Something had lit up in the part of Mikami that was still a detective. To submit and play scarecrow for Administrative Affairs would mean severing the few links he had left to his true self. And yet no one was foolish enough to go up against anyone with influence in personnel decisions. If he was posted to some district station in the mountains, then, far from being reinstated to Criminal Investigations, he would, in terms of the organization, become at once someone only vaguely remembered. Viewed differently, however, it had also been a rare opportunity. If the time came when the situation changed and a return to his home department seemed likely, the story of his standing up to the director of Administrative Affairs – the second-most influential man in the Prefectural HQ – would be enough to purge his ‘second offensive’ and more besides.
With the greatest care, Mikami began to resist Akama. He worked harder to present himself as a loyal subordinate, keeping his emotions at bay while he focused on being true to the cause. He listened quietly but objectively, offering tactful disagreement only when he found himself unable to stomach a particular instruction or order. He also spoke up on certain media strategies he supported, all the while quietly continuing with his plan to reform Media Relations.
He had known he was treading on thin ice. He could feel Akama’s irritability in his pulse. And yet he had persisted in making his opinion known. It was clear now that he’d been energized by the risk. For half a year he’d refused to shy away from Akama’s piercing glares. He’d felt the rush of combat. He might not have been winning, but he hadn’t been losing either.
But . . .
Ayumi’s disappearance had changed everything.
Ash tumbled from his cigarette and hit the table. He’d smoked two already. He checked the clock on the wall. Kuramae was visible, his profile a dim shadow at the edge of Mikami’s vision. Second Division had refused to share their intelligence. Did that mean their goodwill for him was spent? Kuramae was there as a representative of Mikami. The field divisions would have been well aware of that.
It had to be because he’d stopped visiting the divisions, the detectives. Because his press strategy had regressed to being whatever Akama dictated.
A sudden commotion broke out in the corridor.
Here they come. Suwa and Kuramae had enough time to exchange looks before the door swung open, without so much as a knock.
3
In an instant the room filled with press. The Asahi, Mainichi, Yomiuri, Tokyo, Sankei and the Toyo. Then the local press: the D Daily, the Zenken Times, D Television and the FM Kenmin. Their overlapping faces were all hard set. Some were openly glaring, their shoulders tense and angry in a way that suggested their more recent cooperation with Mikami was weakening, too. The majority were reporters in their twenties. It was during times like this that Mikami felt an aversion for their youth, for the way it allowed for such brash behaviour. The reporters from Kyodo News and Jiji Press filed into the room a little behind the others. The reporter from the NHK was there, too, at the back of the crowd and sticking halfway into the corridor, craning his neck to see in.
All thirteen member agencies of the Press Club were in attendance.
‘Let’s get on with it.’ A surge of disgruntled voices rose from the crowd and the two men at the front, both with the Toyo, took a step closer. As the Press Club’s representative for the month, it was the Toyo’s place to lead proceedings.
‘Director Mikami. First, we’d like to hear a proper explanation for your sudden departure yesterday.’ Tejima, who had donned a suit jacket, launched the first question.
Toyo. Assistant Chief. University H. Twenty-six. No ideological background. Deadly serious. Tends to overconfidence. Tejima’s entry in Mikami’s notebook.
‘Suwa told us you had a relative in a critical condition. Perhaps so – but does that really justify you getting up and leaving without a single word? And as we’ve heard nothing from you since, I can’t help thinking that your treatment of us is—’
‘Sorry,’ Mikami interrupted. He hated recalling the reason he had left and to have the press asking about it.
Tejima glanced at Akikawa, who was to his side.
Toyo. Chief. University K. Twenty-nine. Left-leaning. Never gives up. De facto leader of the Press Club.
Akikawa looked nonchalant, his arms folded. He preferred to act big, let the others get on with the heavy lifting.
‘Am I correct in assuming that you’re offering an apology?’
‘That’s right.’
Tejima studied Akikawa’s expression for a second time, then turned to face the others. Ready to ask their opinion, he began, ‘Are you all—’
That’ll do, let’s get on with it. He nodded at their silent gestures to carry on, then proceeded to open a photocopied sheet he’d been holding over Mikami’s desk.
Details of a Serious Car Accident in Oito City.
Mikami had no need to check the document. It was a copy of the press report the office had put up a day earlier. A housewife had been distracted while driving her car and hit an elderly man, resulting in severe, full-body injuries to the victim. While road accidents were common enough in themselves, the details of this particular case had become a cause of conflict with the press.
‘Let me ask again – why have you kept the identity of the female driver hidden? You must know you have an obligation to disclose her full details?’
Mikami locked his fingers and met Tejima’s icy stare. ‘As I explained yesterday, the woman is eight months pregnant. She has been in a state of extreme distress since causing the accident. We can’t know how she might react to the shock of seeing her name in the papers, on top of everything else. That is why we haven’t revealed her name.’
‘That is not a valid reason. You’ve even kept her address secret – all we have is “Oito City”. Mrs A, housewife, thirty-two years old. That’s all you’ve given us . . . how can we be sure she even exists?’
‘Of course she’s real, and that’s exactly why we must consider the effect this might have on her unborn baby. Tell me what’s wrong with that.’
They seemed to take Mikami’s counter-argument as arrogance. Tejima’s expression darkened and the room bustled angrily. ‘Since when has that been something the police have to think about? It’s an unnecessary consideration.’
‘The woman is not under arrest. The man had stepped on to the road in a place with no pedestrian crossing. And he’d been drinking.’
‘The fact remains that the driver wasn’t watching the road. And here, you describe the man’s condition as “serious”, where it should say “critical”. The old man, Meikawa, he’s in a coma, after all.’
Mikami glanced at Akikawa from the corner of his eye. How long was he planning to let Tejima rant for?
‘Director Mikami, you need to level with us. This isn’t something we can just turn a blind eye to; the potential consequences are too big. We have a duty to question the driver’s responsibility in this instance.’
Mikami returned his gaze to Tejima, who was still doggedly persevering. ‘So, you want to pass sentence on her by bandying her name around in the papers?’
‘Come on, there’s no need to put it like that. That’s not what we’re saying. What we’re saying is that it’s wrong for the police to make a unilateral decision to withhold a person’s name and address. Whether we print the driver’s name or not should be up to us, after we’ve had the chance to weigh it against the public good.’