Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  ‘This is Pursuit 1. Passing now.’

  – What should I do? Tell me what you want me to do!

  – Take . . . out the suitcase.

  Mikami closed his eyes and focused on the voice.

  It was Kazuki Koda.

  He hadn’t been able to tell from the sound. But he was sure of it. Stealing phones. Trailing someone around a red-light district. Amamiya wasn’t capable of such things. And there’d been a letter from Koda in the letter rack in Amamiya’s living room. Kakinuma had also told Mikami that Koda never failed to visit Shoko’s grave on the anniversary of her death. Koda must have confessed everything to Amamiya. He’d relayed the contents of the memo and asked forgiveness for the duplicity of the force. He’d stayed in contact, even after his resignation.

  Tell me if I can help. I want to help.

  Koda was a man of his word, and profoundly honest. Mikami didn’t doubt that he had continued his entreaty, regardless of how much time had passed.

  ‘This is Pursuit 2. Passing now. Mesaki is taking out the suitcase.’

  His sense of obligation would have come from more than just a sense of justice. Aside from the Amamiyas, no one else had had their lives turned upside down, or been forced to suffer, as much as Koda. His loathing of the kidnapper would have been greater than anyone’s. Amamiya had known this. It was why he’d confided in him. And that was why Koda had escaped Kakinuma’s surveillance and gone into hiding. Why he’d seen fit to abandon a job he’d only obtained after grovelling on his hands and knees, why he’d left behind a wife and child, the normal life he’d finally managed to secure himself, only to martyr himself to Six Four as part of Amamiya’s final play. They had crossed the line together – chosen heresy. It takes a heretic to catch a heretic. They were forcing their torture back on to Mesaki. They’d thrown the life of his daughter into uncertainty and, in the process, torn his soul apart.

  But . . .

  How were they planning to end it?

  What was Amamiya’s final goal? What role had he assigned Koda to see through?

  The cars they’d left at the driving school – Intercept 6, 7, 8 – had no doubt already fenced Koda in. Koda would know that, but still he stayed on the line.

  – Where do you want the money?

  – There’s . . . an empty plot of land . . . at the back.

  – An empty . . . yes, I see it! You want it there?

  – Hurry.

  The Mobile Command Centre turned right. They were heading directly for the Ai’ai Hair Salon. Ogata took up the mobile phone marked Locations. Burly connected a wire.

  ‘Yoshikawa, report.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mesaki is pulling the suitcase behind him, rushing down a path to the side of the building.’

  His voice was a whisper.

  ‘Can you see what’s beyond?’

  ‘An empty plot of land. Old tyres, a fridge, a washing machine, more piles of junk. The hair salon is probably using it as a temporary dump. Mesaki just got there. He’s looking around now, phone still to his ear . . .’

  – I’m here. The empty plot of land. What next?

  – There’s an . . . oil drum.

  – An oil drum? Ahh, okay . . . I see it.

  – Take the money . . . out from the suitcase . . . put it all inside.

  – What? Inside the drum?

  – You don’t have time . . . for questions.

  – Sorry! You’ll give her back, if I put it in? You’ll let Kasumi go?

  – Do it.

  ‘I’ve moved around; I have a good view of Mesaki. The suitcase is open and . . . he’s cramming the money into an oil drum.’

  Minegishi was leaning over a map he’d called up on one of the screens. He suggested to Matsuoka they approach from the front, then slid open the panel to tell the driver.

  ‘At the next corner, turn left at the Lawson. Right at the crossroads after that.’

  ‘Is the road wide enough?’

  ‘Should be fine.’

  – The money’s all inside. I’ve put it all in.

  – Look at your feet.

  – What?

  – There’s . . . a round container.

  – I can see it . . .

  – Inside you’ll find some petrol and some matches. Use them to set the drum on fire.

  Mikami had to catch his breath.

  No . . . Ogata and Minegishi said together.

  – Set it . . . on fire? You want me to burn the money?

  – Do it now.

  – But . . . but . . . if I do that . . . if I burn the money, what about Kasumi? Are you really going to give her back to me?

  – Do you want her to die?

  – Okay . . . I’ll do it. Hold on, I’ll do it now.

  ‘Mesaki is pouring something in, from a plastic bottle. Wait . . . Shit! Sir, he’s set the whole thing on fire. The oil drum is on fire.’

