Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  The room broke into a murmur. Goatee and Slick were frowning.

  Akikawa was showing signs of distress. Just give me a proper answer. His expression was pleading.

  ‘Have you had anything from the kidnapper? Another call, for example?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were the first two calls made?’

  Again, Ochiai’s eyes fell to his papers. Mikami felt a shudder. From inside the prefecture. If Ochiai gave an answer like that, the reporters would riot again. His only chance was to keep saying ‘Nothing reported’. Mikami held up a no-go sign. Ochiai was still flicking through the pages. Look at me. Look at me.

  Akikawa’s breathing was heavy in the mic. ‘All we have on this is “Prefecture D”. Where in the prefecture? You must have finished checking with DoCoMo . . .’

  The question could become the olive branch they’d needed. It could become the final blow.

  Ochiai looked up. He had the terrified look of a man cornered.

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’

  Then bring us someone who does! The shout became a signal for the room to bare its teeth. Countless jeers came together, blasting hot air towards the stage. Ochiai’s honest appearance was no longer of any use. He looked afraid. That’s enough, surely. Give it up! Some of the shouts were aimed at Akikawa. Goatee turned to him with a look of disgust. What have you been teaching them?

  ‘One more question!’

  Akikawa refused to give up the microphone. His neck and ears were bright red; he looked despairing.

  ‘Chief Ochiai, is the kidnapping a hoax?’

  For the second time, he repeated himself three times. This time, the shouts didn’t die away. He’s wasting our time! Call yourself a representative? Why don’t you go and fetch the director!?

  ‘Chief Ochiai, it’s imperative that you answer this. Does the Investigative HQ really suspect the kidnapping is a hoax? Yes or no?’

  ‘I don’t know at this—’

  ‘That is not satisfactory. You’re here representing them – answer the question. Is this a hoax perpetrated by Kasumi Mesaki?’

  The question came out as an inhuman wail. The tumult dropped to a minimum. All ears were trained on Ochiai, awaiting his response.

  Ochiai’s gaze was hovering in mid-air. The microphone picked up a murmuring.

  ‘Kasumi . . . Mesaki . . .?’

  Akikawa froze. His eyes stretched open, incredulous.

  Mikami looked up at the ceiling. Unbelievable. Ochiai hadn’t even recognized the name. ‘C’ was the only name he’d been given.

  They’re in violation of the agreement! The noise level shot to maximum in under a second. Everyone was on their feet. Only one man stood out – Akikawa. His shoulders were slumped, as though under heavy rain. The microphone was limp at his side.

  70

  They had escaped to the Prefectural HQ.

  The next announcement is scheduled for 01:00. With that, they had taken flight. Suwa had manned the front while Mikami and Kuramae had supported Ochiai, one on each side of him as they’d guided him through the room. One of Kuramae’s jacket pockets had been torn; Suwa had lost an armband. Ochiai had disappeared back into the Investigative HQ, smoothing down his dishevelled hair. Mikami had been refused entrance, the number of guards on the door bumped up to six. Getting Matsuoka was out of the question: he was out on the front line. That left Arakida; getting him to make the announcements was their only hope of salvaging the situation. But he refused to break his golden rule of holding the fort; they couldn’t even get a meeting, notwithstanding Mikami’s attempts to threaten Mikura, and the local reporters’ endeavours to use the sheer force of their number to get through the guards.

  Ochiai ended up holding the one o’clock announcement. He was only able to do this because the Investigative HQ had given him a little more information on the girl’s family.

  Masato Mesaki had 7 million yen in savings. He’d inherited land – thirty square metres in size – and taken out a twenty-year loan to build the house they lived in. He leased out the ground floor of a building in the city, where he ran a store specializing in sports equipment. Until ten years ago, he’d been a salesman for a car dealership that sold luxury imported cars.

  Mutsuko Mesaki was the elder sister in a relatively well-off agricultural family; she had no work history. Her family was going to help them with part of the ransom money.

