Six Four
Authors: Hideo Yokoyama
First published in the Japanese language as
Rokuyon (64)
by Bungeishunju in Tokyo in 2012
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Quercus
This edition first published in 2016 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
Copyright © 2012 Hideo Yokoyama
English translation copyright © 2016 Jonathan Lloyd-Davies
The moral right of Hideo Yokoyama to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 984 2
Print ISBN 978 1 84866 526 2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Born in 1957, Hideo Yokoyama worked for twelve years as an investigative reporter with a regional newspaper north of Tokyo, before becoming one of Japan’s most acclaimed fiction writers.
Six Four
is his sixth novel, and a phenomenon of Japanese crime literature: having sold over 1 million copies domestically.
Six Four
is his first novel to be published in the English language.
Snowflakes danced through the evening light.
The man’s legs were stiff as he stepped from the taxi. A forensics official in a police-issue overcoat was waiting outside the entrance to the station. He ushered the man inside. They passed a work area for duty officers and continued along a gloomy corridor before taking a side door out to the officers’ parking area.
The mortuary stood by itself at the far end of the grounds, a windowless structure with a tin roof. The low rumbling of the extractor fan told him there was a body inside. The official unlocked the door and stepped back. He gave the man a deferential look, indicating he would wait outside.
I forgot to pray
.
Yoshinobu Mikami pushed open the door. The hinges groaned. His eyes and nose registered Cresol. He could feel the tips of Minako’s fingers digging through the fabric of his coat, into his elbow. Light glared down from the ceiling. The waist-high examination table was covered in blue vinyl sheeting; above it, a human shape was visible under a white sheet. Mikami recoiled at the indeterminate size, too small for an adult but clearly not a child.
Ayumi . . .
He swallowed the word, afraid that voicing his daughter’s name might make the body hers.
He began to peel back the white cloth.
Hair. Forehead. Closed eyes. Nose, lips . . . chin.
The pale face of a dead girl came into view. In the same moment the frozen air began to circulate again; Minako’s forehead pushed against his shoulder. The pressure receded from the fingers at his elbow.
Mikami was staring at the ceiling, breathing out from deep in his gut. There was no need to inspect the body further. The journey from Prefecture D – by bullet train then taxi – had taken four hours, but the process of identifying the corpse had been over in seconds. A young girl; drowned, suicide. They had wasted no time after receiving the call. The girl, they were told, had been found in a lake a little after midday.
Her chestnut hair was still damp. She looked fifteen or sixteen, perhaps a little older. She hadn’t been in the water for long. There were no signs of bloating, and the slender outline running from her forehead to her cheeks was, along with her childlike lips, unbroken, preserved as though she were still alive.
It seemed a bitter irony. The girl’s delicate features were, he supposed, the kind Ayumi had always longed for. Even now, three months later, Mikami was still unable to think back on what had happened with a cool head.
There had been a noise from Ayumi’s room upstairs. A frenzied sound, like somebody trying to kick through the floor. Her mirror was in pieces. She’d been sitting with the lights off in the corner of her room. Punching, scratching her face, trying to tear it apart:
I hate this face. I want to die.
Mikami faced the dead girl and pressed his hands together. She would have parents, too. They would have to come to this place, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, and face up to the awful reality.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
His voice was hoarse. Something dry was caught in his throat.
Minako seemed vacant; she made no attempt to nod. Her swollen pupils were like glass beads, empty of thought or emotion. This wasn’t their first time – in the last three months they had already identified two bodies of Ayumi’s age.
Outside, the snow had turned to sleet. Three figures stood breathing chalky clouds in the dark of the parking area.
‘A great relief.’
The pale, clearly good-natured station captain proffered his card with a hesitant smile. He was in full uniform, even though it was outside working hours. The same was true of the director, and of the section chief of Criminal Investigations flanking his sides. Mikami recognized it as a sign of respect, in case he’d identified the girl as his daughter.
He gave them a low bow. ‘Thank you for getting in touch so quickly.’
‘Not at all.’
We’re all police.
Skipping any further formalities, the captain turned to gesture at the building and said, ‘Come in, you should warm up a little.’
There was a nudge in the back of Mikami’s coat. He turned and caught Minako’s imploring gaze. She wanted to leave as soon as possible. He felt the same way.
‘That’s very kind, but we should get going. We have a train to catch.’
‘No, no, you should stay. We’ve arranged a hotel.’
‘We appreciate your consideration, but we really do need to go. I have to work tomorrow.’
When he said this, the captain’s gaze dropped to the card in his hands.
Superintendent Yoshinobu Mikami. Press Director. Inspector, Administrative Affairs Department, Personnel Division. Prefecture D Police Headquarters.
He sighed as he looked back up.
‘It must be tough, having to deal with the press.’
‘It can be,’ Mikami said evasively. He could picture the mutinous faces of the reporters he’d left back in Media Relations. They had been in the middle of a heated argument over the format of press releases when the call had come in to notify him of the drowned girl. He had got to his feet and walked out without
a word, earning the wrath of the reporters, who were unaware of his family situation:
We’re not finished here. Are you running away, Mikami?
‘Have you been in Media Relations long?’ The captain looked sympathetic. In district stations, relations with the press were handled by the station’s vice-captain or vice-director; in smaller, regional stations, it was the captain himself who stood in the firing line.
‘Just since the spring. Although I had a brief stint there a long time ago.’
‘Have you always worked in Administrative Affairs?’
‘No. I spent a long time as a detective in Second Division.’ Even now, this engendered a certain amount of pride.
The captain nodded uncertainly. It was unlikely, even in the regional headquarters, that he had seen any examples of detectives switching into the role of press director.
‘I would imagine, with your insights into Criminal Investigations, that the press might actually listen to you.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
‘You know, it’s a bit of a problem here. There are . . . certain reporters who like to write what they please, true or not.’
The captain scowled and, without changing his expression, waved towards the garage. Mikami was troubled to see the front lights of the captain’s black car flick on. The taxi he’d kept waiting was nowhere to be seen. There was another nudge in his back, but he was hesitant at this point to call another taxi and upset the well-meaning captain.
It was already dark when they drove to the station.
‘Here, this is the lake,’ the captain said from the passenger seat, sounding a little awestruck as a deeper stretch of darkness appeared beyond the window to the right. ‘The internet really is appalling. There is a horrible website, the “Top Ten Suicide Spots” – this lake is listed there. They’ve given it an eerie name, something like the “Lake of Promise”.’