Six Four
Page 12
Mikami could have approached Akama for his help. You couldn’t do much with one ten-thousand-yen note. And Ayumi couldn’t even approach a plastic surgeon’s office without signed parental consent. Yet the fact remained that it was one of the very few leads they had to pursue. And if fingerprints and dental records were means of identifying the dead, then perhaps Mikami should have requested that the focus of the search be shifted to businesses dealing in cosmetic surgery – if nothing else, as a way of searching for an Ayumi who still lived. But he hadn’t. Ayumi despised the face she’d inherited. It was the one thing he didn’t want anyone else to know. The family’s suffering would be too great if the knowledge got out. And he’d wanted to preserve his daughter’s dignity. He had pledged to himself that no word of Ayumi’s condition, or the things it had made her say, would ever leave the walls of their home.
But . . .
What did Minako think?
A tension like a faint electric current had grown between them. They were aware of each other, but their eyes were firmly shut. Ayumi’s absence had brought into relief the parts of their relationship that lacked solidity; at the same time, it formed an unbreakable bond that held them together. She had provided them with a single goal, compelled them to take care of each other, forced them into praying that their relationship would hold out.
Mikami wondered how long that would last.
Midnight. Mikami used the remote control to turn off the TV before he crawled out from under the kotatsu. He took the phone from its stand and switched off the room’s lights.
He walked down the dark corridor.
Yoshio Amamiya, old and wrinkled. Shoko Amamiya, innocent and sweet, a decorative band in her hair. It was just one of the cases he’d had to work on as a detective. It wasn’t until Ayumi ran away from home that he’d really known how the parents must feel, losing their only child like that.
Mikami tiptoed quietly into the bedroom. He put the phone next to his pillow and climbed on his futon. He found the electric foot warmer with his feet and pulled it up until it rested next to his calves.
He thought he heard Minako turn in her sleep.
He glanced across to her futon. Lying inside was a mystery he couldn’t solve. Whenever he thought of Ayumi, the way she hated her parents’ looks, he couldn’t help but recall the question everyone had no doubt asked themselves so long ago.
Why had Minako chosen him?
He was no longer sure about what he thought he’d come to understand. Listening to the ticking of the clock, he fumbled, as though he were squinting in darkness, to trace the genesis of their relationship.
15
Mikami had left the house prepared for a busy day.
The first thing he did on entering the office was check on Mikumo. She was all but allergic to alcohol. Her face became bloated if she’d been drinking the night before. He knew immediately that she hadn’t joined the others. This observation also meant he could anticipate the content of Suwa’s report as he approached Mikami’s desk.
‘We don’t stand a chance,’ Suwa said, his voice croaky.
From the sound of things, he’d spent a good portion of the night singing and having to raise his voice. Next to him, Kuramae looked to be suffering, too. His eyes were bloodshot, half hidden under puffy lids.
‘So it’s a lost cause?’
Suwa let out an exasperated, alcohol-tinged breath.
‘They’re still insisting on submitting it to the captain. They’re definitely not going to settle for leaving it with us. It seems his editor, Azusa, an old-fashioned reporter with a background in police reporting, is really pressuring Akikawa on this.’
The last part sounded more like intelligence than it did a simple report. Akikawa was getting caught in the middle.
Revealing the woman’s identity by thinking out loud. Mikami was leaning more and more towards the idea, but he had yet to hear from Ishii, who was supposed to be confirming Akama’s position on the matter.
‘Okay, we can forget about the Toyo. I want you two to split up – see if you can work on some of the others before the evening. Sound them out about leaving the protest with us; if they’re not receptive, make the suggestion that they leave it with Chief Ishii.’
As long as they remained in the dark as to Akama’s response, they needed to continue with their attempts to arbitrate peace. If a few of the papers relaxed their positions, that could be used as fodder to bring the Toyo around.
The Press Club was a fluid entity. Allegiances shifted in line with the complex interactions of its members, who reacted to each reporter’s strategies as well as to the overall balance of power.
When issues like the one they were facing arose, it became even harder to predict the outcome of this type of chemical reaction. The FM Kenmin, one of the Press Club’s associate members, was perhaps the only one whose stance they could predict. The station received its budget in full from the prefectural government; as such, it had no ability to speak out against anywhere deemed a public office. That left twelve of them. How many would Suwa be able to convert?
Mikami pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages.
Toyo. Branch D. Senior Editor. Azusa Mikio. University T. Forty-six. Cheerful. Brags. Well disposed to the police.
Mikami remembered the man’s dark face, his narrow forehead. The executive, round-table meeting held once a month between the media executives and the Prefectural HQ. Azusa had shown up once in lieu of his branch head, who had gone down with a cold.
It was worth trying him.
Mikami made a mental note as he reached for the phone. He dialled the number for Ishii’s desk. The situation was too pressing to sit back and wait for him to get in touch. The deadline for their official response to the Press Club was four o’clock. He also needed to fix matters with Yoshio Amamiya urgently.