  Kasumi Mesaki’s school attendance amounted to thirteen days only in the first term of the year, and none at all in the second term. She’d left the house on the night of the 9th, a little after 8 o’clock. She’d been wearing a leopard-skin coat, and hadn’t been seen since.

  Things held for the opening ten minutes. But once Ochiai had finished reading out the notes, he returned to being an empty vessel. He failed to give an answer to even a single question properly. Making it worse was his stubborn refusal to use names, still referring to the members of the family as A, B and C.

  Disorder became convention. The yelling to and fro became incessant. Goatee and Slick from the Toyo were gradually asserting their control over the room. They were intent on dragging Arakida into the conference room, but he was proving surprisingly resilient. Having realized this, they had decided to work on Ochiai, hammering away and making him their courier pigeon. One would ask a question. Ochiai would fumble for an answer. Each time, they forced him to go back to the Investigative HQ to get the answer. Get a move on! Run! He would be sent out under a hailstorm of shouts. From there he would take the lift to the ground floor and stumble his way down the pitch-black underground passageway before climbing the staircase to reach the Investigative HQ. Once there, he would be given a non-committal answer, then have to run back to the conference room. How does that answer the question? Get back over there. He would step back into the lift. Mikami accompanied him on each trip. Having beseeched Mikura to consider Ochiai’s position, demanding he get Arakida to take the stage, he finally grabbed him by the collar and rammed his head into one of the walls, losing his only avenue of negotiation.

  Three o’clock. As Mikami had feared, the conference had become endless. Ochiai’s two-way trips had become standard drill.

  Let us have all your questions, then we can try to get all of your answers together. Mikami had tried to appeal to Goatee, but the man had refused to listen. Their strategy was to drag Arakida out from the shadows. The whole point was to parade Ochiai’s suffering before the Investigative HQ, over and over again. And he was thoroughly worn out. His eyes were vacant, legs weak; in the lift, he would occasionally sink to the floor. Mikami couldn’t understand Arakida’s game plan. All he knew was that the man’s hatred of career officers had let him turn Ochiai into a joke. Was he making an example of him? Mikami had begun to suspect even that. And yet . . .

  The one o’clock announcement was still in session even after half past four. Hard-liners would pipe up across the room each time Ochiai left, lobbying to declare the agreement null and void. The suggestion had only failed to take hold because many of the reporters remained wary of the potential consequences. What would happen if a group their size all scrambled, unrestrained, to cover the story? A kidnapping was a kidnapping; that didn’t change, however the police treated them, and there was nothing to prove it was a hoax dreamt up by the girl. That set off warning lights. If they started to move around blindly, without the police there to guide them, and if that were to lead to the girl losing her life . . . It was a trump card they could use in applying pressure, but it would be difficult to actually break the agreement. Which meant it was maybe better not to shout about it, not to reveal a chink in their armour. It was a dilemma. They were caught in a deadlock which was feeding their anger and volatility; they were unable to retreat, yet unable to advance.

  Five o’clock became just another waypoint. Ochiai was reaching his limit. His utter exhaustion had left him sluggish and, it seemed, increasingly confused. Even the hot towel and energy drinks Mikumo had prepared were failing to help. Suwa and Kur
amae were now taking turns helping him back and forth between the Investigative HQ. Most of the time Ochiai would return with next to nothing, cueing another bombardment. Goatee and Slick were merciless as they sent their carrier pigeon on one errand after another. We’re almost there. They’ll break soon enough. Mikami had started to overhear comments like these. He hadn’t seen Akikawa for a long time. He’d be able to help. Mikami genuinely believed that.

  Suwa was becoming increasingly withdrawn, the cause more than simple fatigue. He had been overwhelmed by the scale, by the sheer number of reporters from Tokyo. He’d lost the ability to stand up to them. The shock had been devastating to his confidence, and to his ability to function as a press officer. Kuramae looked numb. He’d retreated back inside his shell, slipped back into his role as a pedestrian desk worker. Mikumo’s focus was too narrow. Desperately concerned about Ochiai’s wellbeing, she’d lost sight of anything else they needed to do. Each time Ochiai was made to visit the Investigative HQ, she marked a cross on her palm. We can’t let this go on. He’ll die if this doesn’t stop . . .

