Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  ‘You have proof it’s a hoax. Is that why you can’t tell me?’

  Matsuoka didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t answer.

  Mikami’s pulse was rising.

  ‘Tokyo taking control of Criminal Investigations. I feel the shame, too. But if what you’re doing here is taking advantage of some hoax – whatever the circumstances behind it – this investigation is nothing more than a sham – it’s heresy.’

  ‘There’s a phrase: “It takes a heretic to catch a heretic.”’

  Mikami was sure he’d misheard. He couldn’t believe someone like Matsuoka had just said that.

  Matsuoka chuckled. ‘Don’t look so grim. There’s the possibility the kidnapping’s a hoax. But we don’t have evidence to back it up. I’ve got people doing their best to find out, as we speak.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case—’

  ‘Don’t push it.’ Matsuoka’s eyes glinted sharply. ‘I’m leaving the rest to you. Mobilize that pride you told me about, show me your office can handle the press.’

  Mikami pulled back. Unable to meet the man’s commanding gaze, his eyes fell to Matsuoka’s torso. I’m leaving the rest to you. The words had struck him hard. It felt like someone pulling him out of a dream. Of course. Matsuoka had given him all he needed. Mikami had obtained what he’d come for. A name – Masato Mesaki. And an address. The rest – the names of the wife and daughter – they could find out for themselves. He didn’t think Matsuoka had given the order, but the words had made the decision for him.

  He checked his watch. Ten minutes past eight. Get a move on. Right now, the most important task was to speed back to the Prefectural HQ. Mikami looked Matsuoka square in the face. He kicked his heels together and bowed.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Before you go, I also have a request.’

  He hadn’t expected that. A request?

  ‘I’d like to borrow Minako for the day, tomorrow.’

  His surprise became astonishment.

  ‘I don’t have enough female officers. I need someone with normal-looking hair, in style and length.’

  For the Undercover Unit, for tomorrow . . .

  Mikami struggled to come up with an answer. It was true that Minako didn’t look like an officer, or even that she’d ever been in the force. And she already had experience working undercover. She’d been in the Aoi Café when Amamiya had come charging in. Mikami wanted to say yes. He wanted to help the investigation. But it wasn’t his decision. Minako couldn’t do it, not in her current state. It would be cruel to ask her to help.

  Mikami was searching for a way to turn him down when Matsuoka spoke.

  ‘She’s stopped leaving the house, right?’

  It felt like a hand had grabbed his heart. Of course. Matsuoka’s wife would have told him. And she would have found out on the phone, from Mizuki Murakushi.

  ‘It’ll help her to get some fresh air. I understand her need to wait by the phone . . . but I have the feeling she’ll come around if it means she can help someone.’

  Mikami felt his head slump. The words were touching. He saw a vivid picture of Minako in his mind. Helping someone. Someone other than Ayumi.

  ‘It’s up to you both. Tomorrow at 7 a.m. Officer Nanao will be in the assembly hall in HQ.’

  Mikami bit down on his lip. Nor am I clinging on to my past as a detective. He had no way of retracting his earlier statement and had no intention of doing so. But he felt the ache nevertheless.

  To work for this man, just one more time . . .

  66

  The tornado had moved on.

  But it had left Media Relations scarred. The desks and couches had been pushed against the walls. Chairs were overturned. The floor was littered with paper.

  Suwa was alone in the office. He looked transformed. His eyes were abnormally red, his eyebrows arched; even his close-cropped hair seemed to bristle with anger. Yet these were only surface details. He had the look of someone unbreakable, someone whose true potential had been shaken out of a deep sleep. He looked victorious, not worn.

  ‘Great work, sir.’ His voice was ragged, like a politician’s after a hard-fought election.

  ‘I think that’s my line.’

  ‘Mesaki’s name, it did the job. Turned everything around.’

  Mikami had called in from the parking area in Station G. That had been fifty minutes ago.

