Mikami made a deep nod.
‘I remembered something you might be interested in, could be a motive for the kidnapping. It relates to the imported-car business.’
‘Okay, go ahead.’
‘This is going back eleven or twelve years . . .’
Seeing Ashida – Goggle Eyes – outside the assembly hall the previous day, Mikami had remembered him coming to ask about making an arrest on charges of fraud. A luxury import car-salesman had hanged himself. The man’s wife had come to Ashida with the story. Her husband had been due to deliver a German car – valued at around 16 million yen – to a local Yakuza gang. Once payment was confirmed in full in the company account, he’d taken the car out at the pre-arranged time of 1 p.m. There he’d come across one of the Yakuza, a young man with a shaved head, waiting outside the building. The thug had said the wakagashira – the Number Two – was out, but that he had his personal stamp for the signature. The salesman had got him to press the stamp confirming delivery, then gone back to his office. At six that evening, he’d received a call from the wakagashira. Where’s my car? The salesman had gone pale. I delivered it to one of your people, a younger man. The salesman had described the man’s appearance, but was told they had no one of that description. He knew the wakagashira was lying, but he was Yakuza and the salesman didn’t feel he could press the matter. The wakagashira’s name was Hagiwara. The salesman saw then that the stamp said Ogiwara. In that moment, he was landed with a debt of 16 million yen. The crux was that the call had been made at 6 p.m. Five hours was enough to get the car to the Japan Sea or the Pacific. It would have been disassembled, or had its plates altered; it would be on a container vessel somewhere. When Mikami had told Goggle Eyes the only avenue was to go after the young man who’d used the stamp, he’d muttered something about it being difficult because the Yakuza used people from Kansai to take their deliveries.
‘That could be useful, thanks. I’ll get my people to check if anything like that happened before Six Four.’
‘One more thing, about the phone calls . . .’
Mobile phones hadn’t existed at the time of the Six Four kidnapping, but car phones were already in widespread use. It was possible that a dealer in luxury imported cars stocked models that hadn’t yet been fitted.
‘I don’t understand the technical details, but say it was possible somehow to carry the phone, battery and the antenna; the kidnapper could have been near Dragon’s Hollow when he called the fishing lodge.’
‘Meaning he could have been working alone.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Okay, I’ve got people looking into the car phone. Was that all?’
‘Does his sports store stock anything related to water sports?’
‘Not much: no inflatables. Apparently, he has lots of stock for barbecues. Anything else?’
Mikami drew a long breath.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Just one?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Look, I’m busy. If you’ve got more, just say it.’
‘Fine . . . two questions.’
‘Go on.’
‘Koda and Amamiya. Are they still alive?’
Are they with you? If not, do you have an idea where they might be?
‘Of course they are . . .’
The response was immediate. But . . .
‘. . . why would anyone who staked their lives on something like this choose to die before seeing the result?’
Mikami was amazed.
‘You’re going to leave them alone?’
‘Don’t worry. They’ll show up once we get Mesaki.’
‘But . . .’
‘They held the tip of a blade to our throats. It’s only right we put an end to Six Four first. They’d be forced to live in dishonour if we did this back to front.’
A warrior’s respect, perhaps. But was that all?
Mikami decided on his second question.
‘The truth about today. How did you find out about it?’
He had to ask. How had Matsuoka been able to connect everything to Six Four without Amamiya’s help and with only the ‘M’ calls to go on? He’d been in the command vehicle because he’d been able to predict what might happen. Unless Koda had tipped him off – in which case he would have had full knowledge of what was going to take place and been there as an observer. If that was true, he could even be implicated in conspiring with Amamiya and Koda from the start, running the entire thing to bring in the Six Four kidnapper.
‘It was when I saw him, yesterday, at his house.’
The response was unexpected.
‘Mesaki’s house?’
Mikami thought he heard the man chuckle to himself. ‘I let my eyes ask the question of everyone I meet. Are you the bastard behind Six Four?’