  Twenty to six. Having watched Ochiai and Suwa leave, Mikami left for the toilet. It was still pitch black outside. He felt a sudden and debilitating tiredness, stemming from his sense of impotence. His thoughts travelled to Minako. To Yoshio Amamiya. To Ayumi . . .

  Have I done a single thing right . . .?

  He felt his neck tense the moment he reached the corridor. A group was standing next to the half-lit doors of the lift, as though in ambush. Ten. Twenty figures.

  The realization hit him as he walked closer.

  Ushiyama, Utsuki, Sudou, Kamata, Horoiwa, Yanase, Kasai, Yamashina, Tejima, Kadoike, Takagi, Kakei, Kiso, Hayashiba, Tomino, Namie . . .

  They were all looking in his direction. Akikawa was there, too, muted, leaning against a wall to one side.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  Ushiyama was the first to mount an attack, making no attempt to keep his frustration at bay. Can’t you stop this? Just do something. The others pitched in after him.

  Mikami’s only response was to sigh. He cut a path through them and kept walking. The disappointment spread through him. Right. Joining in with the rest of them, huh?

  ‘It’s too much, it really is,’ Yamashina hissed.

  Tejima’s hands were balled into fists.

  ‘We can’t take it . . . them treating you like this. It’s unacceptable.’

  The words had come from Madoka Takagi. Mikami was bowled over. Her eyes were glistening. Of course. They weren’t tourists. They weren’t complaining about having been relegated into a supporting role. Mikami knew the sentiment well. Your first posting was special. It was the first time you stood on your own feet, after leaving home. It was where you learned your trade; you got to know the streets, the businesses. You survived, you ate, you slept, you suffered. You took your first steps into the real world. It was when you discovered who you really were. It was more home than home itself. Now it was being trampled on. It saddened them. It made them mad.

  Mikami started to walk again, saying nothing. He had no words that could measure up to what they – his reporters – wanted to hear. But he was moved. If nothing else, he wanted Akikawa to know that. The man’s eyes were on the floor. He looked dog-tired. He’d made up his mind and taken hold of the microphone, but it was suicide. He’d tried his best on the largest stage there was. He was their representative; he’d have felt pride, responsibility. Mikami didn’t doubt that some part of it had also been to offer support.

  Without stopping, Mikami tapped his hand on Akikawa’s shoulder.

  You did well. Now it’s my turn . . .

  71

  The change came suddenly.

  Ochiai got a second wind. It was 6.30 a.m. Returning to the conference room, he looked visibly different to when he’d left for the Investigative HQ. Some degrees brighter. He was still shaky on his feet as he climbed to the stage, but he made it without Suwa’s assistance. When he sat, he held himself straight and surveyed the room. They’d given him something of use. Maybe more. There was nothing in his expression to suggest the girl was dead. She’d shown up, alive and well. The kidnapper had been arrested. Either would allow for the immediate termination of the coverage agreement. They could leave this abnormal space behind, the blackout curtains.

  Mikami was standing to the side of the cameramen. He looked at his team. Suwa nodded in recognition. Kuramae and Mikumo both stepped closer. They seemed restless. They both wanted it to be over. Hope showed on their faces.

  The people in the room, having also noticed Ochiai’s transformation, had started to chatter. The atmosphere became one of tense anticipation, the reporters leaning forwards into their desks so as not to miss a word.

  Lights indicated that the TV cameras were recording. The rest of the cameramen jostled, to the sound of shutters clicking. Goatee picked up the microphone. His expression didn’t match that of the other reporters. He didn’t look angry, but it was clear he wasn’t happy to see Ochiai’s sudden recovery.

  ‘Shall we start with your homework? How many calls has the kidnapper made to the family? When? How long for? Were there any discernible sounds in the background?’

  ‘I don’t have that information yet.’

  Ochiai was still smiling when he answered. Goatee’s expression changed.

