Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Mikami focused again on the paper.

  What he needed now was words, not force. Something genuine. Something that could reach out to a man’s heart.

  I don’t have them.

  If he’d had even a fraction of that type of ability, Ayumi would never have grown so distant. Words were weapons; the razor-sharp tools of psychological warfare instruments that could lacerate a man’s heart. Mikami had never changed, even outside work. He wondered if he had ever made a genuine attempt to say something with the aim of actually connecting to another person.

  ‘Would you like a fresh coffee?’

  Startled, Mikami looked up. He turned around to see a waitress, probably a student, standing with her head cocked to one side. There was something about the gesture and her smile that looked a little off for this kind of place – she was probably new.

  ‘That would be great, thanks.’

  Mikami prodded the cold rice with his spoon. The waitress had looked a bit peeved to see the untouched plate. There was a phrase Mikami recalled whenever he couldn’t drum up an appetite. It was something one of his father’s old wartime buddies had muttered during one of his visits, a long time ago. Every time I had a meal, it was like a fresh start. Mikami started eating, realizing only then that he’d forgotten lunch. Right. He decided to blame that for his sudden dizziness at Hiyoshi’s house. He ate about half of the rice then put down the spoon, leaving space for dinner when he got home.

  He lit a cigarette. It wasn’t the fresh start he’d hoped for, but his agitation had subsided somewhat. He breathed out smoke. His objective side was staring at the truth. He wouldn’t be able to reach Hiyoshi. He had to forget about him, go after Urushibara and Kakinuma instead, keep an eye out for any news of Koda’s whereabouts. The white sheet glared at him from the side of the counter where he’d pushed it, but he knew he was out of time. If there was even a slight chance he would succeed, then maybe, but he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of clinging to a task he considered impossible. He couldn’t call that work.

  He stowed the paper and pen in his bag and reached for the bill.

  ‘Would you like a refill?’

  The textbook question chimed in his ears.

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’ Mikami said this without looking around; he heard a faint laugh. He froze, thinking for a moment she’d laughed at his appearance. He looked around. The waitress from earlier came into view next to him.

  ‘No problem. Just let me know if you change your mind, okay?’

  This time, her tone was chatty. Mikami turned his head and looked her in the face. She wasn’t what he would call pretty. She had narrow eyes and a nose that pointed up at the end.

  ‘Oh, sorry, was that annoying? I was just happy. You know, that’s the first time anyone here’s ever said thanks for something.’

  She gave another soft giggle. Mikami was still unable to respond. His eyes followed her even as she walked away. A strange idea had taken hold of him. The girl had been some kind of omen. He could think of no other explanation for what had just happened.

  Mikami stayed in his seat for the next hour.

  He sat facing the sheet of paper. The pen stayed on the counter. He spent periods of time with his eyes closed. His brain felt useless, like something borrowed. Drowsiness enfolded him. A single image flickered at the back of his retina: Hiyoshi, wandering through a vast, twilight forest. Now and then he caught glimpses of Ayumi threading her way between the trees. She was lost in there. They both were. Although . . . maybe he was the one who was lost.

  The letter of persuasion ended up being a short message.

  I want to know where you are. I’ll come by if it’s somewhere I can visit.

  Mikami had wasted too much time indulging himself. He added the numbers for his mobile and home phones, grabbed the bill and hurried across to the register.

  His eyes tracked around to find the waitress. Perhaps she’d gone through to the back or maybe finished her shift. She was nowhere to be seen.

  29

  The 7 o’clock news came on the radio.

  The lights seemed stuck on red. A powerful glow emanated from the window of a building, apparently a crammer school. Waves of people started to emerge. Navy duffel coats. Tartan scarves. Pink, woolly gloves. A couple of high-school girls cycled by, one then another, both dressed in winter garb no different to what Ayumi would wear.

  She said it felt like Ayumi was saying goodbye.

  Mikami was on his way home. He had delivered his message to Hiyoshi’s mother; by then, he had started telling himself he could get the rest of his work done using the phone at home.

  Minako had set out boiled fish with some pickles. That was quick. Yeah, faster than I’d expected. Let me heat something up for you.

  She sounded energetic, and spoke more than usual. She seemed to be making a visible effort. Mikami didn’t really have much of an appetite. The fried rice wasn’t the only thing lying undigested in his gut. But he still found himself enthusiastically commenting on how good the food smelled. Seeing Minako in good spirits was like seeing the sun through a cloudy sky. He learned the reason soon afterwards.

  ‘Mizuki said you paid her a visit?’ She introduced the subject not long after he’d started eating.

  ‘You called her?’

  ‘She called me, just this evening.’

  Mikami came close to cursing out loud. Bloody gossip. ‘I just popped over, had something I wanted to ask her about.’

  ‘She said you looked overwrought.’

  Mikami laughed. ‘She’s always over-reacting. I’m still getting used to it in Media Relations, that’s all.’

  ‘You think it would have been better if you’d stayed a detective?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. This is less of a strain, physically.’

  ‘Psychologically, though . . .’