‘But he . . .’
‘No one admits to it. Mesaki, though . . . Well, he was more afraid of us detectives than he was of the kidnapper.’
Mikami was finally able to breathe out.
Testing everyone he met. That was how Matsuoka had spent the last fourteen years. His eyes had drilled mercilessly into those of a man whose daughter had been taken from him. There had been his age. The slightly hoarse voice. He’d been flustered, acting suspicious, even accounting for the effect of the kidnapping. His eyes had shied away from the detectives. He’d been targeted for revenge, a copycat crime . . . because he was the perpetrator of the original. Matsuoka would have constructed his hypothesis, and worked backwards from there. That would doubtless have been when he’d made the connection with the series of silent calls, the ‘M’ calls, already in the back of his mind.
The thought triggered a memory.
‘There was a gap between the kidnapper’s call and Mesaki reporting it in?’
‘That’s right. Twenty-five minutes.’
The kidnapper had abstained from using the stock phrase: Don’t tell the police. Koda hadn’t given Mesaki an excuse to hesitate. Despite this, there’d been a gap of twenty-five minutes. What would Mesaki have said when Mutsuko told him of the kidnapper’s call? Whatever it was, there was no doubt his blood – that belonging to the father and to the monster – would have turned to ice. Mikami had to wonder, would Mesaki have reported it if the kidnapper had warned him against notifying the police?
‘The man was probably terrified. Having the people he feared more than anything else milling around his house like that.’
And with Matsuoka there before him.
Are you the bastard behind Six Four?
Mesaki hadn’t said anything, but he’d still given the game away.
Yes.
‘Mikami, if you’d pass on my thanks to Minako.’
‘Ah, of course. Was she able to help?’
‘Very much so.’
‘What did you have her doing?’
‘As I said, Special Ops.’
‘Right, of course . . .’
He thought he heard Matsuoka laugh again. ‘Actually, it’s fine. I’ll tell you. She was right there, by your side.’
‘She . . .?’
‘I transferred everyone in the Undercover Unit who’d been in the Aoi Café during Six Four to the hair salon. They would all recognize Amamiya.’
‘So, he . . .?’
‘He was there. Right there in the middle of the onlookers. Watching Mesaki.’
Huh. Amamiya had been there, too.
‘Minako spotted him first. She called in to let us know, just after you left for the headquarters in Pursuit 2.’
‘Wow, I didn’t . . . Where is he now?’
‘I just wanted to check he was there. I don’t see us needing him, not for a while yet, anyway.’
Matsuoka was talkative, considering his claim that he was busy. Was it the rush of having Six Four in his sights? Or was it the flip-side of the trepidation he would no doubt be experiencing? Mikami felt he had to ask. He needed to gauge the extent of Matsuoka’s resolve. The matter was something closely related to Media Relations.
‘Sir . . . you realize First Division won’t be celebrated for this, even if you do finally get to put Six Four to rest?’
The message seemed to get through.
‘You know?’
‘Yes, I know what was in the Koda memo.’
‘Okay, so you know.’
The Six Four investigation had become a double-edged sword. If Mesaki were to be arrested, make a full confession, the fact that he’d made three calls to Amamiya would almost certainly come out. The glorious press conference to mark the arrest would, at the same time, become ground zero for the explosive secret Criminal Investigations had kept hidden for fourteen years. After a considered pause, Mikami heard Matsuoka’s low voice.
‘Someone said something to me, a long time ago . . .’
Someone. For a detective, that was enough to know that Matsuoka was referring to Michio Osakabe, the erstwhile director of Criminal Investigations.
‘. . . “Don’t let it get you down. Use it, to get to the truth.”’
Mikami nodded, understanding. There had been a time when Matsuoka had agonized over the knowledge. Angry and disillusioned, having learned the hidden truth about Criminal Investigations, he’d gone to see the retired director in person. That was when Osakabe had told him. That the recording error was also a valuable resource, one they could leverage to arrest the kidnapper.
