Futawatari had jumped into action. He’d disappeared behind the stands and reappeared moments later with a cooler box slung over his shoulder. He’d taken out a towel and proffered it in silence. Following the tradition of the club, he’d presented it with both hands. But he hadn’t shown any sign of deference. His eyes had remained fixed on Mikami. But their expression had been abnormal. They’d lacked any kind of light. Empty of consciousness or feeling, they’d appeared as black pits. He’d suppressed everything. Taken control. At seventeen years of age, Futawatari had been able fully to conceal all the humiliation, anger and bitterness that would have been seething inside him.
A few months later, on the recommendation of a graduate of the kendo club, Mikami had sat the entrance exams to join the police. When he’d spotted Futawatari in the same examination hall, he’d stared, wide-eyed. I thought the civil service might be a good fit. That was all Mikami had managed to get out of him. Even now, Mikami wasn’t sure what had motivated Futawatari to chose a career in the force. The kendo club was a sizable organization. A harsh environment where you earned a place to fight by defeating your companions. Mikami had never considered a man like Futawatari, who had never handled a bokuto before entering the club, as an equal. He’d worked hard at it; that much was true. Never missed a practice session. Mikami had never heard him whine or complain. And he hadn’t been the kind of man who schemed behind people’s backs to bring them down. Although maybe that was just the impression he gave. The memories were hazy. Sure. Of course. I agree. Mikami couldn’t remember much beyond the man’s emotionless responses. For Mikami, whose high-school years had been physically and emotionally wild and unrestrained, the reticent and boring Futawatari, forever on reserve, had never been of interest, and nothing dramatic had ever happened to impart the feeling that they’d spent a part of their youth together. Considering they’d been in the same club in the same school for three years, he knew far too little about the man.
Mikami had graduated third in his year in police school. He would never forget his surprise when he learned that Futawatari had graduated first. The greater surprise had been yet to come. Futawatari began to race through his promotion exams, swiftly ascending through the ranks. He focused on administration, specializing in Personnel, and was made superintendent at forty – the youngest in the history of the Prefectural HQ. His record still stood.
He spent the following seven years as an inspector in Administrative Affairs, the key position in managing personnel, enjoying a reputation as the department’s ‘ace’. He was highly regarded among the career officers, and Mikami had heard he’d been put in charge of drawing up the plans for executive transfers. A succession of directors had taken him in as their right-hand man; he had become the implicit authority behind decisions concerning personnel, and was on his way to becoming truly untouchable.
You’re just their pet, nothing more. Mikami had muttered his contempt each time Futawatari crossed his thoughts. It wasn’t that he was a bad loser. His position as a detective had furnished him with a sense of pride and exclusivity. He belonged to a no-nonsense world, a family, where influence depended on the number of perps you brought in, a world divorced from the departments that competed to have stars on their collars. His ‘record’ hadn’t disappeared, but he’d beaten it with results. They’d needed him, and he’d always delivered. He’d been far removed from Futawatari’s reach in Personnel. He’d never doubted that was the truth.
But . . .
What if Futawatari had got to him?
Mikami had always avoided thinking about it. He knew he would become a hostage to the suspicion if he did. He would lose sight of the reason for being in Media Relations; he would lose control. The fear of that happening had compelled him, until now, to look away.
But there it was.
Had his appointment really been down to Akama, and Akama alone?
It had been this time last year. Word had begun to spread that Mikami might receive a transfer to be part of the Criminal Investigations Bureau in Tokyo. It’s looking likely. The decision’s all but made. Mikami had himself heard the whispers. Yet, when the announcement was made, it had been a different story. The promotion to superintendent – and the concurrent transfer to Tokyo – had been awarded to Yasuo Maejima, one of Mikami’s contemporaries. Postings to Tokyo were traditionally provided to groom candidates for the post of director. Mikami had been left stranded, as if the passport to his future career had been seized at the moment he boarded the flight. He could have perhaps shaken it off if that had been as far as it went. Told himself he’d never wanted to serve in Tokyo. And, at first, he’d been proud of how well he’d taken the blow. The real shock had come later, when he’d received the informal confirmation of his own upcoming transfer. His ‘criminal record’ hadn’t been the only thing that had crossed his mind. He’d recalled again the eyes like black pits, devoid of light and feeling, from that summer day long ago.
He had suspected something underhand. Futawatari and Maejima had been good friends. They had shared a dorm room in police school and – as far as Mikami was aware – were still close, their friendship extending beyond the professional divide that stretched between Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs.
There was a sudden bustle. Mikami glanced at the door to the visitor’s room. No sooner had he done so than the door opened and Ishii and Futawatari emerged side by side.
‘Mikami,’ Futawatari greeted him, the first to speak.
Even more than before, he gave the impression of someone belonging to the elite. Gone was the feeble reserve at the kendo club, the man Mikami could have taken his bokuto to and beaten a hundred per cent of the time. Mikami worried he might be unable to keep his voice level.
‘Futawatari. Seems you called, this morning?’
Futawatari nodded. ‘Ishii just brought me up to speed.’
Which meant the call had been to ask after Ayumi. Concern for a fellow officer? Or had he wanted to confirm something as an Administrative Affairs inspector?
It was a relief. Futawatari’s eyes conveyed the message as he strode from the room, not putting it into words. The effect was that of having caught sight of a businessman jumping from one country to the next.
Why are you digging into Six Four? What the hell is the Koda memo? Mikami felt an urge to chase and interrogate him, but he remained where he was. It had thrown him to learn that Futawatari’s call had been about Ayumi. But that wasn’t all. He’d been unnerved at seeing the virtual display of Futawatari’s status. This was his arena. Mikami couldn’t expect to win with a half-hearted attack.
‘Right then, Mikami.’ Ishii waved him over and went back into the visitor’s room.
‘What did Futawatari want?’ Mikami asked, having seated himself on a couch inside.