  ‘What about the forecast for the coverage agreement?’

  ‘They’re on a conference call discussing it. It’ll probably take a while yet, but we should have it signed before the day’s out.’

  ‘Really?’ Mikami asked, genuinely surprised. ‘They’ll sign with just Mesaki’s name?’

  ‘Oh, they know the girl’s name. They did the research themselves, all of them.’

  Right, of course.

  ‘Here are the names.’

  Suwa held out a sheet of paper, saying he’d asked Administration to do the research in Station G.

  Mutsuko Mesaki (42)

  Kasumi Mesaki (17)

  Saki Mesaki (11)

  Ka . . . su . . . mi. Mikami read out the girl’s name. The sound seemed similar to that of Ayumi. Masato. Mutsuko. Kasumi. Saki. Lined up together, the names were unmistakably those of a family. Mikami felt a new emotion come into play. How wonderful – if it did turn out to be only a hoax. Her parents would be anxious to know their daughter was safe and well.

  He shook his head.

  ‘How are Kuramae and Mikumo? Is the conference room ready?’

  ‘Yes – Kuramae managed to get everything together. He’s there now. We have ten people helping. Five from the Secretariat, five from Administration. Mikumo is in the underground car park, helping organize the cars from Tokyo. She’s got a few people from Welfare and Officer Development.’

  Right . . . they’d need help to get everything done. Nanao would be in the assembly hall. Matsuoka had already told him that. Which meant Criminal Investigations must have called her in from Administration, to take charge of the female officers. The practical demands of the case were helping to bring down the wall between the two departments. After a delayed start, the Prefectural HQ had begun real preparations for the investigation into the kidnapping.

  ‘Have you seen Futawatari?’

  ‘The inspector? No.’

  ‘What about the conference room?’

  ‘Kuramae would have probably mentioned it, if he was there.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘Do you want me to look for him?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’ Mikami changed the subject. ‘The conference room, is it filling up already?’

  ‘We’ve had more than a hundred reporters arrive from Tokyo. There’ll be more, too.’

  ‘What about our lot?’

  ‘Our lot?’

  Suwa broke into a smile and chuckled. Unable to keep it down, he let this become a loud, open-mouthed laugh. It looked to Mikami as though he’d let go of a huge burden. He suddenly remembered his father’s wartime buddy, his exaggerated laugh.

  Huh. Guess I forgot how to laugh.

  Mikami gave Suwa a pained grin. ‘Yeah, maybe “our lot” was a bit of a stretch.’

  ‘Sorry, it was just . . .’ Suwa muttered. He rubbed his hands down his face. ‘The ground troops left for the conference room. The more senior reporters are out at the assembly hall. It’s locked, so they can’t get in. It shouldn’t be long before they give up and join the others.’

  ‘What about the timetable for our announcements?’

  Suwa looked down at his desk. He leafed through a pile of hand-written memos. ‘Okay. When the agreement’s in place, once every two hours. We can add paper bulletins in between when necessary. We’re also supposed to hold emergency announcements if there’s a call from the kidnapper, or some other major development. That’s true for the duration of the provisional agreement, too.’

  ‘We can’t chair a conference every two hours.’

  ‘It’s onl
y for the time being. This is the first day of the case . . . we probably can’t avoid it.’

  ‘Is this what the Press Club is asking for?’

  ‘That’s right. They’re asking for every last detail of the case and investigation, as we’re keeping the girl’s name anonymous.’

  ‘Two hours won’t be enough. If we gave them every detail we’d be in there until the morning. Do they expect us to keep the lead investigator there the whole time, under house arrest?’ ‘Ah, yes . . . there was that, too.’ Suwa’s expression clouded over. ‘Second Division’s Chief Ochiai has been appointed to make the announcements. That’s according to Criminal Investigations.’

  ‘They’re fucking kidding,’ Mikami blurted out.