The Press Coverage Agreement had been disbanded the moment Shoko’s corpse was found. Things had been different then. Fourteen years ago, the police had adhered strictly to the terms of the coverage agreement, supplying the press with comprehensive updates on the investigation’s progress. Through the press, the information had become public knowledge. But none of the papers had mentioned a third call, the call the police had covered up. If a suspect mentioned it during their interrogation, it would show that they knew the truth – that they were the kidnapper.
Continue the investigation with that, and only that, in mind. You need to use every tool at your disposal to bring the kidnapper to justice, whatever it is, even if it’s something capable of bringing the department to its knees.
Osakabe would have issued the reprimand.
Matsuoka would have agreed. He’d made the department’s secret his own, drawn it in close. It would have been in that moment that he became the de facto director of Criminal Investigations.
Arakida hadn’t been up to the task. He hadn’t been seen or heard since the previous day – it was as though he wasn’t even there. He’d gone into hiding. Matsuoka had told him the investigation was related to Six Four. He’d had visions of the bomb, concealed for eight generations of Criminal Investigations Directors, exploding during his term. He was due to move on within the year. His next post had already been decided. So he’d fled the enemy’s jaws and assigned Matsuoka full jurisdiction over the investigation, throwing Ochiai out to handle the press. By keeping his hands clean, he’d tried to position himself outside the blast radius. Even beforehand, he’d been unable to shoulder the burden alone: that was why he’d passed the secret on to Matsuoka. The director’s role had been beyond him from the start.
‘That reminds me. Ogata and Minegishi are in shock, after that.’
‘After what?’
‘After you called them “fucking idiots”. Hit them hard, the way you said that.’
‘Ah. Tell them I’m sorry. The truth is, they were outstanding.’
‘That they are.’
‘The only problem . . . was that I found it a little hard to tell them apart.’
‘Oh?’
‘When I had my eyes closed, I couldn’t tell which was Ogata and which was Minegishi.’
Matsuoka laughed out loud this time. Suppressing it, he said, ‘Mikami, what would you say to working for me again?’
Mikami felt a sudden rush of heat. He sat upright in his seat.
‘If the time should ever come, sir, it would be an honour.’
79
The lights were on when Mikami arrived home.
His eyes caught on something as he made his habitual scan for a takeaway bowl: white flowers blooming next to the wall, in the area that was too small to be called a front garden. Mikami didn’t know much about flowers, but he was still surprised to see them bloom in December. The stems were slumped so the petals hung just above the earth. Only half open, they resembled the clenched hands of a child.
Minako looked no different to usual when she saw him in. The calls weren’t from Ayumi. He found he couldn’t broach the subject straight away.
Asking if she could make a bowl of ramen for him, he took a seat in the kitchen. The time was twenty past seven. The press conference would be under way. He felt as heavy as lead; not tired, but the front of his head felt taut.
‘Those flowers outside, do you know what they’re called?’
‘Oh yes, they’re in bloom,’ Minako said from the counter.
‘Do you know the name?’
‘Christmas roses. I planted them not long before your father passed away. They haven’t flowered for some years now . . . hardy little things.’
She seemed a little brighter than normal. Perhaps it was the effect of having been outside, of breathing the air, feeling the sun, of having been of help.
‘So . . . you saw Amamiya?’
‘Oh, err . . .’
Mikami grinned slyly. ‘It’s okay. Special Ops end once you’re back home with your shoes off.’
‘They do?’
‘Sure. How did he look?’
Minako carried over his bowl of ramen, stayed where she was, then took a seat in front of him.
‘Older, I suppose. Not in a bad way . . .’
Mikami fished at the ramen with his chopsticks.
‘He was standing completely still, with this intense look. He was staring at the other man.’
‘As though he hated him?’
