‘A lynch mob, you say?’ Goatee gave Mikami a testing look. ‘You’re press director here. Perhaps you’re misreading what this is. We’ve been given this man, your chief of Second Division, who doesn’t even know the kidnapped girl’s name. Whoever’s in charge has chosen to sacrifice a lackey while they run and hide. You tell me – isn’t that the real lynch?’
Mikami shouted towards the stage, ‘Get him to First-aid.’
Mikumo flinched in response.
‘Hey, you, gargoyle. So-called press director. Are you even listening to me?’
Gargoyle. Mikami already knew the two men had taken to calling him that.
‘Announcements are suspended, you say? Are you announcing your intention to forgo the coverage agreement?’
‘We will convene another session from 8 a.m. If anything happens in the meantime, we’ll send you paper bulletins.’
‘Uh-huh, right, like your face isn’t enough of a joke. How do you propose to do that when you don’t even know what’s happening yourself?’
Right! A wave of sound swelled towards him. Enough of the bullshit. Bring us your director of Criminal Investigations.
‘You know, you police are pretty bad wherever we go. But I’ve never seen an office as messed up as this,’ Goatee continued. His eyes locked with Mikami’s. They were striking, handsome-looking. Mikami wondered if the glass-like clarity he saw there was what came from years of fighting for what you believed was right.
Mikami shouted towards the stage. ‘Get him out of here!’
Suwa and Kuramae were lending their shoulders, helping Ochiai to his feet.
‘Yes? And what do you propose to do next?’
‘About what?’
‘Who’s going to take over here, if the doctor gives him a no-go?’
‘I’ll find a suitable replacement.’
‘The director. Give us your word. Right here, right now.’
He’s right! He’s right! The agreement echoed around the room, as if it were coming through speakers. The director! We want your word!
Mikami ground his back teeth, saying nothing.
‘Don’t think you can stand there in silence. We’re only asking for a normal press conference. Why can’t you bring us the director? What is it that you’re trying to hide?’
Ochiai came down from the stage, supported by the two men. They began to cross the packed floor. Mikami called Mikumo over, deciding it was dangerous to let her go through. The others were threading through the crowd, trying to find places to walk. Ochiai’s shoes were hardly on the floor. Alone, he wouldn’t have made a single step. It looked like Suwa and Kuramae were helping a wounded soldier navigate a minefield.
Stop them! A sharp voice rang out from somewhere towards the middle of the room. We can’t just let them go. We need to get his word on the director.
Mikami cursed. One of the mines – it triggered another wave of explosions.
Don’t let him out!
A group of excited reporters got to their feet. They blocked Ochiai’s path. More pressed in from either side.
Get the promise first. We exchange him for the director.
The circle began to close around Ochiai. Suwa and Kuramae’s faces were drawn tight. Mikami heard Mikumo shriek from behind.
‘Lay a finger on him and I’m taking you in for obstruction.’
Mikami listened to his voice reverberate through the space. He’d shouted into the microphone, having wrenched it from Goatee. The room fell still. All 269 pairs of eyes were focused on him. He closed his eyes. Eeee, eeee, eeee. A powerful ringing vibrated in his eardrums, too loud to tell if it was a voice or empty noise. Someone had grabbed the microphone. Not Goatee. It was Slick – he’d pulled it right out of Mikami’s hands.
‘That’s enough showing off, Gargoyle. Shock tactics like that only work on the local kids.’
Goatee was still staring. He took back the microphone. Fighting the good fight. His glass-clear eyes were burning with angry conviction.
‘We’ve been patient with you so far. We took you at your word when you said the kidnapping could be a teenager’s hoax. We’ve been understanding about the circumstances, and we’ve permitted this nonsense around the identity of her family. But we’ve had enough.’ His anger boiled suddenly over. ‘You will not continue making fools of us. This conference is a sham. You are clearly abusing the provisions of our agreement. You are concealing the truth, even as you carry on the investigation with impunity. It’s too much for us to overlook. We decide this now.’
He turned to face the rest of the room.
‘First we report this nonsensical state of affairs to Tokyo. Then we get them to appoint someone more appropriate, someone from the Criminal Investigations Bureau, to lead the Investigative HQ. They take over all proceedings, including all matters pertaining to us, the press. Are there any objections?’
‘Wait!’ Mikami shouted. ‘I guarantee you’ll get proper announcements from this point forwards. We will give you everything we know. It’s what you want.’
‘Aren’t we past that stage? Things are only like this now because you failed to do exactly that.’
‘I understand. We have failed in our obligation to you. Give me some time so I can help correct that. I won’t need long.’
‘You’ll get the director?’
‘I’ll get you the chief of First Division.’
It worked. The flames that had been raging through the room were gone in an instant. His words had reflected the intensity of the blaze. He’d used the final reserves of extinguisher foam, reserves he should never have touched.
‘The next session will start at eight o’clock.’
‘Stay by my side,’ he said to Mikumo, still behind him as he started to walk. It felt like an attempt at breaking through enemy lines. At the halfway point, he put his hand on Ochiai’s back. The foam was working, but the room was still smouldering, far from normal.
