‘Do you think we can keep it to our floor?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Akama won’t authorize the apology. If word of it reaches the first floor, he’ll stop us from going ahead.’
He’d lobbed the ball into Suwa’s court. Can you do it?
Suwa seemed to get the message. ‘We should be able to contain it. Yes, not a problem.’
‘Good. Let me give it some consideration.’ Mikami sighed, then took a deep breath. ‘Is Mikumo still there with you?’
‘Ah . . .’
‘She’s not something to put on display. I told you we’re not resorting to those kind of tactics. Tell her to go home, right now.’
‘But she only came out because she wanted—’
‘I won’t say it again – send her home, now.’ Mikami raised his voice and Suwa went quiet. His disapproval was palpable across the line. ‘Look, if you’ve got something to say, just say it.’
Suwa put on a patient tone. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take responsibility for her. She’s just here to lighten the mood a little. I’m not going to let anyone take her home.’
Mikami saw red. ‘Don’t be a fucking idiot. We’re police; we don’t use women like that. I’ll slit my own stomach in front of them, if that’s what it takes – but you send her home this instant. Do you understand?’
Suwa refused to stand down.
‘You have to think about Mikumo’s own view on this. She wants to help out. If you keep her from interacting with the press, well, all she’s got is admin work. I told her, You don’t have to come. I told her she had to put up with the status quo because that’s what you wanted. Do you know what she said? That you were discriminating. I want to do the same as the rest of you. That’s what she said.’
Discriminating. It didn’t sound like something Mikumo would say.
‘Put her on the phone.’
‘Okay, but she’s had quite a bit to drink.’
‘I don’t care. Put her on.’
For the few minutes he was kept waiting, Mikami ran dozens of possible angles through his head.
‘Sir, it’s me.’ Mikumo’s voice was quiet, but not in a way that made her sound intimidated.
‘I thought I’d made myself clear before. Why did you disobey my orders?’
She didn’t answer,
‘This isn’t part of your job.’
‘I’m Media Relations, too . . .’
‘I had desk workers in First. Do you think they went chasing after killers?’
‘I want to make myself useful.’
‘You’re more than useful already, without doing this.’
‘I don’t think so. Not at all.’
Mikami let out a sigh. He readied himself for the next line. ‘I’ll admit I did consider it, that one time. I thought maybe we could use someone to help ease things with the reporters. But I never thought about using you. Just a girl in general.’
Mikumo refused to yield. ‘I’m a trained policewoman. I’m here because I think this is part of my job.’
‘The reporters won’t see it that way.’
‘I can’t change what I am. And you can think I’m trying to take advantage of that if you want to. But I can’t continue to turn a blind eye to the trouble we’re having with the press. I know what we’re trying to do. We’re the window that links the headquarters to the outside world. I’ve been reading up on the media, too. I can hold my own talking about press issues. And I can be a calming influence when everyone else is getting heated up. Besides, the reporters listen to what I’ve got to say.’
‘You’re being naive.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but I believe you’re the one who’s being naive.’
What . . .?
Mikami’s grip tightened over the phone.
‘What have I said that was naive?’
‘Just tell me what you want me to do. I can get you the information. I’m not afraid to dirty my hands a little.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘I’m not.’
‘If you want to really make something of yourself, you should leave the police. Someone with your determination and talent – you could choose anything.’
‘I joined the force because I wanted to become an officer. I’m proud of what I do. I’m motivated by it.’
‘But you must have realized it by now – the force isn’t kind to women. A lot of men can’t hack it here either.’
‘It’s not fair.’
Mikami’s eyes stretched wide. ‘Not fair . . .?’
‘I can see how hard it is for you, in the office. It’s clear you’re unhappy with the way things are done, with having to put aside your ideals, having to use dirty tricks, that you’re trying to tell yourself you’ve got no other choice. You’re making yourself ask Suwa and Kuramae to do whatever they can, even though you obviously hate doing so. You’re angry with yourself for doing it. Everyone can see it. But . . .’ Her strained voice began to waver. ‘It’s not fair to use me as a surrogate. It’s cruel. You’re trying to keep me pure, keep me away from the dirty work, so you can feel better about yourself. I can’t take it any more. It’s horrible. I want to contribute, to help with what we’re here to do.’
Mikami stared up at the ceiling. All the fire seemed to have drained from him.
Even when Mikumo told him the battery was about to die, he had nothing to say in response.
40
It was after 10 p.m. when Mikami finally sank into his bath.
Still so early, he thought to himself.
It had felt like a long day.
Mikami’s thoughts were losing their clarity. He felt the distinction between what he knew and what he didn’t begin to slip away. His fatigue spread into the warm bathwater. Every time he closed his eyes he felt his drowsiness grow heavier.
The wind was blowing.
The frosted glass rattled in the windowpane. The house had always been old, even in Mikami’s earliest memory.
We should do the place up, his dad would say.
One day, his mother would reply.
The afternoon sun, filling the room. The faded tatami. The round dining table. On it, he could see a cake box from a local patisserie, some bottles of beer. His dad’s wartime buddy was visiting. Close-cropped hair. Bronzed profile. His whole body shook when he laughed. He turned to look at Mikami. His eyes lit up.