  During a kidnapping, tradition dictated that press announcements were to be made by the director of Criminal Investigations or the chief of First Division. The chief of Second Division was both lower in rank and from an unrelated office: what were they hoping to achieve in standing him before the press? And Ochiai was a young bureaucrat, with no experience of active field duty. He wouldn’t stand a chance fielding questions on a kidnapping.

  Was that the plan? Were they going to usher him in with only a half-empty sheet of paper? The move was straight out of Akama’s playbook. If you don’t know anything, you can’t say anything.

  ‘It won’t work.’

  The reporters would run riot, hundreds of them. Knowing this, Arakida had still decided to offer up Ochiai. There was something he needed to keep from the press. Something he was afraid would slip out if he was pressed. That was why he’d opted to use a puppet.

  But was that true?

  Mikami no longer thought the kidnapping was a sham. And the idea that Criminal Investigations was taking advantage of a hoax had also been disproved, now that Matsuoka had told him they didn’t have evidence either way. Mikami couldn’t see anything that would break under investigation – no chinks in their armour.

  His mind still felt clouded. There was something he couldn’t pin down, the vague sense that something was out of place . . . It was why he was still asking questions.

  But it was just nitpicking without any evidence, without something tangible. Mikami was forced to accept that, apart from their treatment of the press, Criminal Investigations was doing a good job of managing the investigation so far. They were aware the case could be a hoax, perpetrated by Kasumi Mesaki herself, but showed no signs of being negligent, of cutting corners. They’d sent First Division Chief Matsuoka to shore up the front line at Station G; they’d gathered detectives specializing in violent crime and had begun preparations to station undercover officers, all the while remembering to cooperate as necessary with the other divisions. The ransom was going to be delivered tomorrow. The case and the investigation would undergo significant developments. Yet Mikami felt no rush of anticipation. Something has to be wrong. He felt unbalanced, as though he’d sat on a chair with only three legs.

  He couldn’t call it his detective’s intuition, not any more. And there was no sense of it being anything new, any insight he’d derived from his experience in Media Relations. Yet the idea persisted. That something was going on in the background.

  ‘Like I said . . .’ Suwa was on the phone. From the sound of things, talking to one of the smaller tabloids. ‘. . . the conference is only open to members of the Press Club.’ He was having to repeat himself.

  Word of the kidnapping was already out.

  Mikami took out his mobile and called Kuramae, who answered immediately.

  ‘Sir, that was great work,’ he said, sounding surprisingly upbeat.

  ‘Thanks – you, too. What’s the headcount up to?’

  ‘I’d say . . . over two hundred.’

  ‘Have you had any trouble?’

  ‘There were some fights over seating, but nothing major.’

  ‘I need you to make an announcement. Tell them there’s been a leak; get them to double up on security. We need tight checks on anyone coming and going. And make sure no one does anything stupid like order food in.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll let them know.’

  Mikami checked the clock on the wall. Already gone half past nine.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be coming over soon.’

  Mikami hung up. He was about to call Mikumo when Suwa got off the phone. He looked as though he’d overheard Mikami’s conversation.

  ‘Sir, you just reminded me, when you mentioned food. You should eat before you head across.’

  On a shelf in the refreshments area was a plate of what looked like fried rice, wrapped in cling film. The surface was clouded with condensation, making it difficult to discern the contents. Suwa said that Mikumo had ordered them all food. Mikami realized he needn’t worry, if she’d remembered that in the middle of everything else. She would be on top of everything that needed to be done.

  By the underground passage, the west wing of the government office was five minutes on foot. Two if he ran. Mikami started on the food, deciding to eat half. It was cold and soggy, but it filled his stomach.

  ‘Are you going to check in with the first floor?’

  ‘I’ll leave that until later.’

  ‘They took quite a beating. The press had Akama in a corner at one point.’

  ‘Did they say anything about the commissioner?’

