Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Mikami made a fresh survey of the room. It was the first time he’d faced this many reporters. It would probably be the last. A horde of cameramen had set up camp directly below the stage. They were roughly dressed and squatting; ‘loitering’ seemed the best way to describe them. The reporters were gathered behind them. Their heads were packed together, behind long desks that were joined to make a jagged horizon. Not all wore serious expressions. Some looked puzzled; others nonchalant, or anxious; some looked excited. There were defiant eyes. Impatient mouths, desperate to be heard. A veteran-type wearing black-rimmed glasses, sitting, relaxed, with his arms folded. Another in a long coat and scarf, the playboy kind, probably with the TV. People were yawning. Yammering on the phone. Making others crease up with laughter. Some were there for the long haul, with rucksacks and sleeping bags. A few groups had rudimentary tents. There were a good number of women. One was angrily shouting instructions to a younger man. Another was calling out in a high-pitched voice, happy to see someone she knew. A round-faced woman, probably a news reporter, was using a compact to fix her make-up. All of them looked at home. The confidence and arrogance that accumulated from travelling the country, hopping from one big case to the next, showed through in a shamelessness they weren’t even aware of.

  The local reporters were buried somewhere inside. If Mikami hadn’t kept his eyes on Kuramae’s back, he would have struggled to find them. He caught sight of Tejima, from the Toyo, who was handing his business card to a middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a down jacket. No doubt a star reporter from head office. Tejima’s smile was forced. He saw Utsuki next, from the Mainichi. He looked worried. Then he burst into a smile. Kuramae had just called out to him. Takagi was there, too, from the Asahi, standing by herself. The group next to her seemed to be co-workers, but she wasn’t joining in their conversation. Kasai was there from the Yomiuri, Yamashina from the Times. Both looked decidedly uncomfortable. They were the locals, but they were acting subdued. That was why they didn’t stand out. Whenever Mikami looked away, he all but lost them in the swell of unknown faces.

  He’d suffered from being too close to the local reporters, with each side having to be careful about what they said. He felt nostalgic for it now, with the air in the conference room so fully transformed into that of the capital.

  Ochiai would have to stand in front of them all. With each announcement, he would be made to declare himself a simple puppet. As press director, Mikami could hardly bear to think of it, about the bloodshed that was to come . . .

  He saw Mikumo; she was standing towards the entrance. In uniform, it was easy to make her out, even from a distance. Realizing he was looking her way, she stretched up a hand and waved. She looked like someone who’d spotted a lover’s face in a crowd. He’d never seen her look so happy. She’d made sure the press adhered to the rules that came with a kidnapping case. She’d directed every last one of their cars into the underground car park. She had no doubt forgotten to smile, too. She started making her way over but came to a sudden stop, ambushed by a group of reporters who’d seen her armband. A group crowded around her, at least half due to her looks he thought. Mikami called her phone, watching as she hurried to pick up.

  ‘Thanks for all the help.’

  Her face lit up before she replied. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Did you get to eat?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The fried rice.’

  ‘I’m actually in the middle of a diet so—’

  ‘I need you to do something, then you need to eat.’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘Lend Kuramae a hand. The commissioner’s visit has been cancelled. He’s letting the local press know.’

  ‘Okay. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘The middle of the room, towards the passageway on the right. Give him a call on his mobile.’

  Mikumo was dialling. Kuramae reacted. Mikami kept watch until Kuramae had the phone next to his ear, then stepped off the stage. The after-image of Mikumo’s smile was already fading.

  The inspection . . . cancelled.

  The reporters weren’t the only ones who needed to know.

  The commissioner general is our highest-ranked official. I’m confident the media coverage will be significant. It will be broadcast on TV. The news will reach a great number of people.

  He walked to a corner of the room, where a small administrative area had been set up behind a partition. Prefecture D Police Headquarters: Authorized Personnel Only. There were five folding chairs behind the screen. No one was inside.

  . . . there is a real chance of this bringing in new leads.

  A promise, he’d thought, at least for a while.

  He opened the phone in his hand and called Yoshio Amamiya’s home number. He checked his watch. Twenty past ten.

  No one was picking up. The phone rang ten times. Was he already in bed? This wasn’t something Mikami could leave until the morning. Twelve times. Thirteen. Each ring weighed heavy in his chest.

  Someone picked up. But . . . no one spoke. All Mikami could hear was silence. He had to force the words out.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you so late. I’m trying to get hold of Yoshio Amamiya.’

  ‘This is Amamiya.’ The voice was indistinct.

  ‘This is Mikami, from the Prefectural HQ. I came by the other day.’

  ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s visit. I’m sorry to say this, but . . . due to unforeseen circumstances . . . we’ve had to cancel it. Please accept my apologies for not letting you know until now.’

  There was a long silence. It seemed to last for ever.

  ‘So . . .’ Amamiya’s voice. ‘No one’s coming?’

  Mikami could see the man’s neatly trimmed grey hair. Was he disappointed? Had he – even if just a little – perhaps hoped that something would come of the commissioner’s visit?

  A promise. In Amamiya’s mind, Mikami’s words might have been exactly that.

