Mikami’s head started to race as he felt a surge of something like kinship. Osakabe had just told him he’d kept Futawatari in the dark. He was addressing Mikami as though he were in Criminal Investigations.
‘What did he try asking you about?’ Mikami tried pushing a little, but Osakabe said nothing else. ‘If I can be honest . . . I still don’t know what Tokyo intends to do. If you know what they’re planning, it would be a great help.’
The silence seemed to deepen. What would happen if he were to bring up the subject of the Koda memo? Would Osakabe’s involvement in the cover-up compel him to walk away? There was no choice. Futawatari would have addressed the subject.
‘I believe Futawatari would have mentioned something called the “Koda memo”. Am I right to assume that?’
‘As press director, what is your interest in this?’
This threw Mikami. Had Osakabe asked this defensively? Or did he want to clarify Mikami’s position first, before he moved on to talk about the core issue? I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. Stunned by Osakabe’s words and swept up by the murky, detective-like atmosphere of the room, Mikami had – despite the question being an obvious one – forgotten to explain his own stance.
‘My . . .’
He could feel the sweat on his palms. Whatever Osakabe’s reasons for asking, now the question was in the air Mikami knew the conversation was over unless he answered.
‘It’s true that I am currently based in Administrative Affairs. That I am therefore under an obligation to follow my commanding officer’s orders. And while I don’t know Tokyo’s goal in this, I realize I am a part of the plan. But—’
I haven’t sold my soul.
‘I only want to know what’s necessary in order for me to do my job as press director, as the person in charge of managing the sites during the commissioner’s visit. That’s why I’m here.’
‘How would you use the information?’
‘I would keep it to myself and carry out my orders.’
‘Meaning you would commit yourself to Administrative Affairs but remain a detective?’
‘No, I . . .’
Mikami stopped, reconsidering. It would be foolish to pretend he belonged in Administrative Affairs, not after he’d come here driven by his loathing for Futawatari. Osakabe was right. Mikami couldn’t erase the part of him that was still a detective. Even if he had sold his soul, he was still a detective in flesh and blood. He needed something that fundamentally differentiated him from Futawatari. Osakabe had turned Futawatari away, but Mikami had been confident he wouldn’t do the same to him.
‘Yes, I think you’re right. That’s just a part of me now, I can’t do anything about it. I won’t forget that I’m a detective, whatever it is I end up doing.’
‘You want to go back?’
‘I can’t deny it. But—’
‘So you’re saying you’d like to have an easy run of things?’
‘An . . . easy run?’
‘Sure. The job’s an easy one. Easiest in the world.’
Mikami didn’t understand what he was hearing. The job was easy? Was that what he’d meant? Or had he meant being there was easy? Being a part of Criminal Investigations, where he could be himself. Where he’d left his desk, his pride, his achievements . . .
Osakabe unfolded his arms.
‘Return to your post. There’s nothing so foolish as wasting the present for the future.’
What?
‘Today is for today. Tomorrow is for tomorrow.’
Mikami was stunned.
Osakabe was already on his feet. Mikami needed to make the decision.
‘Please, wait.’
He had to say it: it was the only thing that would keep him there.
‘I believe you know the truth about the Koda memo. If the information gets out, it will harm your reputation, too.’
Osakabe peered down at him. His eyes were quiet, philosophical, as though he’d let go of everything years earlier.
‘Return to your post. Chance can define a lifetime.’
‘It could bring the department down.’
Osakabe ignored the question to the end.
So you’re going to run?
Osakabe walked out of the room, leaving nothing but a brush of air wafting across Mikami’s cheeks. The sound of his footsteps receded along the hallway. As though it was a custom of the house, his wife came quietly in to take his place, carrying a cup and saucer.
‘Some tea before you go?’
There was something reassuring about her voice. Mikami felt the tension slip away from his back and knees. Ten minutes, on the dot. He didn’t doubt Futawatari had been left with the same bitter aftertaste, drinking tea after Osakabe had left the room.
39
In the cold air outside, Mikami became aware of the heat in his face.
In their fight for information, both he and Futawatari had suffered a painful defeat. While that was true for this particular round, however, the fact remained that Futawatari knew Tokyo’s intentions, while he didn’t. For his part, Mikami had learned the secret of the Koda memo. Yet, try as he might, he hadn’t been able to get Futawatari to talk, and Osakabe had presented an insurmountable rock face.
But that wasn’t all . . .
Return to your post.
Chance can define a lifetime.
Fatigue convinced him to go home. He made a detour to Hiyoshi’s home and left the letter he’d written with the man’s mother: It’s not your fault. Now that Kakinuma had confessed to the truth, he had less need to reach Hiyoshi, but he knew he’d feel bad if he abandoned him now without having first delivered his words.
At home, Minako had prepared mackerel and a vegetable stir-fry. Although she wasn’t smiling, her expression had softened a little. Mikami had expected her to bring up the phone calls again but, dressed in her apron and perhaps satisfied after their conversation earlier in the day, she showed no signs of wanting to raise the subject.
When they’d started to eat she said, ‘Did something good happen at work?’
Mikami blinked at the sudden question. ‘Why, do I look different?’
‘A bit.’
It was probably his relief showing through at finding Minako in a good mood. Although it was possible it was the other way around. He’d arrived home in good spirits, and she’d let his mood raise hers, too. That would explain it. It was the effect of the talk he’d had with Mizuki Murakushi. She’d helped fill one of the many gaps in the jigsaw puzzle of their marriage. It might have remained obscured beneath his self-consciousness, his other worries, but the warmth he’d felt when listening to Mizuki reminisce about Minako had already been integrated into his deep memory, settled into a place where it couldn’t be overwritten. It wasn’t just fatigue that had urged him to come home. He was sure of it.
‘You do look tired, though. Is anything wrong?’
‘Got through a major obstacle, actually. Amamiya has agreed to let the commissioner visit him.’
Mikami had expected her to take this as good news; instead, she tilted her head to the side.
‘Oh? Hadn’t he turned you down already?’
‘Yeah, the first time.’
‘Huh. I wonder why he would . . .’
Mikami didn’t want to tell her that he’d cried at the Buddhist altar.
‘I think he probably realized I was being sincere.’