‘I’m touched, Mikami,’ Akikawa joked, helping himself to a seat on one of the couches.
Reporters never failed to exhibit a morning-after buzz the day after an