‘The next session will start at eight o’clock.’
‘Stay by my side,’ he said to Mikumo, still behind him as he started to walk. It felt like an attempt at breaking through enemy lines. At the halfway point, he put his hand on Ochiai’s back. The foam was working, but the room was still smouldering, far from normal.
They made it to the corridor. To the doors of the lift. Even then, Mikami could still feel the piercing stares on his back.
‘Thank you,’ Ochiai groaned.
Mikami took his shoulder. It felt delicate, just like Akikawa’s. The five of them stepped into the lift. Once the doors were closed, Mikami turned to Suwa.
‘I’m going back to Station G.’
Suwa’s head was hanging low. It was plain to everyone there. Mikami wouldn’t be able to bring Matsuoka – the field commander of the investigation – back with him.
‘I have to try. Maybe he won’t be able to come here in person, but there’s a chance I can send you some proper information.’
Suwa’s head stayed where it was. Mikami was painfully aware of how he felt.
I’ll get you the chief of First Division.
He couldn’t withdraw the statement. Despite this, Matsuoka wouldn’t come. Mikami wouldn’t even be there to take responsibility. All that waited for Suwa, now he’d lost confidence in his ability as a press officer, was the harsh reality of standing defenceless before the press.
Even so . . .
‘I have to try,’ Mikami repeated. The words were to convince himself it was true.
‘Yes, you should go.’ It was Ochiai. ‘I can . . . I can hold out a bit longer. I’ll manage, somehow.’
Mikami took his shoulder again; he squeezed. There were no words. He didn’t want to force Suwa into anything.
‘Suwa.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Futawatari called earlier, asking if he could help. I can call him in.’
The lift chimed, pulled to a stop. The doors slid open. No one made to get out. Kuramae and Mikumo were both watching Suwa. We’ll stand by you whatever you decide. Their eyes conveyed the message.
The doors began to close. Suwa’s finger pressed open the moment before they shut.
‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll never make press director if the man in charge of personnel thinks I’m weak.’
72
Outside, the sun was shining.
On the way to his car, Mikami paused to take in the sense of open space. He soaked up the morning sun, taking deep breaths. He gave his arms and legs a full stretch.
He couldn’t forget the look he’d seen on Suwa’s face. Yet . . . he’d built up the courage to keep going. He’d kicked himself, forced himself back into the fight.
Mikami got into his car and checked the time: 7.22. One circuit. Telling himself that was okay, he drove slowly around the parking area. He was looking for Minako’s compact car. The Undercover Unit was scheduled to meet at seven. She’d be inside if she’d decided to go through with it. He pressed hard on the accelerator and pulled out of the station grounds. He hadn’t seen her car, but there were other places she could have parked. She’d be there. She’d be out – under the same, blazing sunlight.
Traffic was heavy on the prefectural highway.
Mikami had decided against speeding. He’d given up on the eight o’clock announcement. And he’d forced the next – scheduled for ten – from his head, too. Everything came down to the announcement planned for midday. That was the deadline for getting the ransom together. It was when everything would kick into gear. How close he got to the investigation. How much raw, real-time information he was able to scrape together and relay back to the conference room. That was what would determine their success or failure. It was clear now he was outdoors. He knew exactly what needed to be done.
In the conference room, every moment had felt critical. For more than eight hours through the night, Mikami had faced the press with the mindset of someone running a 100-metre sprint. The truth was, nothing had happened. Ochiai’s twenty-nine round trips, the fervent support given by Suwa and the others, everything else – it had been nothing more than a warm-up. What mattered was yet to come. The press wouldn’t bare their teeth, really kick into gear, until the case itself started to develop.
An unmarked police car drove by. The metallic-silver body blended with the rest of the traffic, the speed not too slow, not too fast.
Mikami put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
I’ll get you the chief of First Division.
He’d made an impossible promise. But he’d known it was impossible even as he’d said it – he couldn’t let himself become prisoner to the words themselves. At the same time, he realized that breaking the promise, made before all 269 of the assembled reporters, would compel them to make an appeal for NPA intervention.
The only way he could prevent that from happening was to supply them with information that had the same value as would bringing Matsuoka back with him.
A strategy was coming together.
Criminal Investigations was hiding something. If he had any leverage at all, it was that. Arakida and the Investigative HQ. Matsuoka and the front line. It was already apparent that they had different ideas on suppressing information. Matsuoka had given him Mesaki’s name, even though he knew it would get to the press; Arakida still called him ‘A’. And Mutsuko and Kasumi were still ‘B’ and ‘C’, even though their names had come out a long time ago. Matsuoka had refused to give Mikami the latter two, but that had been more out of his own personal consideration than out of any attempt to conceal their identity. Arakida was hiding everything so he could hide something. Matsuoka was only hiding what needed to be hidden. The distinction was significant.
It meant Matsuoka would release anything he didn’t think confidential. He wasn’t the kind of man to ignore a coverage agreement, and his response to Mikami in the Station G toilets had shown an empathy for his situation and point of view. It would be fine, as long as Mikami didn’t insist on getting everything. It would be frustrating to skirt around some of the points, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil of the conference room. He would get all that he could from Matsuoka. That way, he could supply information that would have as much weight as if the man himself were present. Even if Matsuoka had been there in person, he would still refuse to say anything he didn’t plan on revealing. He would have given the press Mesaki’s name, but not Mutsuko or Kasumi’s, however much they pressured him. As he’d said: some things must never be spoken.
Something hit Mikami, a feeling that was somewhere between doubt and anxiety.