  ‘Has something happened? Do you have the girl in custody? Have you arrested the kidnapper?’

  Everyone held their breath.

  ‘Oh, no. We haven’t got that either yet.’

  ‘Well, then, what is it?’ Goatee said, losing patience.

  Ochiai’s smile remained unshaken.

  ‘I have new information regarding the calls, something you’ve asked a number of times already. I can tell you where they were made. Both calls – the first and the second – originated inside Genbu City.’

  The information was important, it went without saying. But the delivery was wrong. Ochiai had raised their hopes, set expectations, and, because of that, the reveal had come across as trifling. The room seemed for a moment to gasp for air.

  What can we say to such an idiot?

  Goatee thought he knew.

  ‘Where in Genbu?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I believe you’re able to narrow the signal to a three-kilometre radius. You still don’t get it, do you? We need specifics, details.’

  Ochiai managed only a croak.

  ‘Back to the beginning!’ Slick shouted from his place next to Goatee, sounding like a teacher ordering a child. With that, the room ignited, the shouts of ridicule all the louder because of the reporters’ disappointment.

  What are you, an errand boy? Try learning a thing or two. Waste of fucking space.

  Ochiai was staring into thin air. He was expressionless. He looked dead, every muscle in his face having gone limp. He’d no doubt gone crying to Arakida. Begged him for something that would gratify the press. He’d finally managed to extract the origin of the calls. On the way back, he’d imagined the press thanking him for his good work.

  Then . . .

  ‘Well? Don’t drag your feet. Get going! This time bring us something worthy of a press conference.’

  Ochiai remained seated. His motionless figure began to tip forwards . . . his forehead thumped into the desk. Still slumped, his elbows spread out until he was flat on the desk.

  Forgive me. It looked like an apology.

  ‘Call an ambulance!’

  The shout had come from Mikumo. Goatee yelled back at twice the volume.

  ‘It’s not going to be that easy. Don’t think this’ll help you get away.’

  Mikumo held up the markings on her palm. ‘Twenty-nine. That’s the number of round-trips he’s had to make. He’s been here for seven and a half hours; he hasn’t slept.’

  Goatee hardly spared her a glance. His eyes continued to drill into the man on the stage.

  ‘Neither have we! Seven and a half hours straight. We’ve come
all the way from Tokyo and not had a wink. We’re packed in here like sardines; I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve all got DVT. Twenty-nine round trips? Great. At least the bastard got some exercise.’

  Slick gave him a nudge from the side.

  ‘Let them take him to the hospital, then the director or the chief will have to come out.’

  ‘Yeah, and what if they send more dregs, like this one?’ Goatee said, looking back at Ochiai.

  ‘If you want to go to bed, go and talk to the director. Get on your hands and knees and beg him to take your place.’

  On the stage, Suwa and Kuramae were running over to where Ochiai sat. Mikumo was trailing behind with a kettle and a towel. They pulled his limp form upright. He’d snapped. Expended every last reserve of energy. A line of spit dribbled from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Pull yourself together. You’re already at the bottom of the ladder. Won’t be much hope for you if you collapse under something like this.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Mikami said. The word seemed to come from deep inside.

  Goatee turned around. His expression said he hadn’t heard properly.

  ‘You’ve done enough!’ This time Mikami raised his voice. ‘You’re a lynch mob, nothing more. We’re finished here.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Goatee was clambering towards him; he stretched out his arm and held his microphone in front of Mikami. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’

  ‘I’m not bringing anyone else in, knowing they’re going to be hung out to dry. As of now, all announcements are suspended.’

  Hands hit desks in their hundreds; everyone in the room got to their feet. The floor started to rumble. The air erupted in a storm of shouts. Mikami’s team were staring open-eyed from the stage. Even Ochiai’s half-open eyes were swimming in his direction. Goatee had the microphone in the air, waving it from side to side. Leave this to me.

  The background roar finally subsided. Even then, there was a quiet muttering. The reporters were waiting to see what Mikami said next, still ready to launch into battle.