  ‘It’s not just you guy—’

  Itokawa stopped mid-sentence. He looked ready to kick himself.

  Mikami watched as the man’s face turned red, imagining how the conversation might have gone if it had been between two detectives. Not just Media Relations. We need to make sure nobody in Admin gets wind of this. Admin . . . Administrative Affairs. The Secretariat: under the direct control of the captain. Internal Affairs: in charge of investigating misconduct. Administration: responsible for all personnel decisions.

  Something had happened that they wanted to keep hidden from these, the core divisions of the administration. The logical conclusion was that there had been some kind of slip-up in the investigation, that Criminal Investigations had seen fit to impose a gag order.

  ‘Someone hang themselves?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. Everything’s fine with the investigation,’ Itokawa said, flustered.

  ‘All right. So why the gag order?’

  ‘Don’t look at me. Though I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with the investigation.’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know, but we’ve been warned to keep our mouths shut in front of you Admin guys. Whatever questions you’re asking.’

  Keep our mouths shut? Mikami could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘I’m telling you, I genuinely don’t know.’

  ‘And you can’t talk even to me?’ Mikami leaned in some more, but he’d seen that there was no deception or trickery in Itokawa’s eyes.

  ‘Try asking the director. I want to know what this is all about as much as you do.’

  So the gag order had come directly from the director of Criminal Investigations. Arakida had ordered every officer in his department to clam up in front of Administrative Affairs, without telling them why. It was as though he were trying to imitate Akama’s own dictatorial style of management.

  ‘That’s why you gave Kuramae the cold shoulder . . .’

  ‘Don’t take it personally. What are you after, anyway, Mikami, barging in like this just because I turned him away? Okay, so you don’t have much intel over there, but I wonder if you really need to be asking so many questions about the case . . .’

  Mikami was suddenly on the defensive.

  ‘I’m just getting things ready, for the press conference.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘What other reason would I have?’

  He hadn’t meant to hide the truth, but learning about the department’s disturbing orders had left him a little wary of revealing his hand.

  ‘Well, if that’s all, I’ve got a meeting that’s about to start.’ Itokawa took Mikami’s response as a chance to wind up the conversation before excusing himself from the room to take a call.

  Mikami headed downstairs deep in thought.

  The talk had been useful.

  While he hadn’t been able to extract a date for the CEO’s arrest, he had learned that the press had yet to find out about his involvement. Mikami could use the fact that he had been questioned as bait in his negotiations.

  The token sense of achievement this gave him was short-lived. His thoughts kept returning to Itokawa’s inexplicable pronouncement. Look . . . we’ve been warned to keep our mouths shut in front of you Admin guys. Whatever questions you’re asking.

  That was unlike any previous gag order Mikami had known. A blanket prohibition on all communications with Administrative Affairs. That was what it sounded like. Akama’s words from the previous day forced their way back into his head.

  No, your request is to be made directly. There’s no need to involve Criminal Investigations.

  This is the remit of Administrative Affairs. Surely it would only complicate matters to bring Criminal Investigations into the fray? Once you have the groundwork in place, I will contact the Director personally. Until then, you are to treat this matter as confidential.

  Had something happened between Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs? The two departments shared a relationship that was the same wherever you went.

  It was the same in Prefecture D. As far as Mikami was aware, there were no issues they faced now that could have sparked an open conflict between the two departments.

  And yet . . .

  Akama and Itokawa’s comments. Could he assign the mysterious alignment – like two sides of the same coin – to mere chance? Mikami felt a sudden chill. His mind had brought up an image, of the one man able to engineer coincidence into destiny: Futawatari.

  The ace of Administrative Affairs had been acting strangely. Digging into Six Four. Seeking to unearth Criminal Investigation’s greatest and most shameful failure. Something must have happened. The conflict hadn’t started with Second Division’s bid-rigging; it had started with First Division, with Six Four . . .

  Mikami came to a stop on one of the landings. Above him was Criminal Investigations; below, Administrative Affairs. He couldn’t help thinking of the landing as a mirror, a perfect reflection of the position he’d found himself in.

  17

  The deadline was getting close.

  ‘The Toyo, the Asahi, the Mainichi and Kyodo News are all lost causes. They’re determined to submit the protest to the captain, and they’re not going to budge.’

  The three of them – Mikami, Suwa and Kuramae – were in close discussion on the couches in Media Relations.

  ‘Who would be willing to consider leaving the document here?’

  Mikami’s question prompted Suwa to look up from his notes. ‘The Times, D Television, also the FM Kenmin. They’ll be okay. I haven’t had the chance to talk with Tomino from the D Daily, but I’m ninety-nine per cent sure they’ll be open to it, too.’

  The four local ou
tlets. An easy win for Suwa, Mikami supposed. They would have to ask one of them to raise the motion of submitting the protest to Media Relations. Better still, they could ask them all to make the suggestion together.

  ‘How about the Yomiuri and the Sankei?’

  ‘The Yomiuri could go either way. They’re supporting the protest on paper, but they’re also showing signs of jumping if they think the Toyo pushes things too far. The Sankei told me they’re happy to compromise if it means submitting to the Director of Administrative Affairs.’

  ‘What about the other three?’

  ‘Right, yes.’ This time it was Kuramae who responded. He was hesitating, Mikami’s earlier outburst having apparently taken its toll. ‘So . . . NHK, the JiJi Press and the Tokyo Shimbun are all opting to wait and see. They are against anonymous reports in principle, but don’t seem particularly concerned about the written protest. They’ll probably side with the majority whatever happens.’

  Mikami lit himself a cigarette. He counted the votes in his head. Four for taking the protest to the captain. Four for leaving it with Mikami. Three who were on the fence. One for leaving it with Akama, and one ‘unknown’.

  The numbers didn’t look good.

  ‘Could we get the Sankei to agree to leaving it with Chief Ishii in the Secretariat?’

  ‘Not easily. They’d end up losing face in front of the others.’

  Mikami nodded once before turning to Kuramae.

  ‘Try the NHK, the Jiji Press and the Tokyo Shimbun one more time. Try to get them on our side by confirming that we suspect the bid-rigging goes all the way to the top.’

  ‘No problems.’

  Mikami turned back to Suwa. ‘I want you to work on the Mainichi. You’re free to tell them that we know Second Division has set its sights on Hakkaku Construction.’