They made it to the corridor. To the doors of the lift. Even then, Mikami could still feel the piercing stares on his back.
‘Thank you,’ Ochiai groaned.
Mikami took his shoulder. It felt delicate, just like Akikawa’s. The five of them stepped into the lift. Once the doors were closed, Mikami turned to Suwa.
‘I’m going back to Station G.’
Suwa’s head was hanging low. It was plain to everyone there. Mikami wouldn’t be able to bring Matsuoka – the field commander of the investigation – back with him.
‘I have to try. Maybe he won’t be able to come here in person, but there’s a chance I can send you some proper information.’
Suwa’s head stayed where it was. Mikami was painfully aware of how he felt.
I’ll get you the chief of First Division.
He couldn’t withdraw the statement. Despite this, Matsuoka wouldn’t come. Mikami wouldn’t even be there to take responsibility. All that waited for Suwa, now he’d lost confidence in his ability as a press officer, was the harsh reality of standing defenceless before the press.
Even so . . .
‘I have to try,’ Mikami repeated. The words were to convince himself it was true.
‘Yes, you should go.’ It was Ochiai. ‘I can . . . I can hold out a bit longer. I’ll manage, somehow.’
Mikami took his shoulder again; he squeezed. There were no words. He didn’t want to force Suwa into anything.
‘Suwa.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Futawatari called earlier, asking if he could help. I can call him in.’
The lift chimed, pulled to a stop. The doors slid open. No one made to get out. Kuramae and Mikumo were both watching Suwa. We’ll stand by you whatever you decide. Their eyes conveyed the message.
The doors began to close. Suwa’s finger pressed open the moment before they shut.
‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll never make press director if the man in charge of personnel thinks I’m weak.’
72
Outside, the sun was shining.
He couldn’t forget the look he’d seen on Suwa’s face. Yet . . . he’d built up the courage to keep going. He’d kicked himself, forced himself back into the fight.
Mikami got into his car and checked the time: 7.22. One circuit. Telling himself that was okay, he drove slowly around the parking area. He was looking for Minako’s compact car. The Undercover Unit was scheduled to meet at seven. She’d be inside if she’d decided to go through with it. He pressed hard on the accelerator and pulled out of the station grounds. He hadn’t seen her car, but there were other places she could have parked. She’d be there. She’d be out – under the same, blazing sunlight.
Traffic was heavy on the prefectural highway.
Mikami had decided against speeding. He’d given up on the eight o’clock announcement. And he’d forced the next – scheduled for ten – from his head, too. Everything came down to the announcement planned for midday. That was the deadline for getting the ransom together. It was when everything would kick into gear. How close he got to the investigation. How much raw, real-time information he was able to scrape together and relay back to the conference room. That was what would determine their success or failure. It was clear now he was outdoors. He knew exactly what needed to be done.
In the conference room, every moment had felt critical. For more than eight hours through the night, Mikami had faced the press with the mindset of someone running a 100-metre sprint. The truth was, nothing had happened. Ochiai’s twenty-nine round trips, the fervent support given by Suwa and the others, everything else – it had been nothing more than a warm-up. What mattered was yet to come. The press wouldn’t bare their teeth, really kick into gear, until the case itself started to develop.
An unmarked police car drove by. The metallic-silver body blended with the rest of the traffic, the speed not too slow, not too fast.
Mikami put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
I’ll get you the chief of First Division.
He’d made an impossible promise. But he’d known it was impossible even as he’d said it – he couldn’t let himself become prisoner to the words themselves. At the same time, he realized that breaking the promise, made before all 269 of the assembled reporters, would compel them to make an appeal for NPA intervention.
The only way he could prevent that from happening was to supply them with information that had the same value as would bringing Matsuoka back with him.
A strategy was coming together.
Criminal Investigations was hiding something. If he had any leverage at all, it was that. Arakida and the Investigative HQ. Matsuoka and the front line. It was already apparent that they had different ideas on suppressing information. Matsuoka had given him Mesaki’s name, even though he knew it would get to the press; Arakida still called him ‘A’. And Mutsuko and Kasumi were still ‘B’ and ‘C’, even though their names had come out a long time ago. Matsuoka had refused to give Mikami the latter two, but that had been more out of his own personal consideration than out of any attempt to conceal their identity. Arakida was hiding everything so he could hide something. Matsuoka was only hiding what needed to be hidden. The distinction was significant.
It meant Matsuoka would release anything he didn’t think confidential. He wasn’t the kind of man to ignore a coverage agreement, and his response to Mikami in the Station G toilets had shown an empathy for his situation and point of view. It would be fine, as long as Mikami didn’t insist on getting everything. It would be frustrating to skirt around some of the points, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil of the conference room. He would get all that he could from Matsuoka. That way, he could supply information that would have as much weight as if the man himself were present. Even if Matsuoka had been there in person, he would still refuse to say anything he didn’t plan on revealing. He would have given the press Mesaki’s name, but not Mutsuko or Kasumi’s, however much they pressured him. As he’d said: some things must never be spoken.