Aiko Toda answered the phone. She told him Ishii was in Akama’s office. Mikami asked her to get Ishii to call when he was back, then hung up. Restless, he got to his feet and paced over to the whiteboard near the wall. He ran his eyes over the press reports. Three road accidents between the previous night and the morning. A fire in someone’s kitchen. The arrest of a man who had tried to skip out on paying his food bill. All things considered, a quiet night for the prefecture. His phone started to ring just as he turned around. He hurried over and took the receiver in his hand.
‘Mikami, could you go and see Akama in his office?’
Ishii hung up without offering an explanation. His voice had sounded heavy. Akama’s office, not Ishii’s desk. Perhaps it meant Akama wanted to give his response in person.
Three minutes later, Mikami knocked on Akama’s door. The director was in there by himself. He moved from his desk to one of the couches without offering Mikami a seat.
‘You seem to be particularly bad at managing the press, Mikami. Why did you leave this until it got out of hand?’
He started harshly. A written protest was going to be submitted to the station captain. Mikami understood his urge to get angry, knowing Akama had been told only at the last minute. Even so . . .
‘I refused their request to give them the woman’s identity, as per your request; unfortunately, this only strengthened their resolve, even more than we could have expected. We are doing our best to remedy the situation, but negotiations are proving difficult. They have a lot of aggravation left to blow off.’ He had given his answer standing. Akama still hadn’t offered him a seat. It wasn’t that it had slipped his mind. He was doling out a reprimand.
‘I’m not interested in excuses. They’re a waste of my time.’
Mikami felt himself bristle. You think I have the time to stand here and listen to your sarcasm?
‘They did say they would be willing to withdraw their protest, if we were to give them the woman’s identity.’
‘I heard from Ishii, you know. About your little expediency, that nonsense about “thinking out loud”.’
Expediency?
‘Rejected,’ Akama said coldly. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Under no circumstances are we to release her name to the public.’
There was something odd about his tone. It brought to mind a con artist Mikami had investigated some years earlier. The con artist had refused to divulge information regarding a number of his crimes despite clearly wanting to brag, considering it below him to confess to a rookie detective.
Mikami decided he would need to dig a little.
‘I understand it was your decision, to withhold her identity.’
‘That’s right. Sakaniwa phoned to discuss the matter from District Y. I made the call.’
‘Could I ask you to reconsider? The press aren’t going to relent unless something changes. In light of the fact that the commissioner’s visit is so close, could I ask you this one time . . . as an emergency measure—’
‘You’re pushing it now, Mikami. It’s time you stopped clinging to that ridiculous idea and came up with a new strategy.’
His tone had been less cutting than the words themselves. Akama was still caught in the con man’s dilemma. Something else was going on. Mikami’s unease was only aggravated by the fact that Sakaniwa, a man very much in Akama’s favour, was involved.
‘Sir, is there something else that is stopping us from revealing her identity, something other than the fact she’s pregnant?’
‘Of course there is,’ Akama answered with surprising openness. It felt as though he’d been waiting for Mikami to ask. ‘The issue of anonymity is on the agenda.’
The agenda?
‘I assume you are aware that central government is currently in talks on two bills, one on privacy, the other on the protection of individual rights?’
‘I am.’
The subject was one that often emerged from the mouths of the press. The legislation was unforgivable, no different to laying open restrictions on the press. They wouldn’t stand for it.
‘The bills are being subjected to intense criticism from the press, but this is simply their own actions turning full circle – they must reap what they have sown. Whenever there’s a big case they swarm in and create more damage for the casualties, all the time underplaying any cases that would reflect badly on their institution. What is it but impudence when such people attempt to lay blame on us and dress themselves up as watchdogs of the peace?’
Akama paused to rub some balm over his lips.
‘The two bills will eventually be passed. That is when we’ll tackle the question of anonymous reporting. We plan to lobby the government and establish a review committee to discuss official policy on crime victims. We will incorporate a paragraph that gives us the final decision over whether or not to release their identity to the public. While this will initially limit us to crime victims, once the Cabinet decision has been made and we are given the green light, we will be able to stretch the interpretation to fit our needs. We will be in the driving seat from the beginning to the end. We will seize control of every aspect of our press reporting.’
Mikami finally understood . . . why it was that Akama had so relentlessly pushed for such a hard-line approach.
The issue of anonymity had become one of the NPA’s projects. Or, perhaps, one of Akama’s. From the hints of pride evident in the way he’d talked about ‘Cabinet decisions’ and ‘review committees’, it was possible this was something Akama was hoping to push through once he’d returned to Tokyo.
Mikami had already guessed that Akama was unlikely to reverse his decision, but he couldn’t help a growing sense of disgruntlement. He knew his idea of ‘thinking out loud’ didn’t run counter to Tokyo’s goals. It was standard in the force to treat unofficial or covert actions as though they had never happened.
‘If I have your understanding, you may go.’
‘Is that the only reason?’ Mikami asked, not thinking.