You really take after your old man, kid.
His mom smiled, as if to say, He really does. His dad showed yellow teeth, cracking a smile that looked half proud, half pained.
Just hang in there. Do a good deed, and it’ll find its way back to you.
Mikami remembered now. The friend had started to cry when Mikami’s dad had uttered his favourite phrase. He’d been on the way out, finished doing his laces; he got back to his feet and turned around, his face creased up.
He had no doubt lost lots of good friends.
Taken countless lives.
He didn’t show up again after that. He’d messed his hands through Mikami’s hair, as though Mikami were his own son. He’d come with gifts of chocolate and ice-cream . . . had the good deed ever found its way back to him?
Dad . . .
His father had existed in the shadows. When Mikami remembered him, he was always standing behind his mother. It wasn’t that he’d been intimidating, or that he’d let Mikami’s mother take charge of raising him; it was just that he’d been quiet, as though afraid to step out from the safety of her shadow. Mikami had also, for his part, kept his mother between them. He’d never been able to relax when she was out of the room, left alone with his dad. He’d found it difficult to relate to the melancholy in his eyes, the ruggedness of his face, hands and fingers. He had no memory of his dad ever holding him. His DNA had taken precedence, Mikami having taken after him, yet, when he died in the year of the Six Four kidnapping, he did so without having ever opened up to his son.
‘Dig in, dig in. It’ll melt if you don’t get a move on!’
Mikami had finished the cake, but he hadn’t smiled. As his dad’s friend cried at the door he’d stolen a look, and felt somehow that the man deserved it.
Don’t worry, it’s just because you’re a boy. His mother had always been relaxed like that, easy-going. Despite this, she’d been completely at a loss – far more than his father had been – the first time Mikami had introduced them to Minako. Her eyes had lost focus, swimming before she blinked and looked at him again. He remembered it even now. It was the same look she’d had when she’d suspected him of keeping back change many years before. Have you been a bad boy?
Mikami smiled.
She’d definitely over-reacted.
It came back to him now: it was on her recommendation that he’d first gone to kendo at his local club. She’d wanted him to be strong, honourable, more than she’d wanted him to learn the abacus or become proficient at calligraphy. The training had been punishing. If not for the excitement he’d felt each time he donned the mask, he doubted he would have lasted long. Inside the mask’s metal enclosure, with his restricted vision and close breath, he’d felt like he was in a hideaway, a top-secret base made from old boxes. He’d never been conscious of wanting a disguise, but that had no doubt been a part of it, too. The thirteen horizontal bars obscured his features. The one vertical bar hid the shape of his nose. Apart from the two eyes peering through the gap of the monomi, he was lost in shadow. He stopped being a face. He stopped needing a face. For a short while, he’d been able to transform into something special. And when he’d started to become conscious of girls, grown spots on his face, it was under the sweaty confines of his kendo mask that he had felt most at ease.
A mother’s wishes, the way he’d looked, kendo. It had seemed natural to follow that line and become an officer of the law.
Mikami squeezed the hand towel and rubbed it over his face. He could feel his craggy features through the fabric.
The job’s an easy one. Easiest in the world.
It can give you the resources to hide from the world – maybe that was what Osakabe had wanted to say. It was widely known that the job wasn’t easy. An endless supply of detective novels, documentaries and TV dramas had conditioned the general population into thinking that they understood the difficulty, anguish and misery of the job. They had flicked a switch each time Mikami introduced himself. It meant he hardly needed to say anything himself – it was easy in that sense of the word. It was also easy for a detective to ignore the various difficulties, anguish and miseries of everyday life. There was always new prey to hunt. Matsuoka had summarized it aptly in a speech to motivate the officers in district: I won’t allow any complaints. You’re all here to enjoy yourselves. We’re being paid to get out there and hunt.
Detectives understand the concept of justice, but they lack an instinctual hatred of crime. Their only instinct is the chase.
Mikami had been no different. Identify the perpetrator. Corner him. Take him down. The daily grind served to polish to a dull glow the mindset of the detective, eroding as it did any vestiges of individuality. Nobody tried to resist the process. If anything, they welcomed it, thirsted for more. For these people, the desire to stay in the hunt went far beyond any monetary considerations. It was their sole hobby, their greatest entertainment.
Mikami only had to ask Koda. A man who’d had his licence stripped, who had instead become one of the hunted. Someone whose only motivation to work was to support his wife and child. Try asking him if being a detective had been hard.
Mikami exhaled deeply.
The commissioner would arrive in four days. The most important thing was to keep his cool. He would side with Administrative Affairs, for the sake of his family. The part of him that was still a detective would scream.
He felt a sudden rush of adrenalin.
Wait – this isn’t the time for sitting back . . .
What announcement was the commissioner planning to make? What would happen as a result? Mikami had yet to discover what it was.
