Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  And he had his own perspective. He had the feeling that he was also a victim, of Criminal Investigations having interfered with his current job, of them having violated his territory. Their trap had been laid right at the feet of Media Relations. Arakida was trying to use the press as a weapon and had set the stage for his war right in Mikami’s office.

  Even so . . .

  Mikami didn’t feel angry. And that was why, he realized, the skin concealing his true feelings – his guilt because he hadn’t warned Akama about the trap; his hostility for Criminal Investigations – had peeled cleanly away. Both were nothing more than footnotes. By the time they reached the stairs, Mikami had become slave to a single idea. Akama’s wiry frame stood there before him.

  If he were to warn him about the trap . . .

  If he were to hold out his hand, rescue this weakened, panic-stricken tourist . . .

  Akama would change the way he looked at him.

  Someone I can trust.

  If that happened, Mikami would never have to worry about being transferred away.

  Sir . . .

  Mikami was on the verge of speaking up when Akama turned suddenly around. ‘You should use this as a chance to make your apology, too.’

  He’d said it almost without thinking.

  All the tension seemed to dissipate in an instant.

  Apology? About what . . . who to?

  ‘To the Press Club. You need to fix the clash you had over anonymous reporting. Get on your hands and knees if you have to – just make sure the press withdraw their intention of boycotting the interview.’

  Mikami couldn’t think of anything to say. He wouldn’t show himself as weak before the press. Akama had just crossed the line Mikami had drawn for himself.

  ‘If that’s not enough, assure them that all future announcements will include the full identity of everyone involved. We only need the commissioner’s visit to be a success. Once it’s over, you can rescind your statement, cause all the trouble you want.’

  He had to have misheard.

  An empty promise . . . but this was something completely different to Shirota’s suggestion of fleshing out their services. Akama was telling him to lie, and about anonymous reporting, the most incendiary issue his office faced.

  ‘You should see yourself.’ Akama smiled, without looking amused. ‘We’ll have to put up with it for three days. But there’s nothing to worry about. Criminal Investigations can wriggle all it wants. Come Thursday, it’ll be gone.’

  46

  The press conference had been continuing without issue.

  ‘. . . in light of the aforementioned circumstances, I am able to report that a disciplinary committee was convened in the Prefectural HQ earlier today at which it was decided, after a thorough discussion, that the actions of Sergeant Yoshitake Kuriyama, aged fifty, were in clear violation of the propriety and behaviour that is expected of an officer of the law. As such, Sergeant Kuriyama has been placed under emergency arrest and has today been dismissed from the force . . .’

  Twenty-three reporters. Five TV cameras.

  Akama was sitting at the centre of the table put out for the conference, talking in a monotone. Not having had the time to put together a full statement, all he had to hand were a few quickly drafted notes. Shirota was at his side, every now and then passing along a sheet with more scribbled notes.

  Mikami was watching the reporters from the corner of the room. Apart from the two representing the Toyo, they all seemed to be in varying states of despondency. No one had shown displeasure when Mikami had walked into the room. The atmosphere had clearly changed from the previous week. Perhaps it was possible to turn the boycott around, if, as Suwa had suggested, they were able to capitalize on the other reporters’ resentment for the Toyo. And Mikami had been freed from his responsibilities. The format of the apology had been left to Shirota’s discretion. Mikami didn’t doubt that the lie of full disclosure would prevent the boycott from taking place, but he also suspected that the same might be achieved without breaking any promises – if he directed his apology at the melee surrounding the written protest.

  But his mind wasn’t focused on such preparations. Those kind of thoughts raced along on the surface of his consciousness but failed to breach the deeper layers of emotion.

  Come Thursday, it’ll be gone . . .

  Alarms were flashing red, deep in his mind. In the end, he’d let Akama take his seat without even hinting at the trap. Gone. The impact of that one word had been too much.