  Mikami’s head slumped.

  ‘I don’t know how I can make this up to you. You listened to me, even though I’d turned up out of nowhere. You even agreed to let us go ahead. And yet this . . .’

  Another long silence.

  Why was it cancelled? Mikami wanted to run from Amamiya’s unspoken question.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know . . .’

  Mikami’s head sank lower as he listened to the man’s voice. Then . . .

  ‘How are you now?’

  What?

  ‘Are you better?’

  Mikami was stunned. Of course. His shameful display of tears before Shoko’s altar. ‘My last visit . . . I don’t know how to express my . . . having to—’

  ‘Not everything is bad. There’s good out there, too.’

  The words were soft. It felt like the first time he was hearing the man’s real voice. Amamiya had lost his only daughter; the kidnapper was still out there. How could a man who had been through that sound so gentle?

  Mikami apologized again then ended the call. He was at breaking point. His fingers were tight over the bridge of his nose. If he’d stayed on the phone any longer, he would have shed tears again.

  He took a deep breath and punched himself over the chest; two, three times. There was one more call he needed to make. He cleared his throat, tried out his voice until he felt ready.

  ‘Honey, your voice . . .’

  Minako picked up on it straight away.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  The standard question hit him harder than it usually did.

  ‘Sort of. I’m not going to be back tonight. Make sure you lock all the doors, and get some rest. One more thing . . .’

  I should ask. Mikami tensed his stomach.

  ‘Matsuoka wanted you to help with something. On an investigation.’

  ‘Help? What investigation?’

  ‘There’s been a kidnapping.’ Mikami felt his voice tighten. ‘Matsuoka wants people for an un
dercover unit, for tomorrow.’ He heard her take a sharp breath. ‘He said he’d understand if you couldn’t help out. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Who . . . who was kidnapped?’

  ‘A seventeen-year-old girl, still in high school.’

  Silence.

  ‘It’s fine if you want to say no; I don’t mind, and Matsuoka said the same. Only . . .’

  If it means she can help someone. Mikami wanted to convey Matsuoka’s words.

  Or maybe Amamiya’s . . . Not everything is bad. There’s good out there, too.

  ‘Minako?’

  A pause.

  ‘Minako . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it.’

  Mikami’s head came up. He could almost picture the determination on her face. It was because of him that she’d said it. But that was okay. It felt like progress, if only a fraction. When the phone rang immediately after he’d ended the call, he answered without even checking the display.

  Maybe she’d changed her mind . . .

  ‘This is Futawatari.’

  You had to call right now, didn’t you? The thought shot right through him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can I help with anything?’

  Mikami was thrown. He waited for Futawatari to continue.

  ‘I heard about the kidnapping. Is there something I can do to help?’

  ‘No,’ he said, his thoughts picking up speed. ‘Got time on your hands?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Mikami’s anger was flaring up. ‘Didn’t go as planned, huh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Admit it. You failed. You didn’t achieve anything.’

  Mikami had meant the words to be a knockout blow, but Futawatari was unshaken when he replied.

  ‘I’ll admit, there was some miscalculation on my part.’

  Miscalculation? The commissioner’s visit had been crushed by a twist of fate, a kidnapping. Was he saying he’d failed to take the possibility into account?

  ‘You flatter yourself. A miscalculation . . . that’s a joke. How the hell do you account for something like this in your plans?’

  ‘At least it ended well.’

  What?

  A face poked out from behind the partition; Suwa, with an urgent look. Mikami held up a hand to say he was hanging up. He spoke into the phone.

  ‘You’re not needed here. Go and clean the office or something.’

  Suwa started to speak the moment Mikami ended the call.

  ‘The press – they’ve signed the agreement. The first announcement is scheduled for 11 p.m.’

  69

  It marked the beginning of a long night.

  They shut the doors and drew blackout curtains over the windows to prevent light from leaking out. Two hundred and sixty-nine – the total number of reporters Administration had admitted to the venue.

  Mikami was on the stage with Ochiai.

  Testing . . . testing . . . testing. His voice crackled slightly over the wireless microphone. Kuramae, over at the entrance, raised a hand to signal that he could hear. His voice was audible throughout the room.

  ‘My name is Mikami, press director for the police headquarters.’

  He was blinded the moment he opened his mouth. The herd of cameramen at the front had, as though conducting testing of their own, all started taking photos at once.

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Eleventh of December. 23:00 hours. We hereby convene our first press conference regarding the case of a kidnapping and ransom in Genbu City, in accordance with the rules and regulations stipulated in the Press Coverage Agreement. Superintendent Ochiai – Second Division Chief – will chair proceedings. We appreciate in advance your cooperation and assistance while the agreement remains in effect.’

  Huh? A voice came from directly behind the line of cameramen. What do you mean, the chief of Second Division? Bring us the director, or the chief of First!

  The man had a goatee, and looked to be in his mid-forties. Mikami didn’t recognize him, but Akikawa was there next to him. Slick was there, too, the man who’d been with Tejima. It was the Toyo.

