Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  It was probably ironic. Only Kuramae, out of all of them the least interested in PR, had managed to distinguish between the inside and the out. The relationship was the same as that between Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs, Media Relations and the Press Room. They were all separate entities but, viewed from above, it became clear they inhabited the same well. Suwa, of course, but also Mikami, and even Mikumo – they had all looked deeper into the well to find their answers, forgotten to gaze up at the sky. It hadn’t been the press. The real links to the outside had been Meikawa and Amamiya. They’d let themselves become blind to something as obvious as that.

  What would the reporters think? Would they realize they were accomplices, occupants of the same well? Both sides had left an elderly man’s corpse exposed to the elements. Would they be able to accept the truth? They’d become obsessed with finding the driver’s identity and, as a result, let the article fall by the wayside; they’d overlooked the death of a pensioner, someone whose name they could have learned with one call to the hospital or town hall. If they feel even a little remorse, we can all move forwards. The only way they could open a window to the outside was to work together.

  Suwa came over.

  ‘Nobody’s gone to lodge a complaint upstairs.’

  Right.

  ‘And they’ve just started their meeting.’

  Good. It worked, then.

  Mikami realized he had his eyes closed. No surprise. I didn’t sleep at all last night. His exhaustion was pushing his thoughts towards sleep.

  Papa, not yet!

  You can’t open your eyes yet.

  Not yet. Not yet, not yet, not yet.

  Papa, you cheated!

  I told you it was too early to open your eyes!

  Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes.

  How about now?

  ‘Sir.’ He saw Suwa’s face in close-up. ‘It’s the press. They’re here.’

  When he sat up, a pink blanket slid off his shoulders. A group had assembled before his desk. A crowd, his mind interpreted. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d been asleep for thirty, maybe forty minutes. He looked at the reporters properly this time. Akikawa, Utsuki, Ushiyama, Sudou, Yanase, Horoiwa, Yamashina, Kadoike, Namie . . . The chief reporters were there from each of the thirteen member agencies of the Press Club. He slapped his cheeks and pulled his chair back so he could see the whole group. Akikawa silently held out a sheet of paper. Mikami took it, also saying nothing.

  Questions: Commissioner General Walking Interview. Prefecture D Police Headquarters, Press Club.

  They’d called off the boycott.

  Mikami sensed Suwa, to his side, breathe a huge sigh of relief. The sheet of paper contained a list of five questions. Mikami scanned through them. Each was generic, concerning things like the commissioner’s impressions during his visit, the planned course of the Six Four investigation; there were no hints of malice or hostility.

  ‘We don’t need a new press director. That’s our consensus,’ Yamashina said. The man’s usual goofiness was gone; his bearing revealed instead a determination that took Mikami by surprise.

  When he looked around he saw the others all wore similarly earnest looks. Even Akikawa seemed to have lost his usual sneering sarcasm; he resembled nothing more than a young man passionate about his job. Mikami thought he felt a breeze on his cheek. He turned to check the windows, but they were closed.

  ‘Oh, and this, too.’

  Akikawa placed a two-page document on Mikami’s desk. Kuramae’s report on Ryoji Meikawa. Mikami had stuck it to the whiteboard in the Press Room on his way out, together with a copy of his other announcements.

  ‘Let’s just say we didn’t see this. This bit should be our job, after all.’

  Right. Mikami gave him a deep nod, maintaining eye contact. He’d meant it as a handshake. Akikawa didn’t return the gesture, but a subtle motion of his eye told Mikami he hadn’t brushed it off either. He turned around. The other reporters bowed at Mikami, then followed Akikawa out. Mikami made sure to look directly at each of them. No victors. No losers. How long had it been since the last time he’d seen them leave like this?

  No sooner had the door closed behind them than Suwa punched his fists into the air, calling out in silent triumph. Mikumo clapped her hands silently, standing up and smiling through tears. Kuramae arched forwards, breathing a sigh of relief before impressively missing a high five Suwa threw his way.

  Mikami rolled his chair backwards and picked the blanket up from the floor. He held it out. Here. Mikumo hurried over. As he handed it to her, he said, ‘You should be proud. This only happened because we chose not to go with strategizing.’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  Mikami craned to look past her emotional face; he called out to Kuramae.

  ‘You know, you ought to teach the press a thing or two about good research.’

  Mikami caught Suwa’s gaze as he laughed. He didn’t let the moment pass.

  ‘Suwa, thanks.’

  He spun his chair around to face the windows. Suwa could interpret it as an attempt to hide awkwardness; that was fine. He dropped his eyes to the sheet on his knees.

  Generic questions.

  With just over a year until the statute of limitations kicks in, what do you intend to do to make sure the case is solved?

  The preparations were in place for the execution.

  The problem of Dallas was solved. How would Criminal Investigations respond? How many people would get dragged into their final struggle?

  He’d been true to his duty as press director but had had to make significant sacrifices in order to get this done. It was possible he’d lose more as events unfolded. But his mind felt clear. The feeling of unease and regret was easing off. A clarity that felt like salvation spread through his mind.

  Lots of laughter came from behind.