  It looked like some kind of flare. Black smoke churned into the air, visible through the monitors in the command vehicle.

  – It’s done. I’ve set the money on fire. It’s all burning. Just like you wanted. I’ve done everything you said. Now just give me my daughter back. Where is she? Please. Where is she?

  – Under the container.

  – Under the . . .?

  There were a series of clicks.

  ‘The kidnapper has ended the call.’

  ‘. . . Mesaki’s holding up the container now. Peering underneath. He’s got something . . . a piece of paper. Smallish. Notepad size. He’s staring at it. Sir, he’s on his knees! Mesaki has collapsed on to his knees. He’s got his head on the ground, both hands stretched forwards, holding the sheet. He’s . . . balling it up. He’s wailing. Screaming. His daughter’s name. “Kasumi, Kasumi!”’

  A note to tell him his daughter was dead?

  Was that the message Amamiya had left him?

  Now you know the pain of losing a daughter. This moment will last for ever.

  ‘Incoming call. Mesaki’s phone. The caller is . . . Mutsuko, his wife. Patching it through.’

  – Finally! Where are you? It’s Kasumi. She’s safe. Our daughter’s safe!

  – She . . . she’s safe?

  – Yes! There was no kidnapping. No one kidnapped her. No one touched her, she didn’t know anything about it. I’m so glad I got through . . . everything’s okay.

  – She . . . She wasn’t kidnapped?

  – No. She’s safe and well. She doesn’t want to talk . . . but there’s nothing to worry about. She’s safe. Darling, isn’t the news fantastic? Come back as soon as you can.

  – . . .

  – Is something wrong? What is it? Darling?

  ‘Patching Yoshikawa through second speaker.’

  ‘Mesaki’s opening a sheet of paper, he’s looking at it. It’s the same one. He’s giving it a funny look. He’s stopped moving. He’s not moving at all.’

  The empty plot had come into sight from the command vehicle. The front-side monitor was showing a shot of the area. One of the stylists from inside the salon had come to stand outside the rear entrance. She’d hurried out, no doubt surprised at the commotion. One of the customers was peering dubiously through a back window, colouring foil in her hair. More people were venturing out from nearby shops and houses, having heard Mesaki’s howls. They were converging on a single point – the oil drum, still heaving with black fumes, and Mesaki, now cross-legged on the ground next to it.

  ‘Zoom in.’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  The camera drew closer to Mesaki. The image expanded until it took up the whole height of the monitor. The camera had a direct view of the man’s face. His head was drooping forwards. His eyes were focused on a single point on the ground. There was something tranquil about the way he looked, despite his trip to hell and back. His temples were moving. Twitching? No. The movement was identical on both sides. His jaw betrayed a subtle motion.

  ‘It’s in his mouth!’ Minegishi shouted. ‘The bastard’s eating the note.’

/>   ‘No, wait. Look!’ Ogata pointed.

  The note was there in Mesaki’s hands. He still had it. Except . . . Yoshikawa had said it was standard notepad size. The paper was too thin for that. It looked stretched out, a strip more than a sheet. He was eating it. He’d torn off half and put it in his mouth.

  It was already too late. His jaw was moving sideways, and not up and down. He was using his back teeth to turn it to pulp.

  ‘Yoshikawa, did you see him do it?’

  ‘I . . . didn’t see him tearing the paper. I saw him lift a hand to his face, but it looked like he was just rubbing his jaw.’

  It made sense. He’d been careful to conceal the fact that he was putting the paper in his mouth. He’d come all this way with the police in tow, so he knew detectives would be watching. He knew they’d later ask him to give them the note. That was why he’d chosen to leave half of it. The half he was chewing on was the half he didn’t want them to see. Most likely the part containing Amamiya’s message . . .

  Mesaki’s expression became calm. His jaw and temples were motionless. In the next moment, his Adam’s apple rose and fell. Mikami could almost hear the sound of the gulp.

  ‘Damn it!’

  Ogata drove his fist into the frame around the monitor. Minegishi punched the wall. The right-hand side of the monitor blurred a little, turning light brown. One of the onlookers had stepped in the way of the camera. Another figure, out of focus and faintly blue, emerged to fill the remaining space on the left. Mesaki’s shape tapered, thinning out until it was completely invisible.