‘Yes, I suppose. But, then he . . .’ Her eyes grew distant. ‘. . . then he stopped and looked up at the sky instead.’
‘At the sky?’
‘There was smoke, rising from the oil drum. He was watching that.’
Right. Smoke rising to the heavens.
‘Our eyes met, just for a moment.’
Mikami’s chopsticks hovered in mid-air. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I was watching the smoke, too, I think; when I looked back down I saw he was looking straight at me. When our eyes met he gave me a little bow.’
‘He bowed?’
‘It looked that way, at least. I can’t see how he would have recognized me, though. It was fourteen years ago, and he’d rushed straight out of the café. He wouldn’t have seen me.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I bowed back, on auto-pilot. I told Chief Adviser Matsuoka later, I said I was sorry, but he said not to worry, that it was fine. He said it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.’
Mikami breathed out. Everyone’s eyes had been fixed on Mesaki. Only two people – Amamiya and Minako – had been watching the trail of smoke.
‘Did you see the man when he set fire to the money?’
‘The money? Was that what the smoke was?’
‘Yeah, he burned the ransom money.’
‘But, I don’t . . . Why on earth would he do that?’
‘The man you saw – he was Shoko’s kidnapper.’
Minako gasped.
‘Him? Really? But he was crying . . .’
‘He was laughing.’
Mikami sunk his chopsticks into the ramen. Minako asked a new question each time he swallowed a mouthful. The conversation was getting difficult. He had to tell her how Amamiya had found out that Mesaki was the kidnapper – if he didn’t, there was no point in having brought the subject up. He knew his courage to tell her wouldn’t last the night.
It had to be now.
‘Minako, I need you to listen to something.’
He left the remainder of the noodles and pushed the bowl to one side. He was close enough to touch her cheeks or hands if he r
eached out. He made sure he was close.
‘Amamiya worked out he was the kidnapper by listening to his voice.’
That was how Mikami broached the subject. He was unhurried and methodical as he related the story, keeping nothing back. He went into particular detail when it came to the calls they’d had on 4 November. He wanted to make sure she knew why there had been three separate calls. Minako’s hand stayed on her chest. She’d been silent – asked no questions, shed no tears, kept control of herself all the way to the end.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Her voice was a whisper. Her expression had darkened, and it was clear that she was crestfallen, but it hadn’t broken her poise. She was still sitting straight. It wasn’t that she’d been prepared, or that she was trying to bear it, even that she was fighting the truth – none of that applied. None of the intensity with which she’d insisted the caller had been Ayumi came through in her reaction. Her eyes were on Mikami’s chest. But they weren’t desolate. They’d found serenity. That was how it looked to Mikami.
Because she was still supported, Mikami thought. By a faith that was too strong to come apart, even without the calls.
I just wonder . . . whether Ayumi just needs somebody else. Someone other than us.
Minako’s words, muttered in the dark of their bedroom.
Someone has to be out there. Someone ready to accept Ayumi as she is, who won’t try to change her one way or another. Someone who’ll tell her she’s perfect, who’ll stand silently by her side and protect her. That’s where she belongs. She’ll be free to be herself, do what she wants.
He’d thought Minako had given up. He’d thought she’d become tired of waiting, of turning it over in her mind. But now he knew. She’d been listing the conditions for Ayumi’s survival.
Ayumi had left with hardly any money. She couldn’t talk to anyone. More than anything, she’d been terrified that people might see her, laugh at her. She wouldn’t have survived without someone to extend a hand and rescue her. She wouldn’t have survived without someone to be there by her side. Someone who would give her a place to stay, someone who would feed her and who wouldn’t ask her name or try to find her parents, someone who wouldn’t report her to the council or the police, someone who would sit patiently by and wait for her to emerge from her shell – that someone needed to exist for Ayumi to breathe, to listen to her heartbeat, to gaze out at the world. That was what Minako had decided.
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