‘I don’t have any specific reason.’
Mikami swallowed spit. Something had happened. He knew it intuitively.
‘Have we been amiss, in our—’
‘No, that’s not it.’
‘Then, why . . .?’
Amamiya had stopped talking. He made no attempt to look Mikami in the face.
‘What I said just now – there is a real chance of this bringing in new leads.’
Silence.
‘The commissioner general is our highest-ranked official. I’m confident the media coverage will be significant. It will be broadcast on TV. The news will reach a great number of people.’
‘I do appreciate the opportunity—’
‘Please, Amamiya-san. To let a chance for new information like this just slip by . . .’
Mikami realized he was raising his voice and broke off. This wasn’t something he could force. The victim was refusing. Wasn’t it his obligation to back down? The family home could be struck from the commissioner’s schedule without necessarily diluting the importance of his visit. It would reduce the overall impact, yes, but it would still work – internally and externally – if the commissioner visited both the scene of the crime and the members of the Six Four Investigative Team.
But . . .
Akama’s profile flashed before his eyes. How would he react if Mikami’s report told him the commissioner’s offer had been refused? Mikami’s pulse throbbed in his temples, punctuating the silence like the ticking of a clock.
‘I have a feeling I’ll be back.’
Amamiya offered no words in response. He put his hands on the tatami and got to his feet, giving only a cursory nod before he disappeared further into the house.
Why turn them down . . .?
Mikami glanced at the business card and rice crackers, untouched and left behind; he massaged his numb legs before raising himself from the floor.
9
The situation had moved on in Mikami’s brief absence.
Members Only: Meeting in Progress.
The cardboard notice had been posted on the door to the Press Room. Suwa was back in the office.
‘What’s that for?’ Mikami motioned his chin towards the corridor. An embarrassed-looking Suwa got to his feet.
‘They’re discussing anonymous reporting again. It sounds like they’re considering a formal written protest.’
Mikami clicked his tongue in irritation. A written protest. It would be the first time during his term as press director.
‘And the commissioner’s visit? Were you able to notify them about that?’
‘Mmm . . . I managed to tell them, but they just said they’d discuss it in the meeting. I suspect they’re planning to throw a spanner in the works.’
Mikami thumped into his chair and tore the seal off a fresh pack of cigarettes. It was worse than he’d feared. The outlook regarding the press was clouding over, especially now Yoshio Amamiya had said no to the commissioner’s wish to go and pay his respects to his daughter.
The commissioner general himself. Six Four. He had been certain the press would bite. His head had been sluggish after the conversation with Amamiya, but now he felt a sudden clarity. He focused on a single point on his calendar.
Thursday the 12th.
He had until then to win over Amamiya and make peace with the press.
‘Anyway, I’m planning to take them out for drinks tonight,’ Suwa remarked. His breezy tone jarred somehow, amplifying the pressure in the air. Mikami had expected Suwa to gain a new lease of life now he was free from the constraints of Mikami’s reforms, but he seemed to be already at an impasse. It didn’t bode well, if that was the case.
Suwa had grown as a Media Relations officer, but he remained a man who thrived best on the front line. He hadn’t abandoned the traditional methods and would spend his time in the Press Room chatting with the reporters to get a feel for their activities and what they expected. He would advertise his easy-going nature by joining them in games of Shogi, Go and Mahjong. He regularly joined them for drinks, sounding off about a few arrogant executives to gain their trust. To these crude but time-honoured tactics he would add his conversational nous and skills as a negotiator, guiding the reporters until – converted to him – they were converted to the police. He had been to university in Tokyo and could talk about the city, reminisce on classes they’d attended. With the younger reporters, he was able to act as a kind of elder brother. He used these advantages as tools to position himself inside the Press Room, where he could gauge first hand any changes in the atmosphere, and adapt accordingly.
But . . .
There were no guarantees that Suwa’s image as a ‘young reporter’ was still held by the reporters who were holding a meeting in the next room. They were more than just young, they were different. That was Mikami’s impression, dealing with them now after a twenty-year hiatus. They were, perhaps in part due to an increase in women reporters, unlike any he had seen before. They were upstanding and straight-laced, almost eerily so. They preferred not to drink and, when they did, they never lost their composure. They were hesitant to spend time on Shogi and Go. He couldn’t imagine them sitting around a table in the Press Room, enjoying a game of Mahjong with the police. Some went so far as to speak out against the Press Club, denouncing it as a breeding ground for collusion with the police; this they did with a straight face, even as they reaped the benefits of their membership.
This had caused Suwa – who had always been able to gauge the Press Room’s halfway line – to lose confidence. A contradiction had appeared between the image and the reality of the ‘young reporter’. The trap had been sprung just as he was coming to believe in himself as a successful Media Relations officer. We need to bargain with them if we can’t negotiate. This was something Suwa had recently told Mikami, perhaps revealing an encroaching anxiety, despite having occupied his position for so long.
‘Sir, I found them.’
Mikumo walked over with a large book in her hands. It took Mikami a second, then he nodded. He had asked her in the car, on the way back, to find the press cuttings from Shoko’s kidnapping.
He stubbed out his cigarette. Press policy could wait until the reporters made their move; what Mikami needed to do more urgently was to work on Amamiya. Partly, this came from his sense of duty, but he also wanted to know what the man was feeling inside. However, he needed to find answers to some questions he had first. His hunch was that, in doing so, he would come up with something that would help win Amamiya around.
Why had he turned down the commissioner’s offer?
Because the memory of the kidnapping had begun to fade.
Ridiculous. No parent who had lost a daughter could ever rest without seeing the face of her killer.
Because he was disillusioned with the police.
Mikami supposed that was part of it. The police had dedicated vast amounts of time and resources to finding the kidnapper, yet they had been unable to bring Amamiya any results.