Mikami felt a pressure around his eyes.
‘He used to say that meeting his wife was the best thing that ever happened to him. He’d been badly ill a couple of times, always had a low salary, caused her nothing but hardship, but she’d always been devoted and never complained. He’d taken her on a holiday, a tour around some hot springs, but they’d never taken a trip abroad together. He’d bought a magnificent gravestone for her, his second-biggest purchase after his home. After she passed away he spent most of his time watching TV. Mostly variety shows. He hadn’t found them particularly interesting, but had enjoyed the fact that everyone seemed so cheerful.’
Mikami’s voice became harsher. The notes were driving home the deplorable downside of anonymous reporting. They hadn’t simply suppressed the identity of Hanako Kikunishi, they’d been complicit in stamping out the proof of Ryoji Meikawa’s existence in this world. He’d met with a sorrowful end, but the clash over anonymous reporting had robbed him of the chance of having his name in the papers, of the opportunity for someone who loved him to read it and mourn his passing.
Mikami continued to read.
‘The owner said Meikawa had been in a good mood on the day of the accident. That he’d told him he’d found his answerphone flashing when he got back from some shopping a few days earlier. There hadn’t been a message, but he never received sales calls or wrong numbers, and said his phone hardly ever rang. It was old so he had no way of finding out where the call had come from. Who could it have been? Who could it have been? he’d said, cocking his head. The owner said he’d never seen him look so happy.’
Important . . . for him.
Everything on the page was significant. The last two lines detailed the results of the official inquiry. It took an effort to read them out.
‘After contacting the police in Hokkaido, Meikawa’s sister was discovered to have already passed away. Contact was made with distant relatives, but they refused responsibility for the ashes.’
Mikami let his hand fall to his side, the sheet with it. The reporters were still in a state of bewilderment, but they’d all turned to look his way. They were looking directly at him. Mikami felt an urge to say something else – something he hadn’t intended to say. Something he couldn’t have said if it had felt even the slightest bit underhand.
‘I want you to cover the commissioner’s visit. I don’t know if Amamiya is hoping the coverage will unearth new leads. But he’s given his consent for the visit and for you to cover it. Please – help us honour his wishes.’
57
Mikami felt a sudden wave of exhaustion.
He sank back into his chair. Inside Media Relations, the atmosphere was as if they were awaiting sentence. When Suwa got back in, he gave Mikami a heartfelt salute. He’d no doubt had his ear on the door, heard everything. ‘Great work’ was all he said. Mikumo’s eyes were puffy, probably from crying. She said something but Mikami couldn’t make it out.
Kuramae was . . .
. . . at his desk in the corner, staring at his computer screen. He had a grave, almost troubled look, the expression in harmony with the general atmosphere of the room. It seemed like camouflage. Nothing conscious, or defensive, simply the natural state of a desk worker who made up the undergrowth of the organization.
It was probably ironic. Only Kuramae, out of all of them the least interested in PR, had managed to distinguish between the inside and the out. The relationship was the same as that between Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs, Media Relations and the Press Room. They were all separate entities but, viewed from above, it became clear they inhabited the same well. Suwa, of course, but also Mikami, and even Mikumo – they had all looked deeper into the well to find their answers, forgotten to gaze up at the sky. It hadn’t been the press. The real links to the outside had been Meikawa and Amamiya. They’d let themselves become blind to something as obvious as that.
What would the reporters think? Would they realize they were accomplices, occupants of the same well? Both sides had left an elderly man’s corpse exposed to the elements. Would they be able to accept the truth? They’d become obsessed with finding the driver’s identity and, as a result, let the article fall by the wayside; they’d overlooked the death of a pensioner, someone whose name they could have learned with one call to the hospital or town hall. If they feel even a little remorse, we can all move forwards. The only way they could open a window to the outside was to work together.
Suwa came over.
‘Nobody’s gone to lodge a complaint upstairs.’
Right.
‘And they’ve just started their meeting.’
Good. It worked, then.
Mikami realized he had his eyes closed. No surprise. I didn’t sleep at all last night. His exhaustion was pushing his thoughts towards sleep.
Papa, not yet!
You can’t open your eyes yet.
Not yet. Not yet, not yet, not yet.
Papa, you cheated!
I told you it was too early to open your eyes!
Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes.
How about now?
‘Sir.’ He saw Suwa’s face in close-up. ‘It’s the press. They’re here.’
When he sat up, a pink blanket slid off his shoulders. A group had assembled before his desk. A crowd, his mind interpreted. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d been asleep for thirty, maybe forty minutes. He looked at the reporters properly this time. Akikawa, Utsuki, Ushiyama, Sudou, Yanase, Horoiwa, Yamashina, Kadoike, Namie . . . The chief reporters were there from each of the thirteen member agencies of the Press Club. He slapped his cheeks and pulled his chair back so he could see the whole group. Akikawa silently held out a sheet of paper. Mikami took it, also saying nothing.
Questions: Commissioner General Walking Interview. Prefecture D Police Headquarters, Press Club.
They’d called off the boycott.
Mikami sensed Suwa, to his side, breathe a huge sigh of relief. The sheet of paper contained a list of five questions. Mikami scanned through them. Each was generic, concerning things like the commissioner’s impressions during his visit, the planned course of the Six Four investigation; there were no hints of malice or hostility.
‘We don’t need a new press director. That’s our consensus,’ Yamashina said. The man’s usual goofiness was gone; his bearing revealed instead a determination that took Mikami by surprise.
When he looked around he saw the others all wore similarly earnest looks. Even Akikawa seemed to have lost his usual sneering sarcasm; he resembled nothing more than a young man passionate about his job. Mikami thought he felt a breeze on his cheek. He turned to check the windows, but they were closed.
‘Oh, and this, too.’