‘It was a great relief . . . that it wasn’t your daughter.’ She was talking about the day before. ‘I know they’ll find her. I’m sure of it.’
Her voice sounded nasal. She looked ready to cry. It was at times like this that Mikami always struggled to find a way to respond. Just . . . leave it be. That was as close as he could get to what he really felt. Strict rules were in place to guard the privacy of police officers and their families. Yet this was only the case with regard to those outside the force; within it, stories spread in the blink of an eye. Colleagues would approach with no warning and ask after Ayumi. They did it out of kindness. It was because they were concerned. But no matter how often Mikami reminded himself of this, he was still unable to feel genuine gratitude. Akama’s motivations were clearly different, and there were many more who shared his philosophy. Despite the fact that they hardly knew Mikami, these people would assume a concerned expression and worm their way over as soon as they caught sight of him. Some actually seemed pleased, as if Mikami’s distress gave them an opportunity to either mend fences, or angle for something in return. These were the ones who were the most likely to voice what seemed like genuine, heartfelt compassion. They would look on, smug, as Mikami bowed and offered thanks. He felt a growing aversion to other people. It scared him. He’d had enough of it.
Still . . .
‘Thank you,’ he said.
It went without saying that the young female officer sitting next to him was one of the few who did actually merit his trust.
‘Oh, you needn’t . . .’
She blushed and straightened her back. She was almost worryingly good-natured. Given that she had chosen to become a police officer, she was already likely to be more straight-laced and diligent than the average person; even with that, Mikami knew she was special. She had grown up in a world where morality, sex and even the values of basic human kindness were in chaos; despite this, nothing about her suggested even the slightest pollution. She was beautiful and innocent. In a way, she reminded him of Minako when she was younger. It was only natural that the majority of single officers were infatuated with her; even in the Press Room, more than a few of the reporters had designs on taking her back to Tokyo with them. Suwa had already mentioned that Akikawa was one of them. It was the main reason Mikami still refused to let her be directly involved with them.
The landscape rolling ahead was rural with a smattering of private houses: the western limits of City D. After a while, the giant pickle factory – almost the size of a leisure centre – came into view, looming over the riverbank marking the boundary of the next village. The house appeared next, still on the factory grounds, a traditional Japanese structure with a tiled roof. Amamiya Pickles. The idea of pickling aubergines and cucumbers in small tubs and selling them had been a success, and the business had grown rapidly. The factory had regularly featured in the news; in hindsight, it was likely that it was this success which had caught the attention of the kidnapper.
Mikami gestured for Mikumo to pull over, getting her to park in an empty plot of land a short distance from the family home.
‘Wait here.’
It felt insensitive to leave her to sit with the girl’s parents. If none of this had ever happened, Shoko Amamiya would now be a young woman of roughly Mikumo’s age.
Mikami got out of the car and walked resolutely down the narrow road – back then, an unsurfaced path – leading to the building.
We’ll bring the bastard in . . .
Mikami recalled the day he had first entered the house, the burning heat in his chest. Fourteen years had gone by. He had certainly never imagined that his next visit would be to arrange a PR exercise. Whatever the purpose, the visit brought very mixed feelings. Each time he blinked he saw Ayumi. It was going to be difficult to stay businesslike, meeting parents who had already lost their daughter. He straightened the front of his jacket and gazed, without pressing it straight away, at the buzzer marked ‘Amamiya’.
8
The heater, having just been turned on, started to click as a warm stream of air flowed into the room.
‘It’s been a long time.’
Mikami declined the offer of a floor cushion and placed both hands on the tatami before him. Keeping his head low, he slid the box of rice crackers over. Yoshio Amamiya only nodded faintly.
While the walls had darkened a little, the layout and furniture of the living room he’d been shown into seemed unchanged. Amamiya’s transformation, on the other hand, had been dramatic and far surpassed that of fourteen years. Fifty-four. It didn’t seem possible. His hair had turned white and been left to grow. His skin was pale, leaden. His cheeks were morbidly thin and a mass of wrinkles clustered like knife cuts around his eyes and forehead. It was the face of a man whose daughter had been murdered. A face ravaged by grief and suffering – that was the only way Mikami could describe it.
The next room contained the Buddhist altar. The sliding doors had been left open, making it impossible to ignore the imposing object next to the far wall. There were two photos on display. Their daughter Shoko. Next to her, Amamiya’s wife . . .
He hadn’t known.
Toshiko Amamiya. When had she passed away?
He had to pay his respects. But it was difficult to find a chance to broach the subject. Amamiya was sitting at the other side of the low table, the very essence of an empty shell. His gaze was hovering around Mikami’s torso, but there was a lack of certainty in the sunken eyes, as if he were seeing something else entirely.
Breaking under the weight of the silence, Mikami took out his card.
Amamiya saying his name first. Seeming happy to see him again. Somewhere in his head, Mikami had built up a picture of how he’d expected the reunion to work. So he’d hesitated. Press Director, not Detective. He’d felt a growing feeling of shame about the admission, and as a result had missed the opportunity to present his card.
‘I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. This is my new position.’
Amamiya’s eyes showed no reaction. His right hand was resting on the table. The fingers, together with the skin on the back of them, were wrinkled and dry. The nail on his index finger was cracked at the tip, blackened along with the skin like a blood blister. Every now and then the finger would twitch. But it didn’t reach for Mikami’s card on the table. Loss of social function. Reclusive behaviour. It was as if Amamiya had crossed into that kind of category. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t working any more. Mikami had heard that, ever since the kidnapping, Amamiya had left the management of Amamiya Pickles in the hands of his cousin.
‘Excuse me, but . . .’ He had to ask the question. ‘When did your wife . . .?’
Amamiya looked dimly towards the altar. For a while he stayed like that. Eventually, his head came back around. Mikami thought he saw a dark glow in the man’s pupils.