  Mikami whispered to Ochiai: ‘Ignore him and go ahead.’ The twenty-seven-year-old superintendent nodded, before taking his place at the centre of the long desk. Side parting. Broad forehead. Intelligent eyes. He looked honest. It was the only positive; probably his only lifeline. Mikami noticed he was trembling. Itokawa, the assistant chief of Second Division, had previously told him that Ochiai tended to crack under pressure, that he was prone to panic.

  ‘Thank you. I hereby begin our first announcement.’

  His voice was a little high-pitched. A rustling spread through the room. Even the sound of notebooks opening seemed to carry weight when everyone did it at once. Ochiai looked down at the piece of paper in his hands.

  ‘For a general overview of the case details, please refer to the summaries in your hands. At the current time, there have been no further developments in the case or the surrounding investigation. Six hundred officers are engaged on work pertaining to the preliminary investigation. Five to seven detectives are already in the victim’s home, working hard on solving the case.’

  Ochiai’s head came back up, the look on his face saying he had finished.

  The room was silent. That’s it? They all wore the same expression. Mikami hurried from where he stood at the edge of the stage to stand behind Ochiai.

  Flesh it out a little, give them some more detail. He didn’t get the chance to voice the words in his head.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ochiai was getting to his feet.

  ‘The next announcement is scheduled for 01:00 hours.’

  Is this some kind of joke? It was the only sentence Mikami could make out. The floor started to rumble; the entire room shook as the uproar hit the stage. The cries were sharp, almost physically painful, and unrelenting, no matter how much time passed.

  Ochiai was in his seat again, his knees having given way. All the colour had drained from his face. No doubt his mind was blank, too. Mikami tried whispering to him. After getting no response, he tried shouting into the man’s ear. Read the outline! Ochiai’s hands shook as he leafed through what he had. Mikami looked down, then away, in shock. The sheets were empty. All they contained was the blank template Suwa had put together. Arakida really had gone through with it. They’d given him nothing. Ochiai was a puppet.

  Mikami took hold of the wireless microphone, but no words came out. He knew he’d just make things worse. Whatever he said, it would be like petrol on a fire. His only job was to stand there and bear the brunt of the shouting and jeering.

  A hand shot up. From the Toyo camp. It was Akikawa. Not to attack. It looked like an offer of help. Mikami thought he heard something . . . microphone. Acting on instinct, Mikami jumped from the stage and made his way through the cameramen. He held the mic out like a baton, his eyes meeting Akikawa’s. Their gaze seemed abnormally strong. Akikawa clasped his hand around the mic then turned away to face the gathered reporters.

  ‘My name is Akikawa, I’m with the Toyo. We represent the Press Club here in Prefecture D.’ He repeated this three times before the noise began to subside. ‘I understand your anger. For a long time, the Media Relations division here has left a lot to be desired. We have been forced time and again to demand changes in policy.’

  A chill ran down Mikami’s back. Did he intend to stir them up even more? An olive branch. Was there no room for such things in his current state of mind?

  ‘It goes without saying that them sending us the Second Division Chief is just another example of this. As representative of the Prefecture D Press Club, I intend to lodge an immediate complaint and force them to send the Criminal Investigations Director or First Division Chief.’

  He was drunk on adrenalin. The full extent of the man’s ego, only glimpsed on an everyday basis, was coming out.

  ‘At the same time, it would be a waste for us to let the first announcem
ent end like this. It would waste important time. As representative for the Prefecture D Press Club, I would like to propose that we be patient at this time – use it to ask the questions we need answers to. We must find out the details of the kidnapping. Do you agree?’

  His voice echoed off the walls. After a pause, Goatee and Slick began to clap at either side, their expressions nominally supportive of their subordinate’s effort. This caught and scattered clapping spread through the room.

  ‘Okay.’

  Akikawa turned forwards again. He levelled his gaze on the stage and Ochiai. He looked desperate, as though starved of oxygen. It wasn’t his ego. Nor was he hoping to offer a way out. He was defending the honour of the local press. But it was too dangerous. Whatever Akikawa’s intention, if the announcement were to turn into a Q&A session . . .

  ‘Chief Ochiai. I propose to open with a few questions from the Prefecture D Press Club. I will then pass the mic around for more questions. Is this acceptable?’

  Mikami wanted to step in, but he had no plausible grounds for doing so. His hands were tied.

  Akikawa took a deep breath. ‘If you could start by explaining the headquarters’ thoughts regarding the case. What is your stance on the possible connection to the Shoko kidnapping from fourteen years ago?’

  ‘C . . . connection?’

  The response was weaker than he’d feared.

  ‘We know the kidnapper copied the wording during the call. Putting aside the possibility of a hoax, do you or do you not believe a connection exists between the two cases?’

  ‘We can’t say . . . at this juncture.’

  ‘Meaning you have nothing to actually prove a connection?’

  ‘I believe so . . . although it’s not certain as yet.’

  ‘Okay, now we need some specifics.’ Akikawa waved the sheet containing the overview. ‘This is far too generalized, nowhere near enough. We need to know the details you’ve learned from the girl’s parents; their financial situation, work record . . .’

  Ochiai flicked ineffectually through the summary in his hands. ‘Uhh . . . we haven’t received any reports on that as yet.’