Six Four (53 page)

Still . . .

‘We should consider this an opportunity. Your son made the call.’ Mikami couldn’t stop the words. ‘Has he done that before? Has he ever tried to call someone before?’

‘No, not once. Although, I can’t say for sure . . . when I’ve been out.’

‘Is the phone cordless?’

‘Hmm? Oh, yes, it is.’

‘Good. Could you tell him I’m on the phone and leave it outside his door? I’ll see if I can’t talk to him.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Her voice shot up a pitch. ‘Please. If you could. That would be wonderful.’

Mikami heard a pattering of slippers. She was rushing. Going upstairs. She stopped, started calling out to her son. Her voice was soothing, mixed with fear. There was a scuffing noise, then the sound of slippers moving away.

The silence that followed was painful. It was easy to picture the phone, lying there on the floor. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Mikami waited, resolute, his entire being focused on listening, intent on not missing even the slightest sound.

Minako’s head popped unexpectedly into view.
What is it?
He held up a hand to stop her from whispering. The hand tensed and he waved her away.

He thought he’d heard something. A door, opening. That’s
what it had sounded like. White noise came down the line. Someone had picked up the phone. Mikami had the handset pressed so hard over his ear the sound felt like a physical force.

The door closing again . . . A creaking sound, a bed or a chair . . .

Confident Hiyoshi had the phone in his room, Mikami opened his mouth to speak.

‘Hiyoshi?’

No answer. Mikami waited a moment. He couldn’t even make out the man’s breathing.

‘This is Mikami. I’m press director at the Prefectural HQ. You called my number a short while ago.’

No response.

‘It’s okay. Phones these days have—’

Mikami broke off, having realized something. Hiyoshi had been working with new technology during his time at NTT. He would have been fully versed in computer technology, long before he became a recluse. He would have a computer of his own. Which meant it was safe to assume he would know about the growth of the caller-display function. He’d known about it and let his number show on purpose.

The call had been an SOS.

‘Did you read my notes?’

No answer.

For Hiyoshi, time had come to a standstill. It had stopped back at Amamiya’s, the moment Urushibara had whispered into his ear.

If the worst comes to the worst, it’s your fault.

‘Everything I wrote is the truth. None of it was your fault.’ He heard an intake of breath. ‘Hiyoshi . . .’

Silence.

‘Hiyoshi. I know you can hear me.’

Again.

Mikami’s sense of his presence seemed to slip away. But . . . he was still on the line. Still listening. Holding his breath, waiting
for the continuation.
I have to say something
. Mikami needed something that would resonate. Something that would find its way to a heart forced to bear responsibility for the death of a young girl, a heart that had been shut away for fourteen years.

He closed his eyes and drew a quiet breath.

‘It was a terrible case . . .’ Mikami had started. ‘For the girl, and her parents, of course. But also for her friends, for the school, for the area she lived in. For us, too.’

Nothing.

‘And for you, Hiyoshi. It must have been terrible, miserable. You ended up having to join us in Amamiya’s house, even though you’d never expected to work in the field. The recorder didn’t work, even though it had during your testing. And you couldn’t have had anyone more repugnant in charge of your unit. The case was cursed with bad luck. Everything that could go wrong did. And the girl ended up losing her life. I understand your pain. I understand the need to blame yourself. But Shoko died because the kidnapper murdered her. It wasn’t because of you.’

Still no response.

‘Okay, so there was an error with the recording. A costly one. But there’s something you need to know – that wasn’t the only mistake made during the investigation. They were everywhere; the whole case was littered with them. I’m not just saying that. There isn’t much we do that isn’t a mistake of some kind, during an investigation. That time the mistakes just happened to come together in a single result – our failure to save the girl. The kidnapper’s still at large, even now. Every officer in the prefecture has to shoulder that burden. To say it’s any one person’s responsibility is ludicrous. It’s good that you feel accountable. It’s proof you’re a decent, caring human being. But it’s wrong to assume blame on everyone’s behalf. No one can endure that. It’s self-indulgent. The blame needs to be shared. All the pain and suffering, it needs to be apportioned equally between every single officer who took part in the investigation. Do you understand?’