  Was Mikami reading too much into it? Akama hadn’t been in a normal state when he’d made the utterance. His pride had been injured, his standing in Tokyo placed under threat. It might have been a vengeful remark, an exaggeration of the trouble Criminal Investigations would no doubt have to face. It might have been nothing more than a battle cry. And yet the alarms continued to flash, growing brighter still. What could ‘gone’ mean, supposing it hadn’t been an exaggeration? It went beyond concepts like shock, loss and damage. What it seemed to suggest was an ‘end’, an ‘extinction’.

  ‘. . . we are treating this case with the utmost severity. To make sure nothing like this ever happens again, Captain Tsujiuchi has called on all nineteen district stations to reinforce their controls concerning the management of the detention facilities.’

  Akama gave Shirota a signal. They both stood; it was part of the ritual. The cameras flashed in waves.

  ‘We offer our most sincere apologies to the citizens of our prefecture and to the nation, to the victim of this heinous crime, and to everyone else affected. I believe I speak for everyone in the Prefectural Headquarters when I say that we intend to do all we can to recover the goodwill and trust lost due to our shortcomings in this case.’

  The two men came forward in a bow.

  Shutters clicked as countless flashes went off, bathing the front of the room with an otherworldly brightness. Akama raised his head after a few seconds, followed soon after by Shirota. They retook their seats.

  ‘We will take questions now.’

  Mikami’s eyes were trained on Akikawa. But it was Tejima, next to him, who was the first to raise his hand.

  ‘I seem to remember someone killing themselves in one of your detention cells, a couple of years ago. In light of today, wouldn’t you agree there might be a fundamental problem in the management of the prefecture’s detention facilities?’

  The question.

  Akikawa had followed through on his pact with Arakida, with Tejima as his mouthpiece.

  ‘When you say fundamental problem . . .?’ Shirota asked in response, holding a hand to his ear. Tejima floated a sly grin.

  ‘Oh, you know, that maybe you don’t see managing the facilities as important, so you don’t post any of your better officers to the job. That sort of thing.’

  Akama indicated that Shirota was to respond in person.

  ‘I can assure you this is not the case. We believe the management of the facilities to be of paramount importance. As such, we assign some of our best officers to work there. With respect to the case you bring up from two years ago, the conclusion was that the suicide had taken place in exceptional circumstances – the man having chosen to adopt a highly unorthodox method – and that nothing suggested negligence in the facilities or their management.’

  The answer.

  Mikami shifted his focus back to the two reporters from the Toyo. They showed no signs of having any further questions. Tejima was scribbling in his notepad while Akikawa was an image of composure, arms crossed in front of him.

  Mikami breathed out in silence.

  Akikawa had decided to keep the detail about the guard’s ‘catnap’ on hold. No – it was more likely that Arakida hadn’t told him about it yet. It wouldn’t benefit him to have given away anything more the previous night; if he was planning to use the story as leverage, it made sense to keep it secret for now. He might have won over a local police reporter, but that didn’t mean he would underestimate the reach of one o
f Tokyo’s major papers. If he leaked two stories – both hinting at the same thing – he couldn’t guarantee that the Toyo wouldn’t choose to ignore Akikawa and come down from Tokyo with the intention of exposing the conflict raging in the Prefectural HQ.

  ‘Are there any more questions?’ Shirota asked, hinting that he wanted to bring the conference to an end.

  No hands came up, and no one spoke. The whole thing had been for the Toyo’s benefit. The atmosphere was phlegmatic, the assembled faces bored.

  ‘This concludes the conference.’

  Akama and Shirota both stood; they bowed and made their way towards the exit. What they were thinking was clear from the way they walked, in their relaxed shoulders. We got through it. They wouldn’t realize it had all been a trap until later that night.

  Mikami walked out of the Press Room.

  Go and see the director.

  The press had to come first. He could go and see Arakida afterwards. He would request a meeting with them in his capacity as press director, rather than turning up because he’d been summoned. He wouldn’t be able to hold out, not without the armour his work provided.

