Six Four (16 page)

Mikami decided he would need to dig a little.

‘I understand it was your decision, to withhold her identity.’

‘That’s right. Sakaniwa phoned to discuss the matter from District Y. I made the call.’

‘Could I ask you to reconsider? The press aren’t going to relent unless something changes. In light of the fact that the commissioner’s visit is so close, could I ask you this one time . . . as an emergency measure—’

‘You’re pushing it now, Mikami. It’s time you stopped clinging to that ridiculous idea and came up with a new strategy.’

His tone had been less cutting than the words themselves. Akama was still caught in the con man’s dilemma. Something else was going on. Mikami’s unease was only aggravated by the fact that Sakaniwa, a man very much in Akama’s favour, was involved.

‘Sir, is there something else that is stopping us from revealing her identity, something other than the fact she’s pregnant?’

‘Of course there is,’ Akama answered with surprising openness. It felt as though he’d been waiting for Mikami to ask. ‘The issue of anonymity is on the agenda.’

The agenda?

‘I assume you are aware that central government is currently in talks on two bills, one on privacy, the other on the protection of individual rights?’

‘I am.’

The subject was one that often emerged from the mouths of the press. The legislation was unforgivable, no different to laying open restrictions on the press. They wouldn’t stand for it.

‘The bills are being subjected to intense criticism from the press, but this is simply their own actions turning full circle – they must reap what they have sown. Whenever there’s a big case they swarm in and create more damage for the casualties, all the time underplaying any cases that would reflect badly on their institution. What is it but impudence when such people attempt to lay blame on us and dress themselves up as watchdogs of the peace?’

Akama paused to rub some balm over his lips.

‘The two bills will eventually be passed. That is when we’ll tackle the question of anonymous reporting. We plan to lobby the government and establish a review committee to discuss official policy on crime victims. We will incorporate a paragraph that gives us the final decision over whether or not to release their identity to the public. While this will initially limit us to crime victims, once the Cabinet decision has been made and we are given the green light, we will be able to stretch the interpretation to fit our needs. We will be in the driving seat from the beginning to the end. We will seize control of every aspect of our press reporting.’

Mikami finally understood . . . why it was that Akama had so relentlessly pushed for such a hard-line approach.

The issue of anonymity had become one of the NPA’s projects. Or, perhaps, one of Akama’s. From the hints of pride evident in the way he’d talked about ‘Cabinet decisions’ and ‘review committees’, it was possible this was something Akama was hoping to push through once he’d returned to Tokyo.

Mikami had already guessed that Akama was unlikely to reverse his decision, but he couldn’t help a growing sense of disgruntlement. He knew his idea of ‘thinking out loud’ didn’t run counter to Tokyo’s goals. It was standard in the force to treat unofficial or covert actions as though they had never happened.

‘If I have your understanding, you may go.’

‘Is that the only reason?’ Mikami asked, not thinking.

This seemed to throw Akama a little. But only a moment later a spark of curiosity registered under his glasses. ‘What are you getting at, Mikami?’

‘Is that all – the only reason you have for withholding her identity?’ Mikami asked, having switched completely to the role of detective. The con man’s dilemma was still there. He could see it. Akama was still hiding something.

‘Since you asked . . . perhaps I’ll let you into it.’ Akama broke into a smile. ‘The truth is, the woman in question is the daughter of Takuzo Kato.’

Mikami felt his whole frame tense.

Takuzo Kato. Acting chairman of
King Cement
, and now in his second year as a member of the Prefecture D Public Safety Committee.

‘He pushed the decision through?’ The words came out like gunfire.

‘No, this is just us trying to help,’ Akama answered, his expression equable.

In the regions, being a member of the Public Safety Committee was decoration and nothing more. It was an honorary role where the only obligation was to meet once a month with the station captain to hold a casual discussion over some food; it had no particular authority over Administrative Affairs. But the organizational chart painted a different picture. The Prefectural HQ was officially subject to the guidance of the three members forming the committee. Was that why they were helping? No – they would issue an anonymous report as an ostensible act of
goodwill, while creating an obligation in the mind of one of the prefecture’s most powerful financial authorities, effectively branding him ‘pro-police’ until the day of his death.