He felt like he was in an airless vacuum. He’d never contemplated the existence of a silence so perfect. Hiyoshi’s hand was probably clamped over the mouthpiece, hard enough to make it numb. He was listening; every part of him concentrated in his ears.

‘I don’t know if you remember, but I was there, too. I met Amamiya, and his wife. I followed his car when he left to deliver the ransom. I was there, watching, when he threw the suitcase from the bridge into the river. It still hurts me physically, every time I think about it. I get attacks of remorse, of shame, each time I pass by any of the businesses the kidnapper listed – it all comes back to me. It passes, sure. It’s not there all the time, like it is with you. It’s not constant, but it’s stayed with me. I haven’t forgotten. I couldn’t forget. Nor do I ever want to forget. We all carry a part of it – me, Koda, Kakinuma. We’re not allowed to ease each other’s pain. Shoko and her parents wouldn’t forgive it. That’s why we quietly split the blame. We will carry it to our graves, without ever mentioning it or making excuses. You could spend the rest of your life dwelling on it, and it wouldn’t be enough. The only way we have of keeping Shoko alive is to keep her in our minds. That’s why we have to share the burden.’

Still nothing.

‘I don’t know if you’re listening. I think you are.’

It began to feel like he was shouting into a void. Into a deep forest. Into an ocean the sun couldn’t reach.
I want to know where you are. I’ll come by if it’s somewhere I can visit.
The words in his first letter.

‘Why the silence? You called because you wanted to reach out.’

‘. . .’

‘It’s okay to talk. I’ll listen, whatever it is.’

‘. . .’

‘Try and say something.’

The silence exacerbated the sense of darkness. Mikami felt its pull. He felt something close to panic.

‘Fourteen years. It’s been fourteen years.’

‘. . .’

‘You can’t spend fourteen years in one room. That’s why I wanted to write you the notes. I want to know where you’ve been. The places you’ve visited. Are you in heaven? Hell? The bottom of some ocean? Somewhere in the sky? I want to know how you can stand being alone. Tell me so I can understand. Can no one else join you there? Not even family?’

‘. . .’

‘I was in a diner when I wrote the notes. I spent a long time trying to come up with something to put down; they’re the end result. I wrote exactly what I feel. I really do want to know. Tell me. Where are you now?’

‘. . .’

‘What can I do so we can meet? Tell me how to reach you. If that’s too much for now, let me hear your voice at least. Just a single word will do. Anything.’

The line went dead following a burst of static.

Ayumi . . .

Mikami had fallen into a trance-like state. It felt as though his soul had been sucked through to the other side.

No, not Ayumi . . . Or was it . . .?
Was it possible that, in that silence, all worlds were connected?

He realized he was still holding the phone. He let out a long, deep breath. Pulling himself together, he redialled their number. Hiyoshi’s mother answered.
He didn’t say anything.
Through tears, she still showered him with gratitude.

He felt exhausted. It was a trial even to stand up from the floor. It took him a while to notice Minako. She was sitting at the table in the kitchen area. The chair was turned away. It was a shockingly lonely image. Her thoughts would be on Ayumi. Or maybe on him, for having expended so much effort on someone other than their daughter. He glanced at his hand. He’d used it to wave her away . . . He felt a sudden rush of fear. He moved away
from the phone and into the kitchen. It took all the courage he could muster to sit across from her. With a visible effort, she looked up.

‘Anything wrong?’

The question was automatic. Mikami made a face, acting as though he’d been put upon. ‘It was someone who used to work in Forensics. He quit the force in the aftermath of the kidnapping. Ever since, he’s refused to leave his room.’

‘Right . . .’

‘It’s been fourteen years. His mother’s having a hard time coping.’

Minako said nothing.

‘I thought there might be a chance I could help.’

‘You’re such a good man,’ she snapped, immediately dropping her face into her hands. The gesture made it clear she regretted what she’d said.

‘Minako . . .’

Unconsciously, he reached for her fragile shoulder. It pulled away to leave his hand swimming in mid-air.

