The family diner lacked its usual weekend bustle. It was already dark outside.
Perched on a bar seat at the edge of the counter, Mikami glanced down at his watch. Exactly five thirty. The waitress had already brought over the rice pilaff and coffee he’d ordered, but he ignored them and continued to sit, arms folded and staring at the sheet of writing paper. He’d bought a pad from a convenience store on the way and had already smoked five cigarettes from the pack he’d picked up at the same time. I’ll drop it in your letterbox this evening. I’d appreciate it if you could pass it on to your son. Those were the words he’d left with Hiyoshi’s mother, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to write.
He exhaled and leaned back into the chair.
He wanted to help. Driven by that one idea, Hiyoshi had leapt into the world of the police. He wanted to do good. Mikami wanted to take Hiyoshi’s mother’s words at face value, but it seemed too nice a fit. Something else must have happened, to make Hiyoshi consider switching jobs after only one year. While not a godsend, it was possible he had seen in the police force’s ignorance of computer systems the perfect excuse to escape – painlessly – from his job at NTT.
But in Amamiya’s house, his confidence had suffered a terrible blow.
I made a mistake, I’m incompetent.
What kind of error could Hiyoshi have made?
Taking into account his role at Amamiya’s, it had to be something to do with the recording equipment. The first thing that came to mind was that he’d made a recording error. That he’d somehow failed to record the kidnapper’s voice during a call. Without doubt, that would have been a disaster. It would also mean that the unorthodox move of adding someone like Hiyoshi to the team had ended up backfiring. But it couldn’t have been that. Hiyoshi simply hadn’t had the opportunity to make that kind of error. The Home Unit had yet to arrive at the house when the kidnapper’s call came in. And there hadn’t been any more calls after they’d arrived – there hadn’t been a chance to make a recording.
Even so . . .
Mikami’s thoughts shifted abruptly.
What was Koda’s involvement in all of this? It was one of the key factors, but it remained completely opaque. What might have motivated Koda to draft the memo, supposing it contained details of Hiyoshi’s mistake?
Mikami knew nothing about Koda as a person. What kind of relationship had he had with Hiyoshi? Hiyoshi’s mother had suspected someone of trying to make her son take responsibility for their mistake. An unwelcome thought came into Mikami’s head. Hiyoshi’s failure had been due to doing something Koda had asked of him. Koda had made a show of consoling the man while actually intimidating him into silence. The possibility was there. There was just one thing keeping in check the idea that Koda had been the source of the outburst, and that was the impression Mizuki had of the man in her memory.
Hiyoshi was the key to finding out. All Mikami had to do was convince him to open up, and he would learn everything he needed to know about the background to the Koda memo.
Mikami put a light to his sixth cigarette. He took a drink of his coffee and, pen in hand, focused on the sheet of paper.
The pen didn’t move. Mikami’s heart and brain refused to engage. Ten, twenty minutes ticked by as he sat there doing nothing. His forehead was slick with sweat. The more his impatience grew, the more he felt an emptiness spread through his mind.
To hell with this . . .
He had to admit defeat. Having failed to commit to a single word, he felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. He’d been convinced that getting someone to open up would be an easy task. He’d lost count of the number of criminals he’d broken in the interrogation room. He’d got them to expose their every thought, to confess all the lies, all the truths, to discard all appearances and reveal hidden layers. He’d used force: the unrivalled, overwhelming force of the badge.
Mikami focused again on the paper.
What he needed now was words, not force. Something genuine. Something that could reach out to a man’s heart.
I don’t have them.
If he’d had even a fraction of that type of ability, Ayumi would never have grown so distant. Words were weapons; the razor-sharp tools of psychological warfare instruments that could lacerate a man’s heart. Mikami had never changed, even outside work. He wondered if he had ever made a genuine attempt to say something with the aim of actually connecting to another person.
‘Would you like a fresh coffee?’
Startled, Mikami looked up. He turned around to see a waitress, probably a student, standing with her head cocked to one side. There was something about the gesture and her smile that looked a little off for this kind of place – she was probably new.
‘That would be great, thanks.’
Mikami prodded the cold rice with his spoon. The waitress had looked a bit peeved to see the untouched plate. There was a phrase Mikami recalled whenever he couldn’t drum up an appetite. It was something one of his father’s old wartime buddies had muttered during one of his visits, a long time ago. Every time I had a meal, it was like a fresh start. Mikami started eating, realizing only then that he’d forgotten lunch. Right. He decided to blame that for his sudden dizziness at Hiyoshi’s house. He ate about half of the rice then put down the spoon, leaving space for dinner when he got home.
He lit a cigarette. It wasn’t the fresh start he’d hoped for, but his agitation had subsided somewhat. He breathed out smoke. His objective side was staring at the truth. He wouldn’t be able to reach Hiyoshi. He had to forget about him, go after Urushibara and Kakinuma instead, keep an eye out for any news of Koda’s whereabouts. The white sheet glared at him from the side of the counter where he’d pushed it, but he knew he was out of time. If there was even a slight chance he would succeed, then maybe, but he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of clinging to a task he considered impossible. He couldn’t call that work.
He stowed the paper and pen in his bag and reached for the bill.
‘Would you like a refill?’
The textbook question chimed in his ears.
‘I’m good, thanks.’ Mikami said this without looking around; he heard a faint laugh. He froze, thinking for a moment she’d laughed at his appearance. He looked around. The waitress from earlier came into view next to him.
‘No problem. Just let me know if you change your mind, okay?’
This time, her tone was chatty. Mikami turned his head and looked her in the face. She wasn’t what he would call pretty. She had narrow eyes and a nose that pointed up at the end.
‘Oh, sorry, was that annoying? I was just happy. You know, that’s the first time anyone here’s ever said thanks for something.’
She gave another soft giggle. Mikami was still unable to respond. His eyes followed her even as she walked away. A strange idea had taken hold of him. The girl had been some kind of omen. He could think of no other explanation for what had just happened.