The lights changed and Mikami drove on, but he made a sharp turn as soon as the pickle factory came into view. There was a small park he remembered, down the road and along the river. Rows of poplar and camphor. Outdoor gym machines. An old, dilapidated phone box. The trees had grown impressively, but otherwise it was as he remembered from fourteen years earlier. Even the phone box was still there. The spread of mobile phones was forcing most of them out of commission; perhaps, in the wake of Six Four, the families having stopped coming here with their children, the park and its surroundings had been lost from memory.
Mikami pulled up alongside the phone box.
He would lose any chance of returning to Criminal Investigations. He was staring his greatest fear right in the face. He’d been repressing the love he felt for being a detective but it came rushing to the surface now that he realized he might never be one again.
Having had no other choice, he’d submitted to Akama’s will. He’d taken everything on board and donned the uniform of obedience. That didn’t mean he’d stopped hoping. That Ayumi would come home. That Akama would be transferred back to Tokyo. That, given time, everything would change for the better. That he would be able to shrug off his fake persona, continue his reform of Media Relations and return to Criminal Investigations with his head held high. How many times had he wished that?
But they wouldn’t forgive him. Plotting. Conspiracy. Betrayal. Removing his disguise would only make him stand out as a traitor. Tsuchigane’s words came forcefully to mind: I doubt you plan to run errands for the first floor until the day you retire.
Just take the gallows apart.
He nodded slowly, the voice in his mind a whispered invitation. If he abandoned his task of persuading Amamiya, talk of the commissioner visiting him would go away. With the situation as it was, the chance he would change his mind was minimal even if Mikami did try to talk him around.
Mikami decided he would see Amamiya again; he needed the alibi for when he saw Akama. But he wouldn’t make any real effort to twist the man’s arm. That way, the visit to his house – and, with it, the interview – was sure to be cancelled. Mikami didn’t doubt that the commissioner would still make his announcement. Perhaps at the scene of the kidnapping. Perhaps in front of the Six Four Investigative Team. But it would be weak. The impact would pale into insignificance compared to it being made at the victim’s home. We only got by because Mikami’s the press director. It was a little petty, but there would still be hope if people inside Criminal Investigations commented on his actions. Akama would be furious, but his anger would be directed at Mikami’s incompetence in failing to convince Amamiya; he wouldn’t suspect Mikami of having encouraged Amamiya not to take part. Even if he did somehow realize Mikami’s sabotage, there was a limit to the punishment he could issue, a line he couldn’t cross. He might have used Ayumi as leverage in controlling Mikami, but he wouldn’t be able to completely disregard a girl who was – as far as the police were concerned – family. He had authorized the search himself, and he couldn’t change that, whatever happened between him and Mikami.
Everything changes with this decision.
Even though Akama had clearly demonstrated that he had done it only to make him into his puppet, the gratitude and obligation Mikami had felt when Akama sent the fax ordering the search to Tokyo had, until now, tempered his will to fight. If he were able to dispel those emotions, particularly now his reforms had ground to a halt, there would be no more reason to bend to Akama’s will. There was, of course, the fear of being transferred somewhere else. If Akama decided he had sabotaged the commissioner’s visit, he would be tossed off to some post in the mountains. But if his career as a detective was to end in demotion, it was still better than being on the receiving end of a dishonourable discharge. If the alternative was remaining in Administrative Affairs as the man who took a shot at Criminal Investigations, he would rather start from scratch in the middle of nowhere. The smallest paths are still paths. As long as he didn’t resign, Ayumi’s status as family wouldn’t change. The 260,000 officers that made up the force would be sure to . . .
His phone started to vibrate in his jacket pocket.
He checked the display. His home phone. Minako? He pushed the answer button, hardly daring to hope.
‘What is it?’
‘Sorry, I know you’re at work.’ She was speaking quickly. Excited.
‘Did something happen?’
‘It’s just something I’ve been wanting to say. Ayumi called us on 4 November, right?’
Mikami couldn’t remember the date offhand. But if that was the date Minako gave him, it wouldn’t be wrong. ‘Yeah, that was it.’
‘Mizuki told me the silent call they had was on Sunday, the seventeenth.’
‘You called her?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t stop thinking about it so I just called to check. Anyway, that means you were wrong.’
‘Wrong? How do you mean?’
‘Ayumi called us thirty-four days ago. Mizuki’s call came in three weeks ago.’
‘That’s not what I said?’
‘You said they both called around the same time.’
She was sounding critical now.
‘Okay, well, one was a month ago and the other three weeks. They’re not too—’
‘It’s completely different. They were almost two weeks apart. They’re completely unrelated, I’m positive.’
Mikami found himself at a loss as for what to say, realizing now that this was the only reason for her call. It meant she’d been dwelling on it since the previous night.
‘You’re right. They can’t be related.’
He’d finally said it. Something like a sigh came over the line. Minako told him she needed to free the line.
Silence returned to his ears.
Mikami wound the driver-side window all the way down. Fresh air filtered into the car. He could hear the sound of the river. Even then, it felt hard to breathe, the sense lingering that his windpipe was constricted. He opened his mouth a little and tried to take in a deep breath, but only ended up coughing violently. His emotions followed soon after, as he came to realize the scale of his omission.