  Criminal Investigations . . . gone. He hoped the meaning behind those words would be apparent on Arakida’s face.

  47

  Mikami called everyone to his desk, this time including Mikumo.

  He tasked them to find out what each of the twelve papers – excluding the Toyo – wanted, before the day was out. The current mood was hostile towards the Toyo. How many would cave in with regard to the boycott if he tried bringing the ‘press director’s apology’ to the table again?

  ‘See if you can get everyone on the fence to come down on our side. Make sure we have the majority, then set them up for a general meeting tomorrow.’ Mikami realized he was raising his voice. He caught Suwa’s eye and added, ‘It’s okay, Akama wants me to offer an apology.’

  Suwa seemed finally to breathe. He slapped himself on the sides of his cheeks to fire himself up, effectively starting again. He looked ready for business when he addressed Kuramae and Mikumo.

  ‘Right – let’s go put an end to this damn boycott.’

  They heard footsteps in the corridor.

  Suwa twisted sharply around and paced away from Mikami’s desk, in his element as he greeted the two reporters who had just entered. Yamashina from the Times and Yanase from the Jiji Press.

  ‘Suwa, how much do we owe you?’

  ‘Five thousand.’

  They’d come in to settle the bill for the previous night’s drinks. Yamashina caught Mikami’s eye as he fished out his wallet. He wanted to say thanks for the story on the bid-rigging charges.

  ‘You’ve got a pretty good voice, Yamashina,’ Mikumo flattered. She looked slightly flushed, perhaps from working up the courage to speak.

  ‘Me? Haha.’ Yamashina smiled shyly, pointing a gratified finger at himself. ‘No way, not as good as—’

  ‘Yanase, you got a moment?’ Suwa cut in. He gestured towards the couches, businesslike all of a sudden.

  Yanase cocked his head to one side while Yamashina’s smile faded, the latter clearly wondering why Suwa hadn’t extended the request to him, too. Yanase took a seat and gave Suwa a questioning look. Suwa sat so close Yanase had to shunt along the couch.

  ‘Let’s start where we left off last night. Everything will work out if we offer a proper apology. That’s what you think, yes?’

  He was keeping his voice and his expression low-key. Yanase, the de facto head of the moderate faction, put on a pained look.

  ‘Well, I suppose . . .’

  ‘Great. We’ll all be looking for new positions if the commissioner’s interview goes down the drain. If we’re unlucky, we might even get booted from the force.’

  Yamashina was peering at the couch, still on his feet. Suwa ignored him and focused on Yanase.

  ‘See if you can’t spread the idea among the others. We know everyone wants good coverage. That walking interview – it does make for a good shot.’

  ‘Well . . . yes, but it was decided at the GM. It’ll be difficult to overturn the decision to boycott that one.’

  ‘And GMs are great for changing decisions, too, right? Set one up for tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘It’s not as though the last one was normal. I imagine it was like a hornets’ nest after the tumult outside the captain’s office.’

  ‘True. But the vote was unanimous; that does carry a lot of sway.’

  ‘I hope you’re not planning to leave me and Kuramae destitute here. What about Mikumo? She’ll be sent back to work in the koban.’

  ‘Of course that’s not what I want. Don’t forget that management’s weighing in on some of us. And this all started with anonymous reporting – some of the papers have you blacklisted, at least until they get some tangible concessions from you.’

  ‘We’ve already told you we’re planning to improve on our services. And we’re going to apologize, too. We’re taking this seriously.’

  ‘Well, I can see that. But—’

  ‘Hey,’ Yamashina interjected from the side. ‘I could suggest it. That we hold another GM.’

  Suwa feigned annoyance.

  ‘Yamashina, I’m trying to have a talk with Yanase.’

  ‘I’m saying I’m happy to make the suggestion, Suwa. You want us to convene another meeting? No problem. Although I can’t guarantee what the outcome will be.’

  Suwa kept his eyes on Yanase and said nothing. There was a pause, then Yanase sighed and the issue was settled.

