All that escaped his throat was a dried-up sigh.
He felt a shiver run through his body. It was as though he’d finally woken up. The whole morning he’d been working to find something he could use to convince Amamiya. That was the reason he was here now: in order to carry out Akama’s wishes. Circumstances were forcing his hand, perhaps, but the truth was that he was even now trying to gather intelligence for Administrative Affairs; he was no more than a cog in its wheel.
I’m on your side. He wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t say it. The moment he did he would become a traitor to both sides – a bat, something between bird and beast. A molten thing; he would lose any individual identity.
Mikami’s eyes fell to the floor.
He’d been naive. Matsuoka was concerned for Ayumi’s wellbeing. Even now, he considered Mikami one of his own. Yet Mikami had let nostalgia for his time in district get the better of him, let the dam burst on the inner detective he was supposed to be keeping in check. He’d mistaken the proximity of Matsuoka across the table for the proximity of the department itself.
‘Try thinking about why the commissioner’s coming.’
Mikami looked up at the sound of his voice.
What . . .?
Matsuoka had turned so his back faced Mikami. He’d plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and was slowly stretching his neck from side to side. Mikami was stunned. Of course. It was Matsuoka who had taught him the technique of ‘thinking out loud’. He’d adopted the same pose in district, without fail, whenever he wanted to suggest something to a reporter who was getting the wrong end of the stick.
What did he mean? Mikami had no idea. Akama had already explained the reason behind the commissioner’s visit. It was PR, a message for the public, and at the same time designed to boost confidence that the commissioner wouldn’t shun Criminal Investigations.
Yet Matsuoka had—
There was a loud thud. The door to the division opened and Director Arakida strode in, his sizable frame rocking as he did so. He immediately caught sight of Mikami. His slanted eyes narrowed even further.
‘What’s Media Relations doing here?’ He was close to shouting. Mikami straightened his back. He had no idea how to respond. ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’ His eyes drilled into him, now full of accusation. ‘This morning – the Toyo, the Times. Let me guess, you got something from that hotline you have with Itokawa?’
‘That wasn’t me . . .’
‘Well, who the hell leaked the story?’
‘I intend to look into that.’
‘You intend to?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Not that it matters. We’ll know soon enough.’
The pitch of his voice had dropped sharply. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Arakida flicked a glance in Mikami’s direction, communicating his message, then he gestured for Matsuoka to follow as he started towards his office.
‘If you’re not CID, get out.’
The door slammed as he delivered the barbed comment. The number one and number two of Criminal Investigations disappeared into the director’s weekend office. They were on full alert. It was as though they were getting ready for war.
24
The north wind stung Mikami’s cheeks.
Back in his car he shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine, but instead of pulling out, he took his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lit one and savoured the smoke, immobile in the driver’s seat as he gazed out of the window, focused on the building he’d just come from. His heart was still thumping hard. He could hear Matsuoka’s words, a continuous loop in his ears.
Try thinking about why the commissioner’s coming.
What reason would Tokyo have to level its sights on the Criminal Investigations Department in Prefecture D? What was their real motive?
Matsuoka had told him to ask his boss, but Akama wouldn’t disclose the secret even if he did. He would kick him out, and say he’d already explained it. He hadn’t given any hint of the con man’s dilemma when it came to the commissioner’s visit. Akama had given orders and left no room for compromise. He didn’t trust Mikami, never had. Ayumi’s disappearance was holding him back, but Akama also knew Mikami would tear off his Administrative Affairs’ suit the moment this leverage became irrelevant.
Mikami checked the car’s digital clock. It was already gone 1 p.m. He felt an increasing sense of duty, as well as urgency. How could he get something to use in convincing Amamiya? It had been obvious from the ferociousness of Arakida’s expression that, if Mikami simply charged around blind, the gag order wouldn’t budge an inch. It hadn’t been the look of a man on the defensive. He’d been warlike, determined – and he was intent on keeping Administrative Affairs from interfering. That was it. Criminal Investigations was doing more than simply trying to protect itself. On the far side of the Iron Curtain, it was making preparations for a counter-strike.
You need to start with the Koda memo.
The words formed on Mikami’s breath. It wasn’t possible, at this stage, to be sure such a document even existed, let alone work out what it contained. Futawatari was operating on the basis that it did exist. Focused on this one point, he was attempting to break into the territory of Criminal Investigations. The Koda memo was the key, it had to be. Criminal Investigations staging a mutiny. Amamiya refusing the visit. The commissioner’s real reason for making the visit. Mikami was increasingly convinced the memo was the way to unlock all three puzzles.
It was no stretch of the imagination to suppose that the memo was something Kazuki Koda had written. Koda had been with Violent Crime in First Division when the Six Four kidnapping had occurred, and he’d been one of four officers assigned to the Home Unit stationed in Amamiya’s house during the kidnapping. Something had gone wrong while he was there. Something that had resulted in Amamiya losing confidence in the police. The Koda memo contained the details of what had happened.
Mikami felt that he wasn’t too far from the mark.
The fact that Koda had resigned only six months after the kidnapping only served to reinforce the theory. The official record of his resignation cited ‘personal reasons’, but the truth was that he’d been pressured into leaving the force because he’d written about whatever it was that had occurred in Amamiya’s home. Either that, or the existence of the memo had come to light after his resignation and the issue was still smouldering away even now.
But . . .