  There was one thing he knew for sure. That it was here, in Media Relations and not in Criminal Investigations, that he’d finally secured himself a loyal following.

  58

  Mikami left the Prefectural HQ just before 5 p.m.

  Minako had called him at the office, sounding distraught. They’d had another silent call. Unlike before, this time the display had given them the caller’s number. The area code was City D.

  Mikami’s gut feeling told him it wasn’t Ayumi. Less instinct, perhaps, more like habit, an application of the brakes to avoid false hope. He was afraid of what might happen if they both hoped it was true but it fell apart. His body gave more open signals. He could feel his hands sweating against the steering wheel. His foot grew heavier on the accelerator, and he raced through more than one set of amber lights.

  Minako was pale, waiting outside the house. The front door was open, so she could hear the phone if it rang.

  ‘She’s close, I can tell,’ Minako said with unblinking eyes.

  ‘Let’s go inside.’

  Mikami grabbed the handset in the hallway and carried it into the living room, pulling the cord from behind. Too impatient to take off his coat, he crossed his legs on the tatami and started to dig through the phone menu.

  A number came up on the display. The area code was undoubtedly one from the city. The number had ten digits. Mikami frowned at a sudden sense of déjà vu. Something told him he’d seen it recently. Amamiya’s home number crossed his mind as a possibility, but he didn’t want to disillusion Minako with only a vague memory.

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘The same as before. They ended the call without saying a word.’

  ‘Did you give your name when you picked up?’

  ‘No. I just picked up . . . I didn’t say anything at first.’

  Meaning it wasn’t a wrong number. Lots of people would hang up without apologizing, but they’d would at least say hello if whoever picked up was silent.

  ‘How long were you on the phone for?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Not long. I said hello a few times, then the line went dead
.’

  ‘Did you notice any particular sounds in the background?’

  ‘Noises? I don’t think so. I couldn’t hear anything.’

  ‘Okay, so maybe inside someone’s house.’

  Caller display services were advertised everywhere; its application was probably widely used and understood. If the call had been a prank, or something malicious in nature, he would have expected the caller to have withheld their number.

  Perhaps it was Amamiya after all. Estranged from society, it was possible he didn’t know about the new service. He might have called to discuss the commissioner’s visit but become flustered and hung up when he heard a female voice.

  The same reasoning held for Ayumi, too. She would never imagine them buying a phone with the new function. Had she wanted to talk to him and not Minako? No. It was the same trick as before – she was making the silent calls as a test.

  Mikami picked up the phone.

  ‘I think it’s best to try calling back.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Minako appeared not to have considered this option.

  ‘We can make a call to this number. That way, we’ll find out who made the call.’

  Mikami felt his cheeks draw tighter even as he spoke. Minako’s expression hardened. As though coming back to herself, she gave him a resolute look.

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘Could I get a glass of water?’ Mikami asked, loosening his tie. Having managed to get Minako into the kitchen, he slipped out his notebook and deftly flipped through the pages. Different. The number didn’t match Amamiya’s. Was it true, then? Could Ayumi be here in the city?

  Minako came jogging back in. Mikami’s thirst had been genuine. He gulped down the cup of water, picked up the handset, and pressed redial.

  He wondered if it might be one of Ayumi’s friends. The phone kept ringing. Minako shuffled her knees and face closer. Somebody picked up. A second later, a female voice sounded in Mikami’s ear.

  ‘This is the Hiyoshi household.’

  Mikami was dumbstruck. The technician from Forensics. The recluse. It was Koichiro Hiyoshi’s home number.

  ‘Hello? Who is this, please?’

  ‘This is Mikami, from the police headquarters. I came to visit a few days ago.’

  He assumed she’d made the call. He wondered if something had happened to Hiyoshi that had prompted her to get in touch.

  But . . .

  ‘What do you want?’

  The jaundiced reply was unexpected. ‘We had a missed call; I’m just calling back.’

  ‘Sorry? I don’t understand.’

  It’s work, Mikami whispered to Minako, holding his palm around the mouthpiece. ‘We had a call, about half an hour ago. Our phone lets us know . . .’

  She started to panic when he explained about the caller-display function.

  ‘But . . . I was out, doing some shopping.’

  Hiyoshi had called in his mother’s absence. That was what had happened. Mikami had given his mother two short messages to pass on, one three days ago, another the day after that. I put them under his door. He nodded now, remembering her words. Hiyoshi had read them. And he’d called the number Mikami had noted on the bottom.

  ‘Is your son still in his room?’

  ‘I . . . I think so.’

  ‘Could you put him on the phone?’

  ‘On the . . .? Oh . . .’

  She stumbled to a halt, perhaps hesitant to make waves. Even nightmares became mundane after fourteen years.

  Still . . .

  ‘We should consider this an opportunity. Your son made the call.’ Mikami couldn’t stop the words. ‘Has he done that before? Has he ever tried to call someone before?’

  ‘No, not once. Although, I can’t say for sure . . . when I’ve been out.’

  ‘Is the phone cordless?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, it is.’

  ‘Good. Could you tell him I’m on the phone and leave it outside his door? I’ll see if I can’t talk to him.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Her voice shot up a pitch. ‘Please. If you could. That would be wonderful.’