  ‘Fine. Yamashina, if you’re happy to make the suggestion, I’ll back you up.’

  Mikami felt again as if he were watching a master craftsman at work. With two papers supporting the motion, the GM would be sure to go ahead.

  The two reporters disappeared back into the corridor; Suwa began to discuss with the others their plan for approaching the remaining papers. The foundations were already in place for overturning the boycott. Mikami got up from his seat.

  ‘I’m just heading to the first floor.’

  It was the truth – there was something he wanted to discuss with Shirota. But he was the only one who seemed to care about what he was doing. The others nodded as though they were on autopilot, and Mikami felt suddenly alone.

  48

  Mikami spent less than five minutes in Administration, having succeeded in his mission to obtain Futawatari’s mobile number from Division Chief Shirota. You don’t know it? Isn’t he from your intake? That was the closest Shirota got to questioning him about his enquiry. He’d shot a glance at the inspector’s desk, then tilted his head and paged through his organizer. Mikami was reminded of Shirota’s approach to office politics: don’t ask too many questions.

  Mikami exited the corridor via the steel door leading to the emergency staircase. He pulled out his mobile and dialled the number he had just got. He wanted to get more on Koda before his meeting with Director Arakida. Had Futawatari managed to make contact? Did he know where Koda was now? The call went straight to voicemail. He was in a meeting with someone, perhaps. Or maybe it was his policy not to answer calls from unknown numbers. Mikami ended the call without leaving a message. It was, without exception, the caller who had the advantage. He would lose the initiative if he let Futawatari call back at his convenience.

  Fine. I’ll do this empty-handed.

  Mikami walked back into the corridor and started towards Arakida’s office. He still couldn’t claim to have fully merged into his title of press director. It was proving hard to maintain his cool. He decided to use the stairs and not the lift, climbing to the fourth floor on foot, but far from helping his composure he found himself increasingly conflicted. On the one hand, there was his acute mistrust of Arakida; on the other, the obligation he still felt to Criminal Investigations, tangled like original sin around his heart. Then there was his own muddied position. Come Thursday, it’ll be gone. Mikami’s thoughts spiralled as he paced along the fourth-flo
or corridor. It was growing dark outside, as thick clouds blotted out the sky beyond the windows – they were a mix of black and grey.

  Criminal Investigations, First Division.

  Mikami pushed hard on the door.

  He willed Matsuoka to be in, but he wasn’t at the desk that faced the door at the back of the room. Assistant Chief Mikura craned his neck up from the next desk along. He’d joined the force a couple of years after Mikami. The discomposure that spread across his face was clear to see even from a distance. I wouldn’t say he’s got the balls of a flea. But an ant’s? Sure. Mikami recalled the way someone had once described the man.

  He pointed a thumb at Arakida’s office.

  ‘He wanted to see me.’

  Mikura got to his feet without saying anything; he hurried to the door of the director’s office and knocked. He put on a show of listening for a response, cautiously opened the door, and popped his head through. When he emerged again he said, ‘Go on in,’ without making eye contact.

  The last time Mikami had entered the director’s office had been in the spring. That time, at least, he had been admitted as a detective.

  ‘Sir.’

  Mikami bowed from the waist, having stopped a fraction before meeting the carpeted floor.

  ‘Ah, Mikami. Good of you to drop in,’ Arakida said breezily.

  He took off his reading glasses and circled around, his imposing frame moving from his desk to one of the couches. His expression was no different to his usual one, but Mikami knew it was a thin veneer, that, like Urushibara, underneath, he would be alert and ready for battle.

  ‘Come on, then, no need to be formal. Take a seat.’

  Mikami complied. Arakida flipped open a glass-covered box of cigarettes and offered Mikami a smoke.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘What, you quit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me, how are things?’ he prodded. Mikami cocked his head in lieu of a response. ‘The first floor, I mean. In a bit of a fluster?’