Mikami’s head lurched.
The error had been reported, fourteen years earlier. The director of Criminal Investigations had been made aware of the cover-up. This wasn’t the first time a secret the Home Unit had sought to bury for ever had come to light. The man in the top position in Criminal Investigations had known about it, too, and as far back as the kidnapping itself. Yet the facts had never been made public. The Koda memo had been stamped out of existence. They had decided to endorse Urushibara’s conduct. Koda had tipped them off and resigned from the force, yet no one had tried to stop him. On the flip-side was Urushibara, the man behind the whole cover-up – promoted to captain.
A systematic cover-up. Orchestrated by the Prefectural HQ. That was the truth behind the Koda memo.
‘Koda’s got a strong moral core. He’s also a good man, and he honours his obligations. Every year, on the anniversary of Shoko’s death, he goes to offer incense at her grave. He even made a quiet visit to Toshiko’s grave after she passed away last year, to pay his respects.
‘That’s why your hands are tied.’
‘Sorry . . .?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. You’re the only one who can watch Koda. That’s what this is.’
‘Yeah . . . I suppose so. The director’s secret was passed down the lines.’
‘Of course,’ Mikami said, feeling disgusted.
He could see a man in a guard’s uniform, his trousers, flapping in the biting wind. Fourteen whole years. All because he’d been true to his conscience.
‘He must really hate us.’ What was supposed to be a sigh came out as words.
‘Not really,’ Kakinuma muttered. ‘You know, I think he feels grateful now.’
‘Grateful?’
‘This is the first time he’s been able to hold down a proper job. Urushibara put in a good word.’
Mikami grunted when he heard this. It was probably true; the security agencies were essentially an old-boy network for the police. Under normal circumstances, an allegedly unstable element like Koda would never be able to find work with them.
‘Koda came begging, asked the chief to forgive him.’ Kakinuma dabbed a finger over his eyes. ‘He asked Urushibara to let it go, help him out, said he just wanted a normal life with his wife and child.’
Submission. Mikami felt it in his chest. A deep sympathy. An officer. A security guard. The only difference was the uniform. Off in the distance, Koda was laughing. He was in gloves, holding a red baton. Chatting with the shoppers through their car windows. Nodding happily away. He’d had his fangs removed. He was no longer a threat to the force. Yet he was still subject to Kakinuma’s regular surveillance. By the same measure, Kakinuma was being made to recall what had happened. They were two sides of the same mirror, the strategy functioning also to keep Kakinuma, who understood the truth of the cover-up, in check. This is you, if you go shooting your mouth off. Even though he’d been the one keeping watch for fourteen years, Kakinuma would have been instilled with a fear that was much the same as Koda’s.
Mikami felt the sudden urge to set them free, both of them.
‘Okay, I’m going to leave now. Just let me know one more thing. Why did Hiyoshi start crying in Amamiya’s house?’
‘That was because . . . he felt responsible.’
‘That’s all?’ Kakinuma grimaced. ‘Urushibara said something to him. Yes?’
‘. . . yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘It was about Shoko.’
‘Tell me exactly what he said.’
‘He told Hiyoshi that if the worst came to the worst . . . that it was his fault.’
32
Mikami’s foot eased down on the accelerator.
He was heading east on the prefectural highway, having taken his leave of Kakinuma. He was going to visit Amamiya. He didn’t know if the new information was enough to talk him around, but he felt it was enough to warrant a second attempt. The truth was that he wanted to go directly to Urushibara’s in City Q and beat the truth out of the man. He could feel the bile rising in his throat. This wasn’t something he could just build a wall around or keep apart from his emotions. There was anger, but that wasn’t all. He felt dismay, too. They’d had a chance to get the kidnapper’s voice on tape. If they’d succeeded, they could have broadcast it to the nation. They could have used voice fingerprinting to pare down the list of suspects.
He rammed his palm into the steering wheel. One after another, the negative emotions boiled up from within.
The police had messed up their one chance to record the kidnapper’s voice. What would have happened if this had got out to the public at the time? The case had ended in the worst possible way, with the kidnapper making off with the ransom, then with the discovery of Shoko Amamiya’s dead body. The police had, in the course of their investigation, failed to procure evidence that could have led them directly to the perpetrator. The tapes hadn’t moved. There would have been an outcry. Management’s heads would have rolled. Mikami doubted even that would have been enough to quell the fire. For as long as the case remained unsolved, the press would have seized every opportunity to bring up the mistake, continued, regardless of the passage of time, to rub salt on old wounds. The police would face endless condemnation: if only you’d recorded the kidnapper’s voice that time.
And yet . . .
The crime they’d committed was the greater one.
This wasn’t an old injury. The truth that needed to be faced was that the wound was still festering, just hidden under bandages. The police had made an inexcusable mistake during a full-blown kidnapping case then they had systematically covered it up and lied to the public for fourteen years. If something like that was to reach the press, be broadcast all over the news . . .
That thought alone was horrific. However fatal, their failure to make the recording was still nothing more than an error. Covering it up had been a deliberate act. And they had gone so far as to hide a call from the kidnapper, crushing in their hands information that could have been fundamental to the case. It was a criminal act, unworthy of any investigative body. The Prefectural HQ would have no means of defence if the truth came out. It would suffer attacks that were of a different magnitude to the censure it would have received if it had first confessed to its mistake.