This seemed to throw Akama a little. But only a moment later a spark of curiosity registered under his glasses. ‘What are you getting at, Mikami?’
‘Is that all – the only reason you have for withholding her identity?’ Mikami asked, having switched completely to the role of detective. The con man’s dilemma was still there. He could see it. Akama was still hiding something.
‘Since you asked . . . perhaps I’ll let you into it.’ Akama broke into a smile. ‘The truth is, the woman in question is the daughter of Takuzo Kato.’
Mikami felt his whole frame tense.
Takuzo Kato. Acting chairman of King Cement, and now in his second year as a member of the Prefecture D Public Safety Committee.
‘He pushed the decision through?’ The words came out like gunfire.
‘No, this is just us trying to help,’ Akama answered, his expression equable.
In the regions, being a member of the Public Safety Committee was decoration and nothing more. It was an honorary role where the only obligation was to meet once a month with the station captain to hold a casual discussion over some food; it had no particular authority over Administrative Affairs. But the organizational chart painted a different picture. The Prefectural HQ was officially subject to the guidance of the three members forming the committee. Was that why they were helping? No – they would issue an anonymous report as an ostensible act of goodwill, while creating an obligation in the mind of one of the prefecture’s most powerful financial authorities, effectively branding him ‘pro-police’ until the day of his death.
‘His daughter really is pregnant. Sakaniwa had initially asked me to suppress the entire report, but, well, the accident was a serious one, and I knew it would be a real pain if the man’s family began to kick up a fuss, so I decided to opt for making the report anonymous. Now, I hope I have your understanding on this matter.’
Mikami didn’t know how to respond. His initial shock had dissipated, leaving him smouldering with anger and distrust. Hanako Kikunishi, the daughter of a member of the safety committee. He was press director, why hadn’t he been told?
‘I told you before, Mikami.’ Akama looked astonished. ‘Your work involves negotiating directly with the press. If you knew the truth, what guarantee would I have had that you wouldn’t give something away with a stray look, or something in the way you acted? It’s surely easier to be assertive if you don’t know anything?’
Mikami felt as if he’d tumbled into a gaping hole, and it took a moment for his emotions to respond. Be assertive . . . if you don’t know anything . . . The fact of the matter was that he had been assertive with the press. He’d been aggressive, even, and all because Akama had kept him out of the loop.
I don’t understand why you’re so worked up. You know the trend in reporting is increasingly heading towards anonymity.
That’s how scary it is. To face having your name in the papers.
Maybe she’s the daughter of someone important. He had actually shouted Yamashina down after the man’s snide accusation.
He’d been made to act the fool.
Mikami dropped his head to the floor. He felt his face and body flush as a burning shame, furnace-like in its force, began to well up inside him. He’d put on a serious face and made a stand against the reporters, but he’d been ignorant. He could argue that the words hadn’t been his own. That he’d simply been carrying out his duty. Yet, he also knew he hadn’t stood there simply as a mouthpiece relaying Akama’s directions. Was it truly acceptable to give the press full responsibility over dealing with a pregnant woman? Mikami had seen the sense in the position the Prefectural HQ had taken. It was why he’d spoken out, why he’d thought hard about how to put an end to the endless struggle.
But . . .
The HQ’s position had been a sham. An utter sham.
Mikami pressed his eyes shut. Akama was right. He had told Mikami before. You can hardly say anything if you don’t know anything. Right? He was a fool
for having forgotten. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Hadn’t Akama always, from the very beginning, sought to treat him as a puppet?
‘Anyway, that’s by the by. Do you have an update on the arrangements for visiting Amamiya’s house?’
Mikami didn’t reply. He had reopened his eyes but was still unable to meet the other man’s gaze.
‘Is something the matter? Speak up.’
Mikami maintained a resolute silence.
Akama’s upper body jerked forwards from the couch. His hands came together in a sharp clap, like a sumo wrestler gearing up to attack.
‘Look. At. Me.’
Mikami’s eyes grew large. His panic reflex kicked in, but the signal was weak. Ayumi’s features wavered like a mirage, buckling under the force of his indignation.
Akama slowly looked him up and down, measuring his reaction. His lips came together in a tapered smile. ‘It wouldn’t do for you to misunderstand, so let me make one thing clear. It would be unwise for you to assume, if you were to be dismissed from your position as press director, that you would ever be returned to Criminal Investigations.’
The image of a resignation letter flashed into Mikami’s mind. In that instant he felt himself lose control of his emotions. That’s it. I’m done for. This is the last time. Why the hell should I have to lick the boots of this sadist masquerading as an officer? The image of Ayumi disappeared.
Another jumped into its place.
This time it was Minako, her eyes despairing and dark, entreating. Mikami’s head seemed to lurch violently. He saw the dance of snowflakes. A white cloth, the ashen face of a district captain, the pallid, lifeless features of a young girl . . . the images tore across his retina in quick succession. Minako’s hopes were pinned on each of his 260,000 colleagues. She was counting on their eyes and ears.