  Mikami heard a pattering of slippers. She was rushing. Going upstairs. She stopped, started calling out to her son. Her voice was soothing, mixed with fear. There was a scuffing noise, then the sound of slippers moving away.

  The silence that followed was painful. It was easy to picture the phone, lying there on the floor. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Mikami waited, resolute, his entire being focused on listening, intent on not missing even the slightest sound.

  Minako’s head popped unexpectedly into view. What is it? He held up a hand to stop her from whispering. The hand tensed and he waved her away.

  He thought he’d heard something. A door, opening. That’s what it had sounded like. White noise came down the line. Someone had picked up the phone. Mikami had the handset pressed so hard over his ear the sound felt like a physical force.

  The door closing again . . . A creaking sound, a bed or a chair . . .

  Confident Hiyoshi had the phone in his room, Mikami opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Hiyoshi?’

  No answer. Mikami waited a moment. He couldn’t even make out the man’s breathing.

  ‘This is Mikami. I’m press director at the Prefectural HQ. You called my number a short while ago.’

  No response.

  ‘It’s okay. Phones these days have—’

  Mikami broke off, having realized something. Hiyoshi had been working with new technology during his time at NTT. He would have been fully versed in computer technology, long before he became a recluse. He would have a computer of his own. Which meant it was safe to assume he would know about the growth of the caller-display function. He’d known about it and let his number show on purpose.

  The call had been an SOS.

  ‘Did you read my notes?’

  No answer.

  For Hiyoshi, time had come to a standstill. It had stopped back at Amamiya’s, the moment Urushibara had whispered into his ear.

  If the worst comes to the worst, it’s your fault.

  ‘Everything I wrote is the truth. None of it was your fault.’ He heard an intake of breath. ‘Hiyoshi . . .’

  Silence.

  ‘Hiyoshi. I know you can hear me.’

  Again.

  Mikami’s sense of his presence seemed to slip away. But . . . he was still on the line. Still listening. Holding his breath, waiting for the continuation. I have to say something. Mikami needed something that would resonate. Something that would find its way to a heart forced to bear responsibility for the death of a young girl, a heart that had been shut away for fourteen years.

  He closed his eyes and drew a quiet breath.

  ‘It was a terrible case . . .’ Mikami had started. ‘For the girl, and her parents, of course. But also for her friends, for the school, for the area she lived in. For us, too.’

  Nothing.

  ‘And for you, Hiyoshi. It must have been terrible, miserable. You ended up having to join us in Amamiya’s house, even though you’d never expected to work in the field. The recorder didn’t work, even though it had during your testing. And you couldn’t have had anyone more repugnant in charge of your unit. The case was cursed with bad luck. Everything that could go wrong did. And the girl ended up losing her life. I understand your pain. I understand the need to blame yourself. But Shoko died because the kidnapper murdered her. It wasn’t because of you.’

  Still no response.

  ‘Okay, so there was an error with the recording. A costly one. But there’s something you need to know – that wasn’t the only mistake made during the investigation. They were everywhere; the whole case was littered with them. I’m not just saying that. There isn’t much we do that isn’t a mistake of some kind, during an investigation. That time the mistakes just happened to come together in a single result – our failure to save the girl. The kidnapper’s still at large, even now. Every officer in the prefecture has to shoulder that burden. To
say it’s any one person’s responsibility is ludicrous. It’s good that you feel accountable. It’s proof you’re a decent, caring human being. But it’s wrong to assume blame on everyone’s behalf. No one can endure that. It’s self-indulgent. The blame needs to be shared. All the pain and suffering, it needs to be apportioned equally between every single officer who took part in the investigation. Do you understand?’

  He felt like he was in an airless vacuum. He’d never contemplated the existence of a silence so perfect. Hiyoshi’s hand was probably clamped over the mouthpiece, hard enough to make it numb. He was listening; every part of him concentrated in his ears.

  ‘I don’t know if you remember, but I was there, too. I met Amamiya, and his wife. I followed his car when he left to deliver the ransom. I was there, watching, when he threw the suitcase from the bridge into the river. It still hurts me physically, every time I think about it. I get attacks of remorse, of shame, each time I pass by any of the businesses the kidnapper listed – it all comes back to me. It passes, sure. It’s not there all the time, like it is with you. It’s not constant, but it’s stayed with me. I haven’t forgotten. I couldn’t forget. Nor do I ever want to forget. We all carry a part of it – me, Koda, Kakinuma. We’re not allowed to ease each other’s pain. Shoko and her parents wouldn’t forgive it. That’s why we quietly split the blame. We will carry it to our graves, without ever mentioning it or making excuses. You could spend the rest of your life dwelling on it, and it wouldn’t be enough. The only way we have of keeping Shoko alive is to keep her in our minds. That’s why we have to share the burden.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re listening. I think you are.’

  It began to feel like he was shouting into a void. Into a deep forest. Into an ocean the sun couldn’t reach. I want to know where you are. I’ll come by if it’s somewhere I can visit. The words in his first letter.

  ‘Why the silence? You called because you wanted to reach out.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘It’s okay to talk. I’ll listen, whatever it is.’