At this, the reporters opened their notebooks.
‘The name of the driver involved in the Oito accident is Hanako Kikunishi. “Hana” using the character for “dazzling”. “Ko” as in “child”. “Kiku” as in “daily”, and “nishi” as in “west”. She is thirty-two years old. Her address is 1-15-3, Sayamamachi, Oito.’
His voice was met with the sound of pens scribbling. In a few seconds they had finished and looked back up.
It was the moment of their victory over anonymous reporting. They’d succeeded in learning the driver’s identity. Yet they showed no sign of arrogance. The anger was gone. They’d relaxed. This seemed true even for Akikawa.
‘I have more information,’ Mikami continued. Stepping outside. ‘Hanako Kikunishi is the daughter of Takuzo Kato, the chairman of King Cement.’
The reporters were silent. One by one, their expressions transformed as the revelation sank in. Kato, from King Cement . . . Isn’t he . . .? He’s on the Public Safety Committee! Their expressions sharpened abruptly.
‘Is that why you kept her identity secret?’
‘I’ll leave that for you to decide.’
‘Sorry?’
A few of the reporters jumped to their feet. You’ve got to be kidding. How corrupt can you get? Utsuki, Ushiyama and Sudou each shouted criticism in turn.
‘The fact that she is the daughter of a committee member does not factor into the equation,’ Mikami continued, standing his ground. ‘It remains a fact that Hanako Kikunishi is eight months pregnant. That she is in a state of shock, at having caused the accident. It is with this in mind that I ask you again to refrain from including her details in your coverage.’
Mikami’s voice was lost amidst cries of indignation. He caught Akikawa’s gaze and held it, unsure if it was anger or serenity that he was seeing.
‘I have more.’
The clamour petered out, the reporters’ eyes those of people hungry for fresh prey.
‘The injured party, Ryoji Meikawa, passed away. It happened in hospital on the sixth, two days after the accident took place.’
‘You kept that from us, too?’
‘You decide.’
There was no outburst this time. The tension in the room seemed to break. ‘This is beyond a joke,’ someone said. Within seconds, the reporters had taken on a look of astonished incredulity. Everyone standing sat noisily back down. So this is it, this is the truth. Fucking police.
Akikawa got idly back to his feet. He seemed to embody the atmosphere in the room.
‘As expected, it’s obvious we can’t trust you. You’re not fit to sit at the same table as us. I’m sorry to have to say it, but it’s the only conclusion we can draw.’
‘You’re like a broken record.’ Mikami couldn’t stop the words. ‘I’m not talking about the force as a whole. And I’m not asking you to put your faith in something as abstract as that. I’m in here, having cast off that role. What I’m asking you to decide is whether or not you can trust me.’
‘Mikami, we’re not . . .’
‘You need to put your banners down, too. How can I hope for a proper discussion when I’m talking to organizations, insubstantial bodies – the Toyo, the Yomiuri, the Mainichi, the Asahi?’
‘We’ve heard enough for today.’
‘I’m here putting my job on the line. You can at least hear me out.’
Akikawa was the only one still defiant. The rest had given in, looking away but listening.
‘This isn’t like you. You’ve won, you’ve had your victory, you’ve got full disclosure. Why not use it? Why are you so happy to let it go? Maybe you prefer the fight. Is that it? I’ve taken a leap of faith. I’ve told you everything there is to tell. Are you saying that’s not enough? You condemn the police for being corrupt and untrustworthy. Does that mean you can’t even shake my hand? Are you so desperate to go back to the beginning and repeat your futile war? If that’s what you want, then go ahead. You make this a fight between organizations. Go and report everything I said to your superiors. Lodge a complaint with mine. You’ll get yourselves a new press director in no time. Then you’ll be free to start the fight again.’
The room felt empty, it was so quiet. Everyone was still stunned. Some were looking away. Others had their eyes closed. A few had balled hands against their foreheads. Many were staring at something specific. The floor, a notebook, their hands.
‘That’s all I have to say on the accident in Oito City.’ Although, he muttered to himself, then decided to continue. ‘Actually, there is a little more.’ Mikami pulled the document from the clear file in his hands. ‘Some more on the man who passed away, Ryoji Meikawa. The cause of death was blood loss from internal damage. He’d been on his way home, after a couple of glasses of shochu at a bar nearby.’ Mikami scanned the rest of the page. He’d been taken by an overwhelming desire to read it all. ‘He was born in Tomakomai in Hokkaido. He’d had a poor background, and hardly made it through elementary school. He left his hometown to look for work, before turning twenty. He worked for forty years at a factory making food paste, staying there until his retirement. After that he lived on his pension. He lost his wife eight years ago. They had no children. He had no relatives living close by. He’d been living in a small, tenement-style flat . . .’ Mikami didn’t know if the reporters were even listening. He continued regardless. ‘The property was in his name, the land rented. His hobby was growing vegetables in planters. He didn’t gamble or play pachinko; his only monthly extravagance was to visit the bar, the Musashi, and enjoy a couple of glasses of shochu.’
Mikami flipped to the next page. It was the additional information Kuramae had just brought him.
‘According to the bar’s owner, it was five years ago that Meikawa had first started showing up. He was generally quiet when he drank, but a failing tolerance for alcohol meant that in recent years he’d come to share a little about his life. His mother had been kind, but she’d died from an illness when he was eight. He never talked about his father. He had an elder sister, but had lost touch. He said he’d gone to Tokyo first, but had never been specific about how he’d ended up in Prefecture D. He never went back to Tomakomai in over fifty years. He was colour blind but had hidden this at work. Because of this, he never made any friends there. He had a lot of trouble with the colour red, but had an above-average sensitivity to blue. His real dream had been to become a photographer, taking photos of the sky and the sea.’