Something hit Mikami, a feeling that was somewhere between doubt and anxiety.
Was that it?
The identity of the family. Was that all Criminal Investigations was hiding? It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be something so minor. They had to be hiding something else, something fundamental to the kidnapping, perhaps even to the investigation itself. Something that had left Arakida no choice but to suppress the information, even if it meant making a wholesale enemy of the press; a secret with an explosive potential that was on par with the Koda memo.
The only fact he had was that Matsuoka, the lead commander of the investigation, had refused to give him Mutsuko and Kasumi’s names. That was all.
Kasumi was understandable. That could be explained normally. She was a juvenile, one suspected of having orchestrated a hoax kidnapping. Matsuoka wasn’t the kind of man to grant dispensation due to age, but it was hard to argue with him for holding her name back.
But what about Mutsuko?
The thought came to him for the first time. Why had Matsuoka refused to give him the name of Kasumi’s mother? Was it because she was a woman? Because she was suffering? Because her daughter had been kidnapped, or betrayed her trust? Did considerations like that come into it?
It didn’t feel right.
So . . . no.
What else could it have been? Perhaps he’d just decided to help. It was possible he hadn’t intended to give out any of their names at first but that he’d seen the state Mikami was in and taken pity, decided to give him at least Masato’s name.
No.
Some things must never be spoken.
He’d ‘spoken’ Masato’s name. But he hadn’t done the same for Mutsuko and Kasumi. His decency hadn’t permitted it.
The clarity started to fade.
Had Matsuoka’s words contained any hidden meaning? Or had they been empty? If they had meant something . . .
A mother, a daughter . . .
The combination brought only negative connotations. Another unmarked police car passed by. They had been mobilized across the prefecture. In a few hours, the pursuit would begin, tailing the ransom all the way to the handover point. A manhunt in broad daylight. There was a chance it would turn into that.
The billboard for the Aoi Café came sliding into view. It would be open for the morning trade. Would it be the starting point again? Mikami searched for Minako’s face in the windows. Would she go there again? If so, would she sit on the same seat she had fourteen years ago?
Mikami experienced a jolt of fear, suddenly feeling as though he’d thrown his wife into a dark and bottomless whirlpool.
Something would happen. He knew it, even though the idea had no basis. But that was how terror took hold – groundless fear.
There’s a phrase: ‘It takes a heretic to catch a heretic.’
Matsuoka’s words came ominously back to mind. Mikami never heard the phrase before. Was it something Matsuoka had thought up himself? Something to put words to an idea of his? If so, were they some kind of placeholder? Something that suggested what it was that needed to remain hidden?
The shadow of a bird crossed the front window.
Mikami pulled away as soon as the light turned green. He needed to stare into Matsuoka’s eyes and check, and not just for the sake of Media Relations.
73
A wind was picking up.
A four-tonne truck was parked up ahead, bearing the logo of a soft-drink manufacturer. Three years ago, the logo on the van was that of a cigarette company. Before that, Mikami seemed to remember it had been one for a company making processed food. It was the prefecture’s Mobile Command Centre, purchased the year following the Six Four kidnapping after a compensatory jump in their budget. In the thirteen years since, he’d never once heard of the computerized vehicle being deployed.
Mikami was in his car. The parking area of a
driving school, half a kilometre from Station G. It had taken three trips around the city to find them. A detective in the driving seat. An elbow poking from the passenger window. There would be more inside, sitting in the glittering silver container that formed the back of the vehicle.
The engine was off, but the vehicle’s design included an array of batteries fitted to the undercarriage, allowing air conditioning, communications devices and all digital components to function regardless.
Five past ten. The announcement would have started. More likely, the announcement scheduled for eight o’clock was still dragging on. He couldn’t let it distract him. He would wait for Matsuoka. Any normal First Division Chief would set up base in the Investigative HQ and lead from there, but Mikami knew that wouldn’t apply to a hunter like Matsuoka. He would take advantage of any tool that was available to him. If there was a command vehicle, he would be in it. Mikami’s job now was to keep his eyes open, to keep watch.
He hadn’t slept for twenty-eight hours. He didn’t feel sleepy, but his experience from previous stake-outs told him that was a sign of danger. You just passed out. And when you did, you didn’t wake again, not even if your mark prodded you in the head. Matsuoka would enter the command vehicle at ten thirty. Eleven at the latest. Mikami had to stay alert until then.
He lit a cigarette; keeping one eye on the vehicle, he opened his mobile. He called the retired officer, Mochizuki. No one answered. Maybe his phone was on drive mode. Mikami had missed his call while he’d been driving, his own phone also set to drive mode. Now he was parked and calling Mochizuki back, their situations reversed; perhaps he was out delivering some flowers.
Futawatari paid another visit.
Mikami was expecting the call to be something like that. It didn’t stir up any emotions. It was something he had to get out of the way, but that was all. The issue of the commissioner’s visit had been sorted. In its place was the kidnapping and the kidnapping alone, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Mikami stubbed his cigarette into the car’s ashtray.
Futawatari called earlier, asking if he could help. I can call him in.
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