How could he expect Minako to come with him to some station in the mountains? She would choose to stay, to wait for the call. To wait and hope for Ayumi just to turn up one day. Would he go by himself? Would he leave her alone as he tried to reforge his career in such a remote location?
An optimist to the last, Mikami jeered inwardly. He was still looking for his place in the force. Dreaming of somewhere to lay his bones to rest, as a hero detective, using Ayumi’s suffering as his excuse. Why hadn’t he noticed? If he was sent away, if he and Minako were separated, their family would never be whole again. He slammed a fist into his kneecap.
Had he forgotten? He would be a guard dog for Administrative Affairs. Hadn’t he already decided that?
‘Talk Amamiya into it.’ Mikami issued the order to himself.
33
Amamiya was out.
Having seen the man as the embodiment of grief only three days earlier, Mikami hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might not be in. He was living alone now his wife, Toshiko, had passed away. It was likely he was doing his own shopping and cooking. Mikami circled around to the side of the building to check for his car. There was only a bike. He was out in the car, although that didn’t necessarily mean he had gone far. There were no real shops in the area, and the Prefecture D public-transport system was bad wherever you went, so you needed a car for errands even if you lived in town.
Mikami drove for about fifteen minutes before settling himself down in a family diner next to the prefectural highway. It was the same as the one he’d visited the previous day. The inside was a little bigger, and this one had benefited from what looked like a recent redesign; even so, over half the tables were empty, despite it being midday on a Sunday.
‘Are you ready?’
A middle-aged waitress arrived to take his or
der, probably a housewife working part-time; her vaguely belligerent tone suggested she was having a bad day. Mikami considered the contrast to the waitress from the previous day. It seemed a rare coincidence in this kind of family diner to run into two waitresses who let their personal feelings show through at work.
What had Amamiya eaten?
Mikami decided that was where he should start. He needed to get closer to the man’s feelings, to try to put himself in the suspect’s shoes, as detectives were apt to say. Work out his emotional narrative. Then he would take careful aim and deliver the line that would bring him around.
He lit a cigarette.
Amamiya had seen the error take place in front of him. Yet, instead of losing his temper, he had actually apologized for taking the call without having been given permission.
His response wasn’t particularly unusual. He had been completely dependent on the police. When they had asked him to cooperate with the Home Unit, he had agreed out of a desperate wish to recover Shoko, his only daughter. Their single-minded focus would have been plain to see. He would have sat with them, their hearts as one as they waited for the kidnapper’s call. The phone had started to ring. Amamiya had panicked, seeing the tapes hadn’t started, but he hadn’t had time to get angry. He’d been scared it would annoy the kidnapper to be kept waiting. He’d wanted to hear his daughter’s voice. Above all else, he’d been terrified that the phone would stop ringing. Feeling he had to do something, he had answered it.
They would have tested the recording equipment beforehand. It would have been working when they set it up. It was possible that the failure had been down to a faulty connection, not an actual problem with the machine. Maybe they could have got the kidnapper on tape, if only Amamiya had let the phone ring just a few more times. He might have come to the same conclusion after the call ended. He had broken his promise and cost the police a valuable lead. He saw himself as having disrupted the solidarity of the team. He found himself apologizing. No doubt it had been a true representation of his feelings.
Even so . . .
At the time, he had still believed his daughter would be coming home.
Some ash fell on to his knee. He flicked it away, pulled an ashtray towards him and stubbed out his cigarette. He mulled over an idea as he did so. It had been fourteen whole years. Amamiya wouldn’t have spent the whole time wallowing in grief. He’d had a lifetime of opportunity to revisit, deliberate, ask questions, to examine the case in exhaustive detail.
What conclusion would he have come to, in his heart, about the error? Nothing about the call had ever come to light, even after the press had set out the case in minute detail – in the papers and on TV – once the embargo had been lifted. Kakinuma had probably been right to say that Amamiya would have realized the cover-up was motivated by fear of public criticism.
After Shoko’s body was found, the Home Unit had been left with nothing more to do. They had worked with Amamiya, all together as one entity, but then they had moved on. Running away. It was possible Amamiya might have interpreted it this way. Nobody had shown up after that. Not even last year, after Toshiko’s death.
Mikami had been part of the Six Four investigation, albeit only in the beginning. He was qualified enough to express his regrets on behalf of the Prefectural HQ. He would make a formal apology, to Amamiya, then to his wife and daughter at the Buddhist altar. He wouldn’t need to be explicit – Amamiya would know what he was apologizing for.
Would his apology be enough to get Amamiya to open up? It was possible. He’d trusted the police in the past; maybe he’d been waiting all this time for a tiny shred of decency in the form of an apology. The question was whether or not Mikami could do it properly. He had to. He needed to get Amamiya on their side. For Ayumi’s sake. So his family could be complete again.
But he would be apologizing to a man who had lost his family for good.
It’ll be fine . . .
Mikami reached for the bill just as his phone started to vibrate. Again? He saw a brief image of Minako, but it was someone else – although he hadn’t been wrong to be wary.
