‘But . . . I was out, doing some shopping.’
Hiyoshi had called in his mother’s absence. That was what had happened. Mikami had given his mother two short messages to pass on, one three days ago, another the day after that. I put them under his door. He nodded now, remembering her words. Hiyoshi had read them. And he’d called the number Mikami had noted on the bottom.
‘Is your son still in his room?’
‘I . . . I think so.’
‘Could you put him on the phone?’
‘On the . . .? Oh . . .’
She stumbled to a halt, perhaps hesitant to make waves. Even nightmares became mundane after fourteen years.
Still . . .
‘We should consider this an opportunity. Your son made the call.’ Mikami couldn’t stop the words. ‘Has he done that before? Has he ever tried to call someone before?’
‘No, not once. Although, I can’t say for sure . . . when I’ve been out.’
‘Is the phone cordless?’
‘Hmm? Oh, yes, it is.’
‘Good. Could you tell him I’m on the phone and leave it outside his door? I’ll see if I can’t talk to him.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Her voice shot up a pitch. ‘Please. If you could. That would be wonderful.’
Mikami heard a pattering of slippers. She was rushing. Going upstairs. She stopped, started calling out to her son. Her voice was soothing, mixed with fear. There was a scuffing noise, then the sound of slippers moving away.
The silence that followed was painful. It was easy to picture the phone, lying there on the floor. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Mikami waited, resolute, his entire being focused on listening, intent on not missing even the slightest sound.
Minako’s head popped unexpectedly into view. What is it? He held up a hand to stop her from whispering. The hand tensed and he waved her away.
He thought he’d heard something. A door, opening. That’s what it had sounded like. White noise came down the line. Someone had picked up the phone. Mikami had the handset pressed so hard over his ear the sound felt like a physical force.
The door closing again . . . A creaking sound, a bed or a chair . . .
Confident Hiyoshi had the phone in his room, Mikami opened his mouth to speak.
‘Hiyoshi?’
No answer. Mikami waited a moment. He couldn’t even make out the man’s breathing.
‘This is Mikami. I’m press director at the Prefectural HQ. You called my number a short while ago.’
No response.
‘It’s okay. Phones these days have—’
Mikami broke off, having realized something. Hiyoshi had been working with new technology during his time at NTT. He would have been fully versed in computer technology, long before he became a recluse. He would have a computer of his own. Which meant it was safe to assume he would know about the growth of the caller-display function. He’d known about it and let his number show on purpose.
The call had been an SOS.
‘Did you read my notes?’
No answer.
For Hiyoshi, time had come to a standstill. It had stopped back at Amamiya’s, the moment Urushibara had whispered into his ear.
If the worst comes to the worst, it’s your fault.
‘Everything I wrote is the truth. None of it was your fault.’ He heard an intake of breath. ‘Hiyoshi . . .’
Silence.
‘Hiyoshi. I know you can hear me.’
Again.
Mikami’s sense of his presence seemed to slip away. But . . . he was still on the line. Still listening. Holding his breath, waiting for the continuation. I have to say something. Mikami needed something that would resonate. Something that would find its way to a heart forced to bear responsibility for the death of a young girl, a heart that had been shut away for fourteen years.
He closed his eyes and drew a quiet breath.
‘It was a terrible case . . .’ Mikami had started. ‘For the girl, and her parents, of course. But also for her friends, for the school, for the area she lived in. For us, too.’
Nothing.
‘And for you, Hiyoshi. It must have been terrible, miserable. You ended up having to join us in Amamiya’s house, even though you’d never expected to work in the field. The recorder didn’t work, even though it had during your testing. And you couldn’t have had anyone more repugnant in charge of your unit. The case was cursed with bad luck. Everything that could go wrong did. And the girl ended up losing her life. I understand your pain. I understand the need to blame yourself. But Shoko died because the kidnapper murdered her. It wasn’t because of you.’
Still no response.
‘Okay, so there was an error with the recording. A costly one. But there’s something you need to know – that wasn’t the only mistake made during the investigation. They were everywhere; the whole case was littered with them. I’m not just saying that. There isn’t much we do that isn’t a mistake of some kind, during an investigation. That time the mistakes just happened to come together in a single result – our failure to save the girl. The kidnapper’s still at large, even now. Every officer in the prefecture has to shoulder that burden. To say it’s any one person’s responsibility is ludicrous. It’s good that you feel accountable. It’s proof you’re a decent, caring human being. But it’s wrong to assume blame on everyone’s behalf. No one can endure that. It’s self-indulgent. The blame needs to be shared. All the pain and suffering, it needs to be apportioned equally between every single officer who took part in the investigation. Do you understand?’
He felt like he was in an airless vacuum. He’d never contemplated the existence of a silence so perfect. Hiyoshi’s hand was probably clamped over the mouthpiece, hard enough to make it numb. He was listening; every part of him concentrated in his ears.
‘I don’t know if you remember, but I was there, too. I met Amamiya, and his wife. I followed his car when he left to deliver the ransom. I was there, watching, when he threw the suitcase from the bridge into the river. It still hurts me physically, every time I think about it. I get attacks of remorse, of shame, each time I pass by any of the businesses the kidnapper listed – it all comes back to me. It passes, sure. It’s not there all the time, like it is with you. It’s not constant, but it’s stayed with me. I haven’t forgotten. I couldn’t forget. Nor do I ever want to forget. We all carry a part of it – me, Koda, Kakinuma. We’re not allowed to ease each other’s pain. Shoko and her parents wouldn’t forgive it. That’s why we quietly split the blame. We will carry it to our graves, without ever mentioning it or making excuses. You could spend the rest of your life dwelling on it, and it wouldn’t be enough. The only way we have of keeping Shoko alive is to keep her in our minds. That’s why we have to share the burden.’
Still nothing.
‘I don’t know if you’re listening. I think you are.’
It began to feel like he was shouting into a void. Into a deep forest. Into an ocean the sun couldn’t reach. I want to know where you are. I’ll come by if it’s somewhere I can visit. The words in his first letter.
‘Why the silence? You called because you wanted to reach out.’