  ‘Exactly, that part’s difficult. Still, it’ll never be fun and games, not so long as I stay in the force.’ Mikami continued to smile as he said this, but Minako sighed a little.

  ‘But they’ve got you dealing with Shoko’s kidnapping, even though you’re in Admin.’

  ‘Mizuki told you that?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling. You told me. You said someone important was visiting from Tokyo, that was why you had to go to Amamiya’s house.’

  Mikami flicked at his chopsticks. He’d been talking for talking’s sake for so long it was easy to forget the things he’d said.

  ‘It isn’t going well?’

  ‘It’s definitely not going to plan. It’s proving difficult to get Amamiya’s permission for the commissioner’s visit.’

  ‘The visitor is . . . the commissioner?’ Minako stared in blank amazement, causing Mikami to panic a little.

  ‘Only on a whim. It’s like sightseeing for him.’

  ‘But, why wouldn’t . . .?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Amamiya, why wouldn’t he give his permission?’

  ‘Probably because we haven’t found the kidnapper. That’s enough to turn anyone against us.’

  ‘And you have to bring him around?’

  Minako’s expression had hardened. The commissioner general of the National Police Agency. Having been an officer herself, she understood the weight of the title.

  ‘I’m going to try to talk him round, that’s all. If I can’t, then I can’t. The commissioner can still go to the site of the kidnapping, it’s no big deal.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘Mizuki said it, you know.’ She spoke as if she were confessing something.

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘That she could tell you were exhausted. But that I was the only one who could tell if things were really bad or not.’

  ‘Nosy cow . . . thinks she knows it all.’

  Mikami used the coarse language to hide his annoyance. He thought he understood Mizuki’s intentions, though. Minako had been in a dark place, focused on one single thing, so Miz
uki had grabbed her by the shoulder and tried to shake her up. She had no doubt decided it would help Minako to worry about her husband. It was unpleasant to feel that someone was poking through their marriage, but Mikami also recognized gratitude; it came naturally as he watched Minako that night, her eyes staying focused, not drifting to the floor.

  It was the main reason for his decision to broach the subject.

  ‘I only found this out today. Seems they had a call at Mizuki’s, too.’

  ‘What kind of call?’

  ‘You know, a silent call.’

  Minako’s cheeks twitched a little. ‘They did . . .?’

  ‘Yeah. Around the same time we had ours.’

  Mikami tried to speak evenly, but his monotone seemed only to exacerbate the tension in the room.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Right.’

  Minako fell quiet. It was hard to read her reaction. Had she dismissed it as something unrelated? Or had she started to worry about some kind of possible connection? Depending on her reaction, Mikami had been ready to tell her about the two calls that had come in to Mikumo’s family home, but now it seemed too cruel.

  ‘The calls we had were Ayumi. It has to be: she called three times.’

  Unable to stop himself, Mikami tried comforting her. He immediately cursed himself for doing so. Couldn’t he just leave it at that? What was the point in having tried to talk if he let the conversation slip back to square one?

  ‘Still . . .’

  You never know, it could have just been someone fooling around.

  The words reached the tip of his tongue. But he couldn’t bring himself to say them out loud. It became impossible the moment he imagined Minako’s reaction, the look on her face. Besides, he found them hard to accept himself. Some other people had received silent calls. That was all there was to it. There was nothing to ponder over. It was nothing more than speculation to question whether the calls had been from Ayumi or from some prankster. If so, they needed to believe in the better scenario. They would start to lose clarity the moment they stopped believing.

  Even so . . .

  In order to stop Minako’s imagination from getting the better of her, he still needed to address Ayumi’s silence during the calls. He had to think up a reason that wasn’t ‘saying goodbye’. A silent farewell. He needed a story of some kind, something to help Minako realize her fear was imagined.

  ‘She must have been afraid I’d shout at her. You know, the way she hung up without saying what she’d wanted to.’

  The words came out sounding forced. Minako gave him a hard look. She was no doubt considering the reason for Ayumi’s silence, as well as why Mikami had decided to bring the subject up.

  ‘Although she got half of what she wanted. She’d wanted to hear our voices. Yours, then mine. I think that was why she called.’

  ‘Maybe in your case,’ Minako said plaintively.

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘I answered the first two calls, but she called a third time. It was your voice she wanted to hear.’

  ‘Nonsense. I bet she was happy she got to hear you twice.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong.’ Her mouth had started to tremble. ‘She didn’t care about hearing my voice, nor did she have anything to say. I mean, if she had—’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Mikami raised his voice, then hurried to continue. ‘Look . . . don’t. It’ll be no use if we let ourselves lose hope. Right?’

  Minako dipped her head. For a moment it looked as though she would stay there, looking at the floor.

  ‘It was Ayumi – she made the calls. I doubt it, too, sometimes, but it’s okay to feel like that. She’s out there, and she’s fine. And if she’s fine, if she’s doing well, the truth is that the calls don’t really matter at all.’ He tried his best to sound confident.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Minako looked up. She was trying to smile.

  ‘It’ll be fine.’