He felt suddenly helpless. He gazed into her face, the features obscured under the shadow of her hair. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Seeing no other option, he drew his hand steadily back. His mobile started to vibrate in his jacket. The muffled sound seemed to echo through the whole room. Agitated, Mikami took it out and flicked it open.

It was Suwa.

‘Akama’s back. He’s asking to see you.’

‘Okay.’ Mikami stood and turned his back to Minako.

‘Can you make it back to the station?’

Mikami walked a little. He stepped around the kitchen counter and got to the sink before turning to face Minako again. She radiated despair.

‘No.’

‘Okay. I’ll go and report what’s happened. I’ll tell him we’ve
agreed to full disclosure and convinced the press to call off the boycott. I won’t go into any more of the details.’

‘Appreciated.’

Suwa fell silent, staying on the line even though they’d finished the conversation. Mikami lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘It was an unrelated call. You can let Kuramae and Mikumo know, too.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mikami closed up his mobile and walked back to the table. As though switching places, Minako stood to get dinner ready. The sound of the knife was muted. From behind, she gave an impression of being alone, of being an elderly woman preparing her own dinner. They didn’t talk during dinner, or after they’d moved into the living room. Mikami turned on the TV. He flipped to a channel showing a run-of-the-mill quiz programme. Minako inhabited the edge of his vision. Her eyes were on the TV but focused on some other place. The caller hadn’t been Ayumi. He knew Minako would be suffering after making that barbed comment. He ought to say something, but he was hesitant, the feeling of rejection still lingering in his hand. His head was buzzing with Mizuki Murakushi’s story.
Are you okay?
He wondered if he’d really said the words. He was starting to wonder if Mizuki had just made it up. Even after they’d got married he couldn’t be sure. They’d been together for over twenty years, but he couldn’t remember ever noticing a shift in her mood and saying something to comfort her.

They were in bed by eleven o’clock. Minako had suddenly said goodnight; he’d replied that he was tired and that he’d join her. His every sense told him he had to. More than anything, he understood how important it was to stay at her side. They might both have been praying for their daughter’s safety, but that didn’t make their relationship anything more than that of a normal marriage. He was certain the insecurity and fragility that was creeping between them was no different to the kind that existed between every husband and wife.

The bedroom was cold. Minako switched off the small lamp next to her futon. The white of the handset she kept by her pillow faded into dark, followed by the after-image. Mikami kept his breath quiet on his own futon. He felt uncomfortable even turning over. He could make out the faint sound of Minako’s breathing. His chest felt constricted, as though the oxygen in the room was getting thin. He wasn’t the slightest bit drowsy. Five minutes felt like an hour. After a while, probably unable to sleep herself, Minako let out a quiet sigh. It sounded like she’d given in.

‘Can’t sleep?’ Mikami said, using the darkness as an ally. ‘The wind’s died down outside.’

‘It has . . .’

‘I suppose it’s hard to sleep when it’s too quiet.’

‘Right.’

‘Sorry . . .’

‘For what?’

‘For being on the phone for so long, on a day like today. For getting so worked up, for the sake of a stranger’s son.’

Minako didn’t say anything.

‘One good turn deserves another . . . do a good deed, and it’ll find its way back.’

Still, silence.

‘Do you regret this?’

He sensed Minako turning his way.

‘Regret what . . .?’

‘Getting together, with me.’

A short pause.

‘Do
you
?’

‘Me? What reason would I ever have to regret marrying you?’

‘Well . . . okay, good.’

‘And you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Okay.’

‘Why would I? Don’t be so silly,’ Minako said, reprimanding him gently.

To Mikami, it sounded like someone who was trying their best. He’d ruined her life. Out of all the paths her life could have taken, he’d led her down the worst. The thoughts came like tidal waves.

‘You could have stayed in the force.’

‘Hmm?’

‘You gave up being an officer because you married me. Don’t you regret that?’

‘Why would you ask me that?’

‘It’s something Mizuki said. She told me you worked harder than anyone else.’

‘I was thinking of leaving, even before we got married.’

‘You were?’

‘I wasn’t suited to the job.’

Not suited?
It was the first he’d heard of it.