  ‘That was it?’ Minegishi said, palms stretched wide. ‘Why leave it at that? He could have done so much more. He could have forced him to confess, threatened to kill Kasumi if he didn’t.’

  ‘Agreed. That was too easy,’ Ogata breathed.

  ‘All that intimidation, getting him to run, to burn the money – all he got from the bastard was that 20 million yen. There was that one time, in the car . . . But that’s hardly anything. And Mesaki ate the fucking note. He should have gone straight for it, on the phone. That would have got a proper fucking response.’

  Mikami’s mouth was half open. His anger was rising; he felt that their comments were defiling something important.

  Matsuoka cut in. ‘What more could we hope for?’ His gaze was divided equally between the two detectives. ‘Yoshio Amamiya delivered us a suspect. What happens next is up to us. All he had was a voice on the phone. Whatever the message was, it wouldn’t have been anything we could use in an arrest. Amamiya deserves an award – he gave Mesaki something that wasn’t conclusive evidence and got him to swallow it. Don’t ever forget this. That was Mesaki’s confession. Now we know he’s the kind of guy who panics, confesses, even without definitive evidence.’

  Ogata and Minegishi were standing upright and motionless, concentrating like third-year recruits still bringing tea to the real detectives. Shiratori was nodding at one of the walls. Taking a deep breath, Morita pulled the zoom back on the camera. A huge number of onlookers had gathered around the empty plot.

  Mesaki was out of view. All they could see was the line of smoke, tapered now, and white. The wind had dropped off, letting it reach up in what was almost a straight line. Why make him burn the money? It was unlikely that Amamiya wanted revenge for the money he’d lost. It was a second message – it had to be. One Shoko and Toshiko could see from the heavens. He had entrusted the trail of smoke to carry his voice.

  It’s done. I did everything I could.

  ‘Moving to extraction,’ Matsuoka said into the radio. ‘Bring Mesaki in. Say it’s to shield him from the press. I want him under guard and delivered to Central Station.’

  Mikami nodded. Matsuoka had been right. The rest was up to them.

  Sensing a parting of ways, Mikami flicked open his phone and pressed the button for Suwa’s speed dial.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Kasumi Mesaki is in police custody – she’s safe. Disband the coverage agreement, effective immediately.’

  77

  The glow of the phone box came into view, a point in the darkness.

  Having asked his taxi to wait at the top of the hill, Mikami had started towards the riverside park. The path was a gradual downward incline. There was the faint sound of water. It wasn’t yet 6 p.m., but as he walked his feet became increasingly shrouded in the dark. The park’s mercury lamps were still off, making the bluish glow of the phone box the only artificial light in the area.

  Mikami had left the Mobile Command Centre, returning to the Prefectural HQ by three o’clock. By that point, there were no longer any traces of the bizarre atmosphere that had prevailed on the fifth floor of the government building’s west wing. The conference room had been deserted, the state of the room shocking. Empty of its inhabitants, it had looked to Mikami like Wall Street during the Great Depression, or the aftermath of a parade celebrating the return of an astronaut. The reporters had taken flight, scattering like birds the moment they learned of the agreement’s termination. Knowing Kasumi was safe, half had returned to Tokyo. Those who had remained had either left for the empty plot of land behind the hair salon or Mesaki’s house in Genbu.

  The schedule of press announcements was pulled back to once every three hours. The colour had returned to Ochiai’s face by the time the four o’clock announcement – which less than fifty reporters hurried back to – took place. With the coverage agreement no longer in effect, the police were under no obligation to supply the press with real-time case updates. While they were careful to give out as much information as possible, the fact that Masato Mesaki had been taken into custody at Central Station was, needless to say, not mentioned. The locations of his wife and daughter – Mutsuko and Kasumi – were also concealed. Matsuoka had met them in person and taken them into protective custody, transferred anonymously – together with Kasumi’s younger sister – to a shelter in a neighbouring prefecture’s Mutual Welfare Society. Some things must never be spoken. Mikami finally understood what Matsuoka had meant. When Masato Mesaki was arrested, Mutsuko would become the wife of a kidnapper and murderer. Kasumi, the daughter. He would do what he could to prevent their first names from coming out, for their sake. That was the decision Matsuoka had made.

