Six Four (20 page)

Even Akama, then, had reached the conclusion that it was necessary to try to placate the press. The round-table meetings were attended by the managing editors and branch chiefs from each of the thirteen groups that made up the Press Club. While the meetings were usually convened towards the middle of the month, an emergency session had been set up now, in the middle of the unrest,
in order to appeal to the executives before the position of a few aggrieved reporters grew into the stance of the papers themselves.

Would it be enough to defuse the situation? Mikami had only been given permission to ‘explain’ events, not to offer an apology, or even an excuse.

He stubbed his half-smoked cigarette into his ashtray.

He had resigned himself to having to stand in the firing lane at the meeting, but the burden of having to work on Amamiya was heavy in his mind. The task of convincing him to receive the commissioner general felt untenable, regardless of how many times he might try. He could think of nothing convincing to say to the man. And he was unable to stomach the idea of tricking him into accepting. At the same time, Mikami’s desire to understand Amamiya’s plight refused to wither away. If anything, it was growing stronger.

What was the real reason behind his refusal? Why was he trying to keep the police at a distance?

If he could only learn the answer, Amamiya’s acceptance would come as a natural consequence. Mikami felt sure of it. For now, however, the best he could do – and still call it fair play – was to make an advance visit to the Investigative Team and see what they could offer him. The detectives would have to have some kind of insight into Amamiya’s current emotional state, into why it had changed over time.

His main concern was the gag order, imposed by Director Arakida himself. That, and whatever it was Futawatari was up to . . .

But that’s all for tomorrow.

Mikami dragged himself out from the
kotatsu
and changed into his pyjamas. Keeping quiet, he walked down the corridor and into the bathroom. He twisted the tap a fraction and used the thin stream of water to wash his face, in silence. His exhaustion clung to the mirror.
This unfortunate face.
The thought had come to him countless times. With no means to switch it for another,
or to throw it away, he’d put up with it for forty-six years. The wrinkles had grown noticeably more pronounced under his eyes and on his forehead. The skin was beginning to loosen over his cheeks. He only needed to age a little more, another three or five years, and people would stop commenting on his resemblance to Ayumi.

She’s alive, of course she is.

It was because she was alive that she hadn’t been found. She was in hiding, that was all. And she had chosen somewhere no one knew; that was why she hadn’t turned up. Hide and seek. Tag. She’d loved to pester him to play with her, jumping around like a puppy when he got home from work or was off duty.

Recoiling suddenly, Mikami turned around.

He thought he’d heard something.

He shut off the tap and concentrated on listening.

This time he heard it clearly. The doorbell.

It was almost midnight. He flew out of the bathroom before he’d had time to think. His heart was thumping in his chest. Minako had come out of the bedroom. He took her by the shoulders, gently moving her to one side as he raced the length of the corridor. He switched on the hall light and stepped barefoot down from the tatami, bracing himself as he opened the door.

Cold air. Fallen leaves. A man’s shoes.

Yamashina from the
Zenken Times
was standing outside the door.

‘Sorry to intrude so late . . .’

Mikami looked back into the corridor. His expression was probably confirmation enough: Minako’s white bathrobe disappeared quietly back into the bedroom. He turned back to face the reporter. He levelled the man with a frosty glare, but noted a curious absence of annoyance. Yamashina’s nose was bright red. His collars were up and he was rubbing his hands to keep warm.

‘Get the hell inside.’ Mikami motioned him into the hall before shutting the door on the icy wind.

‘I’m sorry about what happened.’ Yamashina gave Mikami an apologetic bow, then volunteered an explanation of the events of the club’s meeting. He said that Akikawa had been the one behind it all. ‘It was the first thing he brought up. That you’d been using dirty tricks to get some of us on your side. That we’d be playing into your hands if we let you split us apart. Then Utsuki . . . from the
Mainichi . . .
he started to join in. After that, we couldn’t really suggest leaving the protest with someone else. Fact is, even the local papers started to get angry. Can’t blame them, really. I mean, they’d been ready to help out, then they learn you’ve been dealing with the hard-liners behind their backs . . .’

