It had once been the case that accidents listed as ‘fatal’ only included those in which the victim died within twenty-four hours of it taking place. It was a trick the police had used to bring down the number of cases involving fatalities. The press had launched an offensive, and now the force integrated deaths outside the twenty-four-hour period into the statistic.
Hiding the fact that the driver was a daughter of a committee member; concealing the fact that the pensioner had died. It was a perfect example of the police seizing control of the process, ‘from the beginning to the end’. A noise prompted Mikami to look around; Mikumo had just placed a fresh mug of tea on his desk. He glimpsed the thin frame of someone about to leave the room behind her, an SLR camera in hand.
‘And where are you off to?’
Kuramae flinched and came to a stop, backtracking a little before he replied. ‘Just Fureai park. The police band is putting on a mini concert, so I thought I could go take a few shots . . .’
The response already in Mikami’s throat came straight out. ‘Get Mikumo to do it. Didn’t I give you instructions to go next door? Hurry up and get over there. I want you to get at least a couple of them on our side.’
Kuramae was standing bolt upright, utterly pale. Mikami averted his gaze. He’d seen an image of himself, superimposed neatly over the man. Kuramae excused himself. Mikumo followed from behind, the camera he’d given her over her shoulder. Mikami made a call, took a quick sip of the tea, then walked sharply out of the office.
The outside world appeared somehow different.
Perhaps it was because he’d become resigned to being Akama’s guard dog. He would fully commit to his role as a puppet of Administrative Affairs. He’d made his decision. Now he knew he’d lost even the option of handing in his notice, he no longer cared about the content of his work.
He would keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. He would get results and see it through. That was all there was to it.
There was no reason to let it get to him. Wasn’t it what he’d always done? He’d delivered a psychotic killer who had disembowelled three women to the execution chamber. He’d reduced a mayor who had resorted to taking bribes to support his lovers to a grovelling mess in the interrogation room. He’d waged a psychological battle with a con man with an IQ of 160, emerging victorious after staring into his eyes for twenty-two days in a row. He had no reason to consider himself any less capable – having come through the bloodbath of Criminal Investigations, following orders, getting the results – than the office executives who spent their days in a more mundane, nine-to-five existence.
He could play the ferocious watchdog. All he had to do was fight his way through the current situation, through the department itself, then finally gouge out Akama’s throat.
As he walked down the corridor Mikami checked his watch. It was just after 10 a.m. They had less than six hours until the deadline the Press Club had set for their response.
He reflected on the situation with a cool head.
He couldn’t reveal the woman’s identity. And he couldn’t ‘think out loud’. Which meant that, at 4 p.m., he would have to enter the Press Club and refuse their terms. The reporters would go on the rampage and descend on the captain’s office; they would force him to accept their written protest. If he failed to act, the unthinkable would become reality.
There was only one way he could ensure a soft landing without compromising the department’s position. He had to get the press to agree to leave the written protest with either himself or Ishii, then consign it to sleep for ever in the depths of an Administrative Affairs safe.
Akikawa had intimated that the Press Club would hold another meeting after the announcement was made. That was where the outcome would be decided. I propose, this time, that we leave the protest with Mikami. He would have to make sure somebody raised the motion. Even given the uncertainty of the club’s ‘chemical reaction’, he suspected Suwa would be able to narrow down a list of reporters who might be receptive to the idea. If they were thorough enough in laying the groundwork, they would be able to convince at least a few of those already on the fence.
The main obstacle would be the hard-liners, those who insisted on protesting directly to the captain. It was no doubt correct to assume that they had overwhelmed the moderates. The issue came down to numbers. They stood no chance of victory, even if the issue was taken to a majority vote, without first converting a few of the more vocal agitators.
I need some kind of hook.
Mikami climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The entire floor belonged to Criminal Investigations. It had the smell of his old stomping ground. The air was clearly different to that on the first floor. Criminal Investigations, Second Division. Mikami pushed open the dark, blackened door.
Kazuo Itokawa’s head rose to greet him. His desk, that of assistant chief, had been Mikami’s until the spring. Mikami had called ahead from Media Relations in order to confirm that Division Chief Ochiai was out of the office. In the regions, the post of Second Division Chief was essentially a spot reserved for young career officers. Their network meant Akama would immediately learn of Mikami’s visit if he showed up in front of Ochiai. Mikami gestured to Itokawa to follow him, crossing into the detectives’ office in the next room. He stepped into the ‘soft’ interrogation room at the far back of the office, then closed the door behind them.
‘I owe you one for yesterday,’ Mikami said, opening up a folding chair.
‘Oh, remind me what for?’
‘The kind welcome you gave a member of my staff: Kuramae.’
‘Ah, that. I hadn’t meant to—’
‘No scraps for us dogs, right?’
Itokawa’s eyes betrayed a flash of panic.
He was four years younger than Mikami and had worked under him for three years when Mikami had led a team in Non-violent Crime, First Division. He was good. Especially when it came to numbers. The skill had stayed with him after he’d completed a bookkeeping course he’d enrolled on in vocational high school.
Itokawa settled into the seat across from him; Mikami put both elbows on the metal table and clasped his hands together. Between two detectives, there was no need for preamble.
‘Where are you with the bidding over the museum?’
‘It’s in order, I guess.’
‘You’ve made eight arrests so far?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is the CEO in today?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say . . .’ Itokawa said, clearly not telling the truth.
Mikami tipped his head to one side, exaggerating the gesture. We’ve got the CEO of Hakkaku Construction – the biggest company in the prefecture – in for questioning. Mikami had received the leaked information just two days earlier, from none other than Itokawa himself.
Mikami let his tone develop an edge.
‘The CEO of Hakkaku Construction. He’s been called in. Correct?’
‘Right, yes. I believe so.’
Believe so?
He was refusing to say for definite. As the division’s second-ranking officer, it was highly unlikely he hadn’t been informed of whether or not the CEO was being questioned. Mikami decided to switch tack.
‘What about the papers? Have any of them started to suspect that he’s been brought in?’