  You need to get some sleep. Go home and get some rest. We’ve been taking turns catching up. We’ve had plenty. Suwa and Mikumo had insisted. Kuramae had called the taxi even as they spoke. The idea to visit the park had come suddenly, Mikami giving the driver the new destination on the way home. Yoshio Amamiya’s house was dark. His car was gone, too. Where was he now? Where had he been when Masato Mesaki was burning the money? Mikami pushed on the door of the phone box. It was old, but it opened easily and without a sound. The phone inside was light green, faded and in poor repair. The push buttons were blackened from use but, towards the centre, where the finger made most contact, they were polished to a dull and silvery shine. Not surprising, after so much use.

  Mikami let out a deep sigh.

  This is where Amamiya made his calls.

  He would have used the phone to call Mikami’s number, too. Sometime after eight o’clock, that day on 4 November. A female voice had answered. He’d called again at nine thirty. Again, the female voice. He’d made a third attempt, calling close to midnight – that was when he’d finally heard a male voice. He’d concentrated on the sound, then hung up, striking a line through the name Moriyuki Mikami. The name was that of Mikami’s father, who had still been alive at the time the directory was issued. If Amamiya had used a later edition, or if Mikami had moved into police accommodation, he’d never have received the calls.

  No doubt he’d started making the calls from his phone at home. Then he’d heard about the introduction of caller display. As often happened with people living by themselves, he’d only had a partial understanding of the service, and hadn’t known about the option to withhold his number. That would have been when he’d started to use the phone box.

  Perhaps there’d been other
reasons, too.

  The park was the nearest to his home. It had a children’s play area. It went without question that he would have visited it with Shoko, when she was a child; with Toshiko, too; the three of them. Families with small children tended to avoid it after Six Four, partly because the location of Shoko’s abduction was never determined. It was ironic that this very fact gave Amamiya a place where he could occupy a phone box for extended periods, day and night, without having to worry about people seeing him.

  This is it, this is the place.

  Mikami closed his eyes and listened. It was quiet. No sound reached inside the phone box. It had no doubt been different on the day of their call. That evening, the north of the prefecture had been deluged with an unseasonal torrent of rain. Many places had suffered landslides. Rivers had swollen, noisily tossing mud downstream. The noise hadn’t been the buzz of a city. It hadn’t been traffic. The phone box was in a riverside park, part of a flood plain. That was the truth behind the ‘continuous’ sound he’d heard.

  Ayumi? I know it’s you, Ayumi.

  That was what he’d said to the caller.

  Ayumi! Where are you? Come home. Everything will be fine, just come home right away!

  Amamiya had known the reason for Mikami’s tears in front of the Buddhist altar.

  Are you better?

  Amamiya’s words on the phone last night.

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

  Where on earth was he now?

  Mikami was starting to wonder if he’d been the one to set events into motion. His first visit to Amamiya had been seven days ago. But the silent call to Mesaki’s home had been ten days ago; Amamiya would have already tracked down the kidnapper’s voice by the time of Mikami’s visit. He would have been debating whether or not to report it. Although . . . the fact that he hadn’t reported it during the three-day gap, however short that seemed, already had to be a reflection of how deeply he mistrusted the force. Every detective he’d met had assured him they would catch his daughter’s killer, but it hadn’t happened, even after fourteen years. Single-handedly, he’d achieved something tens of thousands police officers taking the force as a whole – had failed to do. And why? Because it wasn’t their business. Doubtless, that would have been his conclusion. The police had sought to cover up their own recording error. A seven-year-old girl had been kidnapped, met with a tragic end, and yet they had taken action to protect their own interests. They had systematically wiped all record of the third call’s existence. It was no wonder he’d lost faith. Even if he did report Mesaki’s details, who could say whether they would have trusted his ability to distinguish the voice after fourteen years? Even if they had, it would have meant a loss of face, to have the victim’s father succeed where they had failed. They would have resented that; perhaps it would have dulled the edge of the investigation; maybe they would have told him he was wrong, after only a perfunctory investigation. Even so, Amamiya couldn’t bring Mesaki in by himself. He could go and see him, try to pressure him, but telling Mesaki he thought his voice matched the kidnapper’s wouldn’t be enough to force him into a confession.