‘His daughter really is pregnant. Sakaniwa had initially asked me to suppress the entire report, but, well, the accident was a serious one, and I knew it would be a real pain if the man’s family began to kick up a fuss, so I decided to opt for making the report anonymous. Now, I hope I have your understanding on this matter.’

Mikami didn’t know how to respond. His initial shock had dissipated, leaving him smouldering with anger and distrust. Hanako Kikunishi, the daughter of a member of the safety committee. He was press director, why hadn’t he been told?

‘I told you before, Mikami.’ Akama looked astonished. ‘Your work involves negotiating directly with the press. If you knew the truth, what guarantee would I have had that you wouldn’t give something away with a stray look, or something in the way you acted? It’s surely easier to be assertive if you don’t know anything?’

Mikami felt as if he’d tumbled into a gaping hole, and it took a moment for his emotions to respond.
Be assertive . . . if you don’t know anything . . .
The fact of the matter was that he
had
been assertive with the press. He’d been aggressive, even, and all because Akama had kept him out of the loop.

I don’t understand why you’re so worked up. You know the trend in reporting is increasingly heading towards anonymity.

That’s how scary it is. To face having your name in the papers.

Maybe she’s the daughter of someone important.
He had actually shouted Yamashina down after the man’s snide accusation.

He’d been made to act the fool.

Mikami dropped his head to the floor. He felt his face and body flush as a burning shame, furnace-like in its force, began to well up inside him. He’d put on a serious face and made a stand against the reporters, but he’d been ignorant. He could argue that
the words hadn’t been his own. That he’d simply been carrying out his duty. Yet, he also knew he hadn’t stood there simply as a mouthpiece relaying Akama’s directions. Was it truly acceptable to give the press full responsibility over dealing with a pregnant woman? Mikami had seen the sense in the position the Prefectural HQ had taken. It was why he’d spoken out, why he’d thought hard about how to put an end to the endless struggle.

But . . .

The HQ’s position had been a sham. An utter sham.

Mikami pressed his eyes shut. Akama was right. He
had
told Mikami before.
You can hardly say anything if you don’t know anything. Right?
He was a fool for having forgotten. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Hadn’t Akama always, from the very beginning, sought to treat him as a puppet?

‘Anyway, that’s by the by. Do you have an update on the arrangements for visiting Amamiya’s house?’

Mikami didn’t reply. He had reopened his eyes but was still unable to meet the other man’s gaze.

‘Is something the matter? Speak up.’

Mikami maintained a resolute silence.

Akama’s upper body jerked forwards from the couch. His hands came together in a sharp clap, like a sumo wrestler gearing up to attack.

‘Look. At. Me.’

Mikami’s eyes grew large. His panic reflex kicked in, but the signal was weak. Ayumi’s features wavered like a mirage, buckling under the force of his indignation.

Akama slowly looked him up and down, measuring his reaction. His lips came together in a tapered smile. ‘It wouldn’t do for you to misunderstand, so let me make one thing clear. It would be unwise for you to assume, if you were to be dismissed from your position as press director, that you would ever be returned to Criminal Investigations.’

The image of a resignation letter flashed into Mikami’s mind.
In that instant he felt himself lose control of his emotions.
That’s it. I’m done for. This is the last time. Why the hell should I have to lick the boots of this sadist masquerading as an officer?
The image of Ayumi disappeared.

Another jumped into its place.

This time it was Minako, her eyes despairing and dark, entreating. Mikami’s head seemed to lurch violently. He saw the dance of snowflakes. A white cloth, the ashen face of a district captain, the pallid, lifeless features of a young girl . . . the images tore across his retina in quick succession. Minako’s hopes were pinned on each of his 260,000 colleagues. She was counting on their eyes and ears.

Someone was speaking in the distance.

‘What is happening with Amamiya?’

No reply.