  The moment he’d said this to reassure her, the phone started to ring. Minako seemed to float in the air, halfway up. If it had been work, the internal line would have rung in the corridor.

  ‘Don’t get up. I’ll answer it,’ Mikami said softly.

  He leaned over the low stand and peered into the display. It was a local number, but one he didn’t recognize. He picked up the receiver, not rushing, so as to conceal his anxiousness from Minako. Putting it to his ear, he heard a familiar voice greet him.

  ‘Hello. Is that Mikami?’

  It was Division Chief Ishii. Mikami fought an urge to yell at the man. Why the hell hadn’t he used Mikami’s work number?

  ‘What is it?’ Mikami said, discarding formality.

  ‘Ah, I was just wondering how it was going. With Amamiya.’

  ‘I was just working on it.’

  ‘What, at home?’

  The snide tone went beyond sarcastic. After having prostrated himself before Akama the previous day, Ishii had jumped down Mikami’s throat before leaving. Don’t think I’m going to go down with you, Mikami.

  ‘Hang on a moment.’

  He whispered to Minako that it was Ishii, then carried the phone out to the corridor. It took all the effort he could muster. What would be going through Minako’s head? Had his words managed to comfort her even a little?

  The bedroom was ice-cold.

  ‘Sorry about that. I’ve come across something I think I can use as leverage in bringing Amamiya around. I’m going to go and see him again, probably tomorrow.’

  ‘Meaning you haven’t managed it yet.’

  Isn’t that what I just said?

  ‘This is far from acceptable, Mikami.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Mikami flicked on the room’s electric heater. He decided it better to wait a while before going back into the living room, and settled himself down. Either way, he’d been planning to put in a call to Urushibara’s home before the night was out. He was impatient to end Ishii’s call, but it seemed he hadn’t called only to taunt.

  ‘The round-table meeting, on Monday. You’re planning to make an apology for the trouble surrounding this anonymity issue, yes?’

  ‘I was told to go through what happened, not to offer an apology.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’ There was an uncharacteristic brashness in the way Ishii said this. ‘Anyway, I’m getting ready to call around, make the necessary invitations, but I can’t help thinking an apology might not do the trick by itself . . . that we probably need to sweeten the pot a little. However this goes, it’s absolutely necessary that we convince the press to withdraw their intention of boycotting the commissioner’s visit.’

  ‘Okay. What do you mean when you say “sweeten the pot”?’

  ‘In a nutshell, some additions to the services you provide in Media Relations. Sending the press information on breaking cases, even if it comes in late at night or on a holiday. Emailing reporters individually, if they opt in. That sort of thing.’

  Mikami snorted loudly. He’d known that a few of the headquarters in other prefectures had rolled out an emergency-bulletin service, but only in cases where Media Relations was well staffed; such a system went far beyond the resources of an office of four.

  Besides . . .

  ‘And this is your idea?’

  Akama would never submit a proposal like this. To offer these kinds of extra services was no different to offering the Press Club an apology.

  ‘Shirota’s, actually.’

  ‘Shirota, from Administration?’

  The name came as quite a surprise. Shirota was officially ranked highest among the division chiefs in Administrative Affairs, but his authority did not extend to matters involving the Secretariat.

  ‘He’s going to be at the meeting, and he’s expressed his concerns. He’s aware of the trouble we’re having with this.’

  ‘Still, I doubt the press would back off, even if we were to offer such blatant concessions.’

  ‘Maybe not
the reporters, granted, but the executives aren’t as worked up as the front line. This kind of bargaining works. It plays up to their egos.’

  ‘How about scheduling the meeting for an earlier date? Wouldn’t that be enough to let them know we’re treating the issue seriously?’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? If we bring the meeting forwards that will only raise their expectations. They’ll want an apology – at the very least, some kind of compromise. Basically, we’re going to give them a gift to take home, in place of those things.’

  Mikami had to stop himself from sighing.

  ‘What you’re suggesting is too much. The reporters will only get lazy, more than they are now, if we start sending them individual emails. They won’t need to phone us for stories, let alone drag their sorry asses into the station.’

  ‘Perhaps, but what do we care if they get lazy?’

  ‘I would need more staff, if you expect us to cover holiday and night shifts. There is no way I can do it with the resources I have now.’

  Mikami had hoped this would end the conversation, but it only prompted more taunting from Ishii.

  ‘Now that doesn’t sound like something a hardened detective would say. I thought you guys liked to fight to the bitter end, even when you know something is impossible?’

  Like you have a fucking clue.

  ‘Do you have Akama’s approval on this?’ Ishii went silent on the other end of the line. He hadn’t mentioned anything to his boss. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. He wouldn’t tolerate such a weak stance,’ Mikami said, using Akama to deliver the final blow. It felt underhand, like mentioning family in the interrogation room.

  Still . . .

  ‘It’ll be fine. That’s the reason I’m going to call around the papers first. I’ll tell them about the new services on the phone, and you can remain ambiguous about it during the meeting. Just say something like, “We will continue to improve on the work we do.” Akama should forgive that much. If by some chance he does flare up, just tell him it was an empty promise.’