‘No, this is just us trying to help,’ Akama answered, his expression equable.
In the regions, being a member of the Public Safety Committee was decoration and nothing more. It was an honorary role where the only obligation was to meet once a month with the station captain to hold a casual discussion over some food; it had no particular authority over Administrative Affairs. But the organizational chart painted a different picture. The Prefectural HQ was officially subject to the guidance of the three members forming the committee. Was that why they were helping? No – they would issue an anonymous report as an ostensible act of goodwill, while creating an obligation in the mind of one of the prefecture’s most powerful financial authorities, effectively branding him ‘pro-police’ until the day of his death.
‘His daughter really is pregnant. Sakaniwa had initially asked me to suppress the entire report, but, well, the accident was a serious one, and I knew it would be a real pain if the man’s family began to kick up a fuss, so I decided to opt for making the report anonymous. Now, I hope I have your understanding on this matter.’
Mikami didn’t know how to respond. His initial shock had dissipated, leaving him smouldering with anger and distrust. Hanako Kikunishi, the daughter of a member of the safety committee. He was press director, why hadn’t he been told?
‘I told you before, Mikami.’ Akama looked astonished. ‘Your work involves negotiating directly with the press. If you knew the truth, what guarantee would I have had that you wouldn’t give something away with a stray look, or something in the way you acted? It’s surely easier to be assertive if you don’t know anything?’
Mikami felt as if he’d tumbled into a gaping hole, and it took a moment for his emotions to respond. Be assertive . . . if you don’t know anything . . . The fact of the matter was that he had been assertive with the press. He’d been aggressive, even, and all because Akama had kept him out of the loop.
I don’t understand why you’re so worked up. You know the trend in reporting is increasingly heading towards anonymity.
That’s how scary it is. To face having your name in the papers.
Maybe she’s the daughter of someone important. He had actually shouted Yamashina down after the man’s snide accusation.
He’d been made to act the fool.
Mikami dropped his head to the floor. He felt his face and body flush as a burning shame, furnace-like in its force, began to well up inside him. He’d put on a serious face and made a stand against the reporters, but he’d been ignorant. He could argue that the words hadn’t been his own. That he’d simply been carrying out his duty. Yet, he also knew he hadn’t stood there simply as a mouthpiece relaying Akama’s directions. Was it truly acceptable to give the press full responsibility over dealing with a pregnant woman? Mikami had seen the sense in the position the Prefectural HQ had taken. It was why he’d spoken out, why he’d thought hard about how to put an end to the endless struggle.
But . . .
The HQ’s position had been a sham. An utter sham.
Mikami pressed his eyes shut. Akama was right. He had told Mikami before. You can hardly say anything if you don’t know anything. Right? He was a fool for having forgotten. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Hadn’t Akama always, from the very beginning, sought to treat him as a puppet?
‘Anyway, that’s by the by. Do you have an update on the arrangements for visiting Amamiya’s house?’
Mikami didn’t reply. He had reopened his eyes but was still unable to meet the other man’s gaze.
‘Is something the matter? Speak up.’
Mikami maintained a resolute silence.
Akama’s upper body jerked forwards from the couch. His hands came together in a sharp clap, like a sumo wrestler gearing up to attack.
‘Look. At. Me.’
Mikami’s eyes grew large. His panic reflex kicked in, but the signal was weak. Ayumi’s features wavered like a mirage, buckling under the force of his indignation.
Akama slowly looked him up and down, measuring his reaction. His lips came together in a tapered smile. ‘It wouldn’t do for you to misunderstand, so let me make one thing clear. It would be unwise for you to assume, if you were to be dismissed from your position as press director, that you would ever be returned to Criminal Investigations.’
The image of a resignation letter flashed into Mikami’s mind. In that instant he felt himself lose control of his emotions. That’s it. I’m done for. This is the last time. Why the hell should I have to lick the boots of this sadist masquerading as an officer? The image of Ayumi disappeared.
Another jumped into its place.
This time it was Minako, her eyes despairing and dark, entreating. Mikami’s head seemed to lurch violently. He saw the dance of snowflakes. A white cloth, the ashen face of a district captain, the pallid, lifeless features of a young girl . . . the images tore across his retina in quick succession. Minako’s hopes were pinned on each of his 260,000 colleagues. She was counting on their eyes and ears.
Someone was speaking in the distance.
‘What is happening with Amamiya?’
No reply.
‘Mikami, I am asking you a question. Please respond.’
Akama’s voice was close. Too close.
Mikami looked up. He realized his mouth was trembling. ‘I . . . we’re still in discussions.’ The words seemed to sap at his strength.
‘Well, look sharp. I need to report to the commissioner’s office early next week. Now, there’s one more thing you should probably know. The pensioner Committee Member Kato’s daughter ran into – he passed away just an hour ago. I have already relayed instructions to Sakaniwa that he not mention this unless the press specifically ask. I expect you to show the same discretion.’
Akama got to his feet. He was a good ten centimetres shorter than Mikami, but it felt as though his eyes were bearing down on him from a great height.
16
The windows in Media Relations had no view. The field of vision was blocked by the archive building, built close enough almost to graze the HQ’s main building. Mikami was sitting back in his chair, half turned so he was staring vacantly out at the rusted, red-brown wall of the archive. It wasn’t that he was daydreaming. He doubted he would ever have the time to indulge in such an activity, not until the day he died.
A serious accident had become a fatal accident.