‘Mikami, I am asking you a question. Please respond.’

Akama’s voice was close. Too close.

Mikami looked up. He realized his mouth was trembling. ‘I . . . we’re still in discussions.’ The words seemed to sap at his strength.

‘Well, look sharp. I need to report to the commissioner’s office early next week. Now, there’s one more thing you should probably know. The pensioner Committee Member Kato’s daughter ran into – he passed away just an hour ago. I have already relayed instructions to Sakaniwa that he not mention this unless the press specifically ask. I expect you to show the same discretion.’

Akama got to his feet. He was a good ten centimetres shorter than Mikami, but it felt as though his eyes were bearing down on him from a great height.

The windows in Media Relations had no view. The field of vision was blocked by the archive building, built close enough almost to graze the HQ’s main building. Mikami was sitting back in his chair, half turned so he was staring vacantly out at the rusted, red-brown wall of the archive. It wasn’t that he was daydreaming. He doubted he would ever have the time to indulge in such an activity, not until the day he died.

A serious accident had become a fatal accident.

It had once been the case that accidents listed as ‘fatal’ only included those in which the victim died within twenty-four hours of it taking place. It was a trick the police had used to bring down the number of cases involving fatalities. The press had launched an offensive, and now the force integrated deaths outside the twenty-four-hour period into the statistic.

Hiding the fact that the driver was a daughter of a committee member; concealing the fact that the pensioner had died. It was a perfect example of the police seizing control of the process, ‘from the beginning to the end’. A noise prompted Mikami to look around; Mikumo had just placed a fresh mug of tea on his desk. He glimpsed the thin frame of someone about to leave the room behind her, an SLR camera in hand.

‘And where are you off to?’

Kuramae flinched and came to a stop, backtracking a little before he replied. ‘Just Fureai park. The police band is putting on a mini concert, so I thought I could go take a few shots . . .’

The response already in Mikami’s throat came straight out. ‘Get Mikumo to do it. Didn’t I give you instructions to go next door? Hurry up and get over there. I want you to get at least a couple of them on our side.’

Kuramae was standing bolt upright, utterly pale. Mikami averted his gaze. He’d seen an image of himself, superimposed neatly over the man. Kuramae excused himself. Mikumo followed from behind, the camera he’d given her over her shoulder. Mikami made a call, took a quick sip of the tea, then walked sharply out of the office.

The outside world appeared somehow different.

Perhaps it was because he’d become resigned to being Akama’s guard dog. He would fully commit to his role as a puppet of Administrative Affairs. He’d made his decision. Now he knew he’d lost even the option of handing in his notice, he no longer cared about the content of his work.

He would keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. He would get results and see it through. That was all there was to it.

There was no reason to let it get to him. Wasn’t it what he’d always done? He’d delivered a psychotic killer who had disembowelled three women to the execution chamber. He’d reduced a mayor who had resorted to taking bribes to support his lovers to a grovelling mess in the interrogation room. He’d waged a psychological battle with a con man with an IQ of 160, emerging victorious after staring into his eyes for twenty-two days in a row. He had no reason to consider himself any less capable – having come through the bloodbath of Criminal Investigations, following orders, getting the results – than the office executives who spent their days in a more mundane, nine-to-five existence.

He could play the ferocious watchdog. All he had to do was fight his way through the current situation, through the department itself, then finally gouge out Akama’s throat.

As he walked down the corridor Mikami checked his watch. It
was just after 10 a.m. They had less than six hours until the deadline the Press Club had set for their response.

He reflected on the situation with a cool head.

He couldn’t reveal the woman’s identity. And he couldn’t ‘think out loud’. Which meant that, at 4 p.m., he would have to enter the Press Club and refuse their terms. The reporters would go on the rampage and descend on the captain’s office; they would force him to accept their written protest. If he failed to act, the unthinkable would become reality.

There was only one way he could ensure a soft landing without compromising the department’s position. He had to get the press to agree to leave the written protest with either himself or Ishii, then consign it to sleep for ever in the depths of an Administrative Affairs safe.