A face flashed through his mind – the man who had kindly acted as a go-between in helping arrange his marriage. Osakabe was unwilling to help, but he could still try Odate. He had been one of the directors party to the cover-up. He was a greatly respected figure, second in estimation only to Osakabe himself. It was entirely plausible that he might have information on the commissioner’s plans. He had collapsed from a stroke at the beginning of the year; when Mikami had taken him a gift in the summer he’d been at home and working on his rehabilitation. He’d been sorry to hear of Mikami’s transfer to Media Relations, and promised, with a slightly frozen mouth, to have a sharp word with Arakida.
Odate would talk. If Mikami asked him to . . .
His excitement passed, the enthusiasm suddenly leaving him, as though sucked away.
It would be too cruel. Odate had only been retired four years. The wound would be far from healed. It would be hard on him to have one of his officers – one he’d been fond enough to act as a go-between for – turn up and prise open the partially desiccated sore. Would he consider doing it even knowing that Odate was still in recovery?
Futawatari would do it. He wouldn’t even hesitate before pushing the buzzer.
He probably already had.
If the ace of Administrative Affairs had been there already, Odate wouldn’t have to ask Mikami the reason for his visit. He would only need to sit there in silence and look into Odate’s eyes. Wait for the man to come out with his final testimony.
Mikami shook his head.
He gazed at the steam rolling over the ceiling. For a while he did nothing else.
What was Mikumo doing now? She was probably still in Amigos.
Cruel . . .
It’s not fair to use me as a surrogate . . .
Mikami tried to imagine her expression when she’d said the words.
You’re only able to speak like this because you’re a woman, Mikami had thought, irritated during the first half of their conversation. Then Mikumo had broken the taboo. The last person he’d wanted to hear say the words had told him exactly what he’d hoped never to hear. He’d been shocked and saddened, but the feeling went beyond her having landed a blow on him. He’d felt a concurrent surge of self-disgust and astonishment, realizing that the very thing he’d been looking for had been right there in front of him. Mikumo had been there the whole time. She was quiet, but he knew more than anyone that she was a quick thinker, that her eyes and ears were keen.
But . . .
It was because she was a woman. He’d realized it when she’d called him cruel. He’d never intended to use her as some kind of trophy. Nor had he ever thought to keep her untarnished on his behalf. He had wanted to protect her, that was all. Having failed to do the same for his wife and daughter, he’d chosen Mikumo to keep close, thinking he might be able to keep her safe for a year or two, for as long as he remained her boss.
He had been using her as a surrogate after all. Playing an unfair game. Perhaps he had been cruel to her.
Amigos. Laughter. The tang of alcohol . . .
He began to wonder if his attempts to maintain her innocence might have had the opposite effect. Was it possible her passion for the job had nothing to do with her decision to shun her womanly virtues? Mikami started to get worried. She’d told him she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. How far had she decided she would go?
I want to contribute, to help with what we’re here to do.
‘Darling?’
Mikami started, thinking he’d dozed off and imagined Minako’s voice.
‘Are you okay?’
She was calling out from the next room, where the sink was. She was worried he’d been in the bath for too long.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Getting out now,’ he replied, but he remained where he was.
He didn’t feel like he’d had time to warm up. Had he really been in the bath long enough to justify her worrying? Their daily rhythms – washing, bathing, using the toilet – had all suffered since their da
ughter had run away. He would become engrossed in brushing his teeth. Not because his thoughts were on Ayumi, just focused on keeping the toothbrush in motion. So he didn’t have to think. Turning away from reality. Sometimes he was convinced that was what he was doing.
But he had never pictured her dead. He made sure he didn’t focus on the negatives.
She was alive.
And yet . . .
He couldn’t see anything beyond that.
If she was alive, it followed that she would be out there somewhere. On her feet . . . moving around . . . eating . . . sleeping. But he couldn’t picture her doing any of those things.
In her mind, the whole world was laughing at her. She hated people looking at her. He couldn’t imagine in any detail her going about a normal life outside of home, not in that state of mind. What would she do for money? For a place to sleep? Most high-school girls ran away to get a job, a boyfriend, even to the red-light districts – but none of those cases fitted Ayumi. How would she support herself? Was she living on the streets? It seemed unlikely that a young homeless girl would slip through the net cast by 260,000 officers. Could someone have taken her in? If they had, who? It felt as if it would be a criminal act for anyone to take in a sixteen-year-old girl and not notify her parents or the authorities. She was locked up somewhere. Was that the only possible conclusion? Would he have to spend the rest of his life haunted by the thought?
It was better not to think at all, to ensure that Minako had no reason to dwell on it. Ayumi is safe and well. He made sure to draw a line under any other thoughts, forcing the subject to a close. For her part, Minako didn’t try to talk of anything else. She discussed the calls, but anything more was taboo. Ayumi, holding the receiver in a public phone box. It was the only image they had of her in the outside world, the only one they permitted.
‘She’ll come back to us.’
Mikami tried saying the words he always said. He listened to the way they sounded. Whatever happened while Ayumi was away was immaterial. She just needed to come home. They would make it work.
‘Just come back.’
A drop of condensation trailed down the dark window. Mikami’s eyes felt heavy. The drowsiness was relentless this time. He wondered where he’d put Minako’s road-safety charm.
Six Four Page 30
