Have I done a single thing right . . .?
He felt his neck tense the moment he reached the corridor. A group was standing next to the half-lit doors of the lift, as though in ambush. Ten. Twenty figures.
The realization hit him as he walked closer.
Ushiyama, Utsuki, Sudou, Kamata, Horoiwa, Yanase, Kasai, Yamashina, Tejima, Kadoike, Takagi, Kakei, Kiso, Hayashiba, Tomino, Namie . . .
They were all looking in his direction. Akikawa was there, too, muted, leaning against a wall to one side.
‘What the hell is going on here?’
Ushiyama was the first to mount an attack, making no attempt to keep his frustration at bay. Can’t you stop this? Just do something. The others pitched in after him.
Mikami’s only response was to sigh. He cut a path through them and kept walking. The disappointment spread through him. Right. Joining in with the rest of them, huh?
‘It’s too much, it really is,’ Yamashina hissed.
Tejima’s hands were balled into fists.
‘We can’t take it . . . them treating you like this. It’s unacceptable.’
The words had come from Madoka Takagi. Mikami was bowled over. Her eyes were glistening. Of course. They weren’t tourists. They weren’t complaining about having been relegated into a supporting role. Mikami knew the sentiment well. Your first posting was special. It was the first time you stood on your own feet, after leaving home. It was where you learned your trade; you got to know the streets, the businesses. You survived, you ate, you slept, you suffered. You took your first steps into the real world. It was when you discovered who you really were. It was more home than home itself. Now it was being trampled on. It saddened them. It made them mad.
Mikami started to walk again, saying nothing. He had no words that could measure up to what they – his reporters – wanted to hear. But he was moved. If nothing else, he wanted Akikawa to know that. The man’s eyes were on the floor. He looked dog-tired. He’d made up his mind and taken hold of the microphone, but it was suicide. He’d tried his best on the largest stage there was. He was their representative; he’d have felt pride, responsibility. Mikami didn’t doubt that some part of it had also been to offer support.
Without stopping, Mikami tapped his hand on Akikawa’s shoulder.
You did well. Now it’s my turn . . .
71
The change came suddenly.
Ochiai got a second wind. It was 6.30 a.m. Returning to the conference room, he looked visibly different to when he’d left for the Investigative HQ. Some degrees brighter. He was still shaky on his feet as he climbed to the stage, but he made it without Suwa’s assistance. When he sat, he held himself straight and surveyed the room. They’d given him something of use. Maybe more. There was nothing in his expression to suggest the girl was dead. She’d shown up, alive and well. The kidnapper had been arrested. Either would allow for the immediate termination of the coverage agreement. They could leave this abnormal space behind, the blackout curtains.
Mikami was standing to the side of the cameramen. He looked at his team. Suwa nodded in recognition. Kuramae and Mikumo both stepped closer. They seemed restless. They both wanted it to be over. Hope showed on their faces.
The people in the room, having also noticed Ochiai’s transformation, had started to chatter. The atmosphere became one of tense anticipation, the reporters leaning forwards into their desks so as not to miss a word.
Lights indicated that the TV cameras were recording. The rest of the cameramen jostled, to the sound of shutters clicking. Goatee picked up the microphone. His expression didn’t match that of the other reporters. He didn’t look angry, but it was clear he wasn’t happy to see Ochiai’s sudden recovery.
‘Shall we start with your homework? How many calls has the kidnapper made to the family? When? How long for? Were there any discernible sounds in the background?’
‘I don’t have that information yet.’
Ochiai was still smiling when he answered. Goatee’s expression changed.
‘Has something happened? Do you have the girl in custody? Have you arrested the kidnapper?’
Everyone held their breath.
‘Oh, no. We haven’t got that either yet.’
‘Well, then, what is it?’ Goatee said, losing patience.
Ochiai’s smile remained unshaken.
‘I have new information regarding the calls, something you’ve asked a number of times already. I can tell you where they were made. Both calls – the first and the second – originated inside Genbu City.’
The information was important, it went without saying. But the delivery was wrong. Ochiai had raised their hopes, set expectations, and, because of that, the reveal had come across as trifling. The room seemed for a moment to gasp for air.
What can we say to such an idiot?
Goatee thought he knew.
‘Where in Genbu?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I believe you’re able to narrow the signal to a three-kilometre radius. You still don’t get it, do you? We need specifics, details.’
Ochiai managed only a croak.
‘Back to the beginning!’ Slick shouted from his place next to Goatee, sounding like a teacher ordering a child. With that, the room ignited, the shouts of ridicule all the louder because of the reporters’ disappointment.
What are you, an errand boy? Try learning a thing or two. Waste of fucking space.
Ochiai was staring into thin air. He was expressionless. He looked dead, every muscle in his face having gone limp. He’d no doubt gone crying to Arakida. Begged him for something that would gratify the press. He’d finally managed to extract the origin of the calls. On the way back, he’d imagined the press thanking him for his good work.
Then . . .
‘Well? Don’t drag your feet. Get going! This time bring us something worthy of a press conference.’
Ochiai remained seated. His motionless figure began to tip forwards . . . his forehead thumped into the desk. Still slumped, his elbows spread out until he was flat on the desk.
Forgive me. It looked like an apology.
‘Call an ambulance!’
The shout had come from Mikumo. Goatee yelled back at twice the volume.
‘It’s not going to be that easy. Don’t think this’ll help you get away.’
Mikumo held up the markings on her palm. ‘Twenty-nine. That’s the number of round-trips he’s had to make. He’s been here for seven and a half hours; he hasn’t slept.’
Goatee hardly spared her a glance. His eyes continued to drill into the man on the stage.
‘Neither have we! Seven and a half hours straight. We’ve come all the way from Tokyo and not had a wink. We’re packed in here like sardines; I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve all got DVT. Twenty-nine round trips? Great. At least the bastard got some exercise.’
Slick gave him a nudge from the side.
‘Let them take him to the hospital, then the director or the chief will have to come out.’
‘Yeah, and what if they send more dregs, like this one?’ Goatee said, looking back at Ochiai.