‘I need an update on Amamiya.’ It was Ishii, sounding even more agitated than he had the night before.
Mikami scanned his surroundings before answering in a low voice, ‘I’m working on it.’
‘Haven’t you been to see him yet?’
‘He wasn’t in.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Somewhere nearby.’
‘I just had a call from Akama. Asking the same thing.’
Akama was conscious of the deadline. He’d planned to make quick work of setting up the gallows, to stay ahead of Criminal Investigations. He hadn’t foreseen that Amamiya would put up a fight.
‘You know what that means, right? He’s chasing us to get it done.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well? Go and keep a watch on the place. We can’t go back to Akama saying he was out, now can we?’ Mikami said nothing; Ishii heaved a sigh. ‘It’s okay for you, you don’t have to deal with this directly.’
The line went dead, the signal apparently failing. Ishii didn’t try calling back. Amamiya didn’t figure into his idea of ‘directly’; nor did anyone else who had been involved in the case. He didn’t know anything about it, and he didn’t want to know anything about it. But even then, he was getting caught up in the waves Six Four was making. Mikami saw the image of Koda waving a red baton. He saw the tortured look on Kakinuma’s face; Hiyoshi’s mother, her face buried in her hands.
If the worst comes to the worst, it’s your fault.
Mikami pulled his bag over and opened it; he took out the writing pad he’d bought the day before.
It’s not your fault.
That was all he wrote. He’d never genuinely tried to save Hiyoshi.
Do a good deed, and it’ll find its way back to you. It was something his dad used to say. One good turn deserves another. That was what he’d meant, but he’d lacked a proper education and always had his own way of saying things.
Mikami downed the rest of his tepid coffee, then got to his feet. He wasn’t even sure what it meant to be good any more, not really. Thinking she might be good luck, he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the waitress, but she was nowhere to be seen.
34
It was just after 2 p.m., but the clouds that had gathered made it seem already dark outside.
Amamiya’s car was back in its parking space. Mikami touched the bonnet as he walked by. Already cold. He couldn’t have gone far, unless it was the wind that had cooled the engine.
Mikami pressed the buzzer and used his hands to press the creases out of his suit. There was a long pause, enough to suggest nobody was in. Finally, the door opened and Amamiya appeared from inside. He looked empty. The chalky, white skin. The gaunt cheeks. Although he did seem very slightly healthier than three days earlier; Mikami realized that this was because he’d trimmed his overgrown white hair.
‘Please excuse me for disturbing you a second time.’ Mikami came forwards in a deep bow. Amamiya didn’t respond. His eyes, obscured under his creased skin, silently asked him the reason for his visit. ‘Can I ask you to hear me out one more time? I promise this will be the last time.’
Amamiya was silent.
‘Please. It won’t take long.’
There was another pause before Amamiya let out a faint sigh.
‘Come in, then.’
‘Thank you.’
Mikami followed the man’s thin form inside. Amamiya showed him into the living room, as before. This time, Mikami asked before sitting down.
‘Do you mind if I pay my respects?’
He was ready to be turned down, but Amamiya nodded quietly and walked off into the altar room. It happened just as Mikami let the relief sink in – his eyes landed on a name he hadn’t expected to see. Koda. It was written on an envelope, as the sender, and was poking out of a letter rack mounted on the living-room wall. The Koda memo. Mikami knew it ins
tantly. Koda must have sent Amamiya a copy of the memo he’d left in the director’s letterbox, no doubt setting down everything that had happened leading up to the cover-up.
That was the reason for Amamiya’s . . .
But it didn’t matter, not any more. Amamiya would have learned about the deception even if Koda hadn’t told him. Mikami had to apologize. He’d been lucky to get this opportunity to offer incense. Amamiya had turned to face him, holding the lit candle.
Mikami gave a deep bow then stepped into the room. The tatami was cold under his feet. He moved the purple floor cushion to one side, then knelt before the altar. The apology was on the tip of his tongue. He clasped his hands together. He gazed up at the altar. On the shelf were two photos, one of Shoko, the other Toshiko, each placed in front of the memorial tablets. Both were smiling openly.
Their expressions seemed to blur.
Mikami was confused and his sudden emotions caught him off guard. By the time he noticed the heat in his eyes, the tears were already flowing. He didn’t know what to think, or what it was that had made him burst into tears.
He took out a pocket tissue and dabbed it over his face. His fingers were trembling as he reached for the incense. It took him two, three attempts to lock them around one of the sticks. He was aware of Amamiya standing there, behind and off to one side. He reflected that no act could have been so convincing.
He held the stick of incense over the lit candle. His hands were still shaking, making it difficult to catch the flame. Amamiya’s wife and daughter continued to smile. New tears came. They tumbled past his cheeks to hit the tatami. All he wanted to do was get away. It felt like an insult to their spirits, to be crying in front of them without even knowing the reason why.
He managed to place the incense so it stood up. He brought his hands together, but then held them up to his forehead. He did it to stop himself crying out loud.
He couldn’t manage a prayer. Not even the simplest of blessings.
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