‘Wow, I didn’t . . . Where is he now?’
‘I just wanted to check he was there. I don’t see us needing him, not for a while yet, anyway.’
Matsuoka was talkative, considering his claim that he was busy. Was it the rush of having Six Four in his sights? Or was it the flip-side of the trepidation he would no doubt be experiencing? Mikami felt he had to ask. He needed to gauge the extent of Matsuoka’s resolve. The matter was something closely related to Media Relations.
‘Sir . . . you realize First Division won’t be celebrated for this, even if you do finally get to put Six Four to rest?’
The message seemed to get through.
‘You know?’
‘Yes, I know what was in the Koda memo.’
‘Okay, so you know.’
The Six Four investigation had become a double-edged sword. If Mesaki were to be arrested, make a full confession, the fact that he’d made three calls to Amamiya would almost certainly come out. The glorious press conference to mark the arrest would, at the same time, become ground zero for the explosive secret Criminal Investigations had kept hidden for fourteen years. After a considered pause, Mikami heard Matsuoka’s low voice.
‘Someone said something to me, a long time ago . . .’
Someone. For a detective, that was enough to know that Matsuoka was referring to Michio Osakabe, the erstwhile director of Criminal Investigations.
‘. . . “Don’t let it get you down. Use it, to get to the truth.”’
Mikami nodded, understanding. There had been a time when Matsuoka had agonized over the knowledge. Angry and disillusioned, having learned the hidden truth about Criminal Investigations, he’d gone to see the retired director in person. That was when Osakabe had told him. That the recording error was also a valuable resource, one they could leverage to arrest the kidnapper.
The Press Coverage Agreement had been disbanded the moment Shoko’s corpse was found. Things had been different then. Fourteen years ago, the police had adhered strictly to the terms of the coverage agreement, supplying the press with comprehensive updates on the investigation’s progress. Through the press, the information had become public knowledge. But none of the papers had mentioned a third call, the call the police had covered up. If a suspect mentioned it during their interrogation, it would show that they knew the truth – that they were the kidnapper.
Continue the investigation with that, and only that, in mind. You need to use every tool at your disposal to bring the kidnapper to justice, whatever it is, even if it’s something capable of bringing the department to its knees.
Osakabe would have issued the reprimand.
Matsuoka would have agreed. He’d made the department’s secret his own, drawn it in close. It would have been in that moment that he became the de facto director of Criminal Investigations.
Arakida hadn’t been up to the task. He hadn’t been seen or heard since the previous day – it was as though he wasn’t even there. He’d gone into hiding. Matsuoka had told him the investigation was related to Six Four. He’d had visions of the bomb, concealed for eight generations of Criminal Investigations Directors, exploding during his term. He was due to move on within the year. His next post had already been decided. So he’d fled the enemy’s jaws and assigned Matsuoka full jurisdiction over the investigation, throwing Ochiai out to handle the press. By keeping his hands clean, he’d tried to position himself outside the blast radius. Even beforehand, he’d been unable to shoulder the burden alone: that was why he’d passed the secret on to Matsuoka. The director’s role had been beyond him from the start.
‘That reminds me. Ogata and Minegishi are in shock, after that.’
‘After what?’
‘After you called them “fucking idiots”. Hit them hard, the way you said that.’
‘Ah. Tell them I’m sorry. The truth is, they were outstanding.’
‘That they are.’
‘The only problem . . . was that I found it a little hard to tell them apart.’
‘Oh?’
‘When I had my eyes closed, I couldn’t tell which was Ogata and which was Minegishi.’
Matsuoka laughed out loud this time. Suppressing it, he said, ‘Mikami, what would you say to working for me again?’
Mikami felt a sudden rush of heat. He sat upright in his seat.
‘If the time should ever come, sir, it would be an honour.’
79
The lights were on when Mikami arrived home.
His eyes caught on something as he made his habitual scan for a takeaway bowl: white flowers blooming next to the wall, in the area that was too small to be called a front garden. Mikami didn’t know much about flowers, but he was still surprised to see them bloom in December. The stems were slumped so the petals hung just above the earth. Only half open, they resembled the clenched hands of a child.
Minako looked no different to usual when she saw him in. The calls weren’t from Ayumi. He found he couldn’t broach the subject straight away.
Asking if she could make a bowl of ramen for him, he took a seat in the kitchen. The time was twenty past seven. The press conference would be under way. He felt as heavy as lead; not tired, but the front of his head felt taut.
‘Those flowers outside, do you know what they’re called?’
‘Oh yes, they’re in bloom,’ Minako said from the counter.
‘Do you know the name?’
‘Christmas roses. I planted them not long before your father passed away. They haven’t flowered for some years now . . . hardy little things.’
She seemed a little brighter than normal. Perhaps it was the effect of having been outside, of breathing the air, feeling the sun, of having been of help.
‘So . . . you saw Amamiya?’
‘Oh, err . . .’
Mikami grinned slyly. ‘It’s okay. Special Ops end once you’re back home with your shoes off.’
‘They do?’
‘Sure. How did he look?’
Minako carried over his bowl of ramen, stayed where she was, then took a seat in front of him.
‘Older, I suppose. Not in a bad way . . .’
Mikami fished at the ramen with his chopsticks.
‘He was standing completely still, with this intense look. He was staring at the other man.’
‘As though he hated him?’
‘Yes, I suppose. But, then he . . .’ Her eyes grew distant. ‘. . . then he stopped and looked up at the sky instead.’
‘At the sky?’
‘There was smoke, rising from the oil drum. He was watching that.’
Right. Smoke rising to the heavens.
‘Our eyes met, just for a moment.’
Mikami’s chopsticks hovered in mid-air. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I was watching the smoke, too, I think; when I looked back down I saw he was looking straight at me. When our eyes met he gave me a little bow.’
‘He bowed?’
‘It looked that way, at least. I can’t see how he would have recognized me, though. It was fourteen years ago, and he’d rushed straight out of the café. He wouldn’t have seen me.’
‘What happened next?’