  ‘No, not yet. But, realistically, it’s not going ahead, not with all this.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The timing really is crazy,’ Suwa said, reaching towards his desk. The phone was ringing again.

  The timing . . . crazy. The comment had doubtless been offhand. He wouldn’t have meant anything by it. But it had been enough for Mikami’s spoon to pause in mid-air. A kidnapping mimicking Six Four, one day before the commissioner’s inspection into the fourteen-year-old case. That had to be the source of the cloudiness he felt.

  ‘Sir . . .’ Suwa’s hand was over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Chief Ishii. The commissioner’s office just called. The commissioner’s visit has been cancelled.’

  67

  Mikami thought back to Futawatari as he climbed the stairs.

  It would mark his first failure since coming to the Prefectural HQ. He’d lost because of a kidnapping that was beyond his control. No . . . he’d lost even earlier. His threats concerning the Koda memo had come to nothing. He’d acted boldly and out of character, but he’d only managed to provoke Criminal Investigations unnecessarily; without any tangible results, he’d been forced to stage a quiet retreat. It looked that way at least. Whatever the truth, Mikami knew he no longer had to worry about those eyes. He could concentrate on his job without fearing he was going to be cut down from behind.

  Administration was half dark. The fluorescent ceiling lights were off, leaving the curtains, couches and carpet pale orange in the glow of the wall lamps.

  ‘Because we’re not here, officially,’ Ishii said, before anything else.

  The reporters had left him frayed. Partly it was the lighting, but each wrinkle on his face seemed to convey the shadow of exhaustion. Akama was . . . lying on one of the couches, shoes still on. Hands and legs sprawled, eyes were empty. He showed no interest in Mikami. Mikami felt the same.

  ‘Definitely not postponed?’ Mikami directed the question at Ishii.

  ‘They just said it was called off. We can assume cancelled, although they didn’t say it outright.’

  Was he unhappy? Relieved? His voice seemed to contain both emotions. Mikami realized he’d sounded the same when he’d told him about the kidnapping. But, that means the commissioner can’t—

  ‘Is the coverage agreement going to be okay?’

  ‘Yes, just about.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s something. They gave us a real beating, you know. What can we do? Doesn’t matter how much they shout at us to give them the girl’s name. I told them to go to Criminal Investigations, but . . . they were so confrontational . . . wouldn’t stop yelling.’

  ‘I’ll tell the press the visit’s cance
lled, then.’

  He was already on his feet. Mikami bowed silently at Akama still lying on the couch, then started for the exit.

  He heard a voice from behind.

  ‘Is this Criminal Investigations’ work?’

  Mikami turned back around. Akama was still staring at the ceiling, his eyes glazed over.

  Mikami felt a chill run through him.

  ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s the work of a monster.’

  68

  Inside was Tokyo.

  It was 10 p.m. Mikami entered the conference room on the fifth floor of the regional government’s west wing. The first thing he noticed was the difference in temperature compared to the corridor. The room was the largest they had, but it was cramped and airless. Countless rows of desks and chairs. Lines of TV cameras. He almost tripped on a cord running across the floor. It was impossible to navigate the walkway without hitting a shoulder or an elbow or bumping into a bag. The room buzzed with conversation, the voices overlapping to form an oppressive low-level drone.

  He caught sight of Kuramae. He had on an armband that said Media Relations, and was standing at the stage towards the back. It took a few minutes to reach him. A long desk had been set up for the announcements; towards the centre was a huge jumble of TV and radio microphones.

  ‘Tomorrow’s been cancelled.’

  Kuramae’s eyes lost focus; no doubt, he’d forgotten all about the commissioner. ‘Ah, the visit. Cancelled?’

  ‘Yes. Can you tell our lot? Use your phone if you can’t get to them in person.’

  ‘Our lot . . .?’

  ‘Our reporters.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. No problem.’

  He jumped down from the stage and disappeared into the crowd, apparently able to guess their whereabouts.