Mikami said nothing, just listened. For the most part, things fell into place. When he’d first heard that the decision had been unanimous, his reaction had gone beyond mere surprise and anger; he’d simply felt deflated. But he saw now how it might have happened. Their strategy had backfired. And Mikami’s own idea of trying to make a deal with the
Toyo
had been the main culprit. By electing to take the matter to Azusa – and over Akikawa’s head – Mikami had provoked the latter’s anger. Akikawa had taken the story on the bid-rigging as his due, and launched a full-scale retaliation to expose the backhand tactics of Media Relations. The other reporters had started jumping at shadows. Utsuki had started to feel nervous for having been party to the talks with Suwa.
If I’m not careful, I’ll end up isolated in the club
. The fear, no doubt, drove his decision to switch sides.

‘Still, he’s good.’

‘Akikawa?’

‘Yeah. I’m pretty much universally hated now.’

‘Not that I think Akikawa has anything against you personally, or that he’s hell-bent on attacking Media Relations,’ Yamashina said, assuming the look of someone who knew what he was talking about. ‘His target’s higher up. You know, the suits . . . the career officers. He’s got a bit of an inferiority complex when it comes to people from Tokyo University. That’s why
he’s being so vocal about protesting directly to your captain . . . he wants to take a shot at the big cheeses. Basically, he gets off on acting like he’s an equal, wants the attention.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the university he went to.’

‘Not for most people, sure. But he got a little drunk once when we were out together, confided in me about it. Both of his parents graduated from Tokyo University. He’d been on track to go himself. When he failed his entrance exams, he told me he seriously considered killing himself.’

Knowing who all this was coming from, Mikami was only half listening. Yamashina’s voice dropped to a whisper.

‘Anyway, was it true?’

‘Was what true?’

‘You know, were you really . . . coming to us in secret?’

That was the real reason for his visit – he hadn’t come over to offer an apology. He would know from experience that, if Suwa had been approaching certain reporters behind the scenes, he would have used stories or other incentives as bait; that Mikami would have something Yamashina could use, and that he might have already leaked it to some of the other papers.

‘Take a seat.’

The two men lowered themselves on to the cold step marking the threshold of the corridor. Mikami felt ready to sympathize with the mindset of the defeated. Reporters who lacked the flair to secure leads by themselves would sometimes appear on the doorsteps of media officials at night. Having failed to pick up a story, despite repeated trips to see various detectives, they would knock at the doors of Media Relations staff in the desperate hope of procuring scraps. It was taboo. Media Relations had been established with the express purpose of equalizing all communications to the press. There was no doubt that Yamashina was burning with shame. To visit Mikami was the same as admitting he was a second- or third-rate reporter, that he lacked the ability to stand his ground with the detectives. Even then, he’d been compelled to
visit. The mindset of a reporter who couldn’t land a story was no different to that of a used-car salesman who couldn’t sell a car, or a life-insurance salesperson who couldn’t sell a policy.

His discomfort getting the better of him, Yamashina avoided the direct approach.

‘Has the beauty queen gone to bed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And Ayumi?’

‘Yeah, Ayumi, too.’

Yamashina had been coming around every now and then ever since he started working for the
Times.
He had a gift for joking around and often had Minako – and Ayumi, before she fell ill with her anxiety – in stitches. Even when Mikami was preoccupied about his ‘criminal record’, he had often, until he banned Minako from letting reporters into the house, emerged from his bath at night to find Yamashina standing in his living room.

Mikami was suddenly struck with an odd thought. While his emergence from exile had resulted in him feeling allergic to reporters, he had still, in his following years as a detective, responded to them whenever they turned up outside his door at night. He’d felt something that was neither a sense of camaraderie, nor a feeling of being stuck with them. Their positions were different but they were tracking the same cases. They shared an almost kindred fanaticism.

But did that apply to the man sat next to him? He hadn’t changed. He might have been in relatively high spirits, but he was the same old loser, still unable to land a story. And the guy was having a rough time. Two months earlier, Otobe, one of the paper’s more competent chiefs, had been headhunted by the
Yomiuri
, leaving Yamashina to fill the position, despite his lack of experience.

The
Toyo
would no doubt run an exposé on the CEO of Hakkaku Construction in the next day’s morning edition. It was a big scoop, one they’d only been able to get because of their insistence
on protesting to the captain. The exclusive would leave Yamashina with nothing to do but drown his sorrows, despite having agreed to Mikami’s conditions and tried to help him save face. Mikami gave a disgusted snort.

He would still make his deadline. The words were already on their way out when Yamashina started to speak.

‘Ayumi’s shoes . . . I can see they’re gone.’

Mikami stared, wide-eyed.

Still looking down, Yamashina continued. ‘You know, we can try and help, too. We know the area, we’ve got feelers all over the place . . .’ He spoke in a monotone, the words conveying any number of potential meanings. He looked up and met Mikami’s gaze.

On display were the brittle fangs of a stray mongrel, ready to break.

The gag order was real.

Earlier that morning Mikami had called Kusano, a contemporary who had been part of the Six Four Investigative Team. While they weren’t that close, they knew each other well enough to get a can of coffee each time they met.
I’ve got something I need to ask you, concerning Yoshio Amamiya.
Kusano had become flustered the moment Mikami had said the words, ending the call and saying he was on his way out.

It was Saturday – a day off for anyone who wasn’t working shifts. Mikami connected call after call. The four people he knew relatively well had all told him they were too busy to meet him. The way they’d spoken clearly suggested that they’d been ordered to keep quiet. Akusawa – the fifth person on his list – had broken into apologies the moment Mikami introduced himself.
Sorry, but I can’t talk about it. No hard feelings, okay?
Hearing the fear in the man’s voice, Mikami had finally been forced to admit that Criminal Investigations had decided, out of enmity or perhaps even hostility, to keep Administrative Affairs out of the loop.

The Iron Curtain.

The outmoded phrase popped into Mikami’s thoughts. He had only half believed what Itokawa had suggested in Second Division, just one day earlier, but it had all been true. And the gag order, which had seemingly originated from Director Arakida himself, wasn’t even limited to Second Division – it had permeated the entirety of First Division, too.

He shook his head and went outside to collect the post. It was usually his first task of the day to read through the morning papers, but he’d put it off until now. He skimmed through all eight papers. As expected, the headlines in the local section of the
Toyo
and the
Times
jumped out from the page.

Hakkaku Construction CEO Facing Police Questioning.

Possible Arrest Once Charges Confirmed.

Mikami felt the shame fan out inside him. The intentions behind it aside, each of the scoops had come from Media Relations, from his own mouth. He felt a wave of frustration. Akikawa’s triumphant grin. The sight of Yamashina charging off to make the morning’s deadline. He had no doubt that, for both of them, this was a morning to celebrate.

What did it mean for Media Relations?

The reporters who lost out would be grinding their teeth in frustration. They might overlook the
Toyo
, but they would be suspicious of the
Times
making the story, too, knowing its weakness when it came to Second Division cases, perhaps coming to suspect that Media Relations had played a role in the scoop.

Mikami sighed, closing the paper.

First he needed Suwa to gauge their mood. Akama’s cooling-off period applied only to him, and he would need to know how the other papers had taken the news before deciding on a strategy for the coming week.

‘Oh, you’re going in today?’ Minako called from behind him as he was getting dressed.

‘Yeah. I’ll grab a bite to eat first.’

‘Are you sure you can’t take the day off? You look exhausted.’

‘I’ll be fine, I had a good sleep. It’ll be busy – bit of a storm until the big cheese gets here.’ Mikami offered a smile, hoping not to cause his wife any unnecessary worry. His mind was already on how to breach the wall erected by the gag order. If he was to appeal to Amamiya’s good nature, he would need to get information on the man’s situation from the Investigative Team.
He already knew, from the five calls he’d made earlier, that procuring the information was going to be no easy task. His connections and friendships wouldn’t be much help. There would be nothing he could do if, like Akusawa, they started to fend him off with regretful apologies. Trying to find an opening wouldn’t work; to get through the gag order he first needed to track down the real reason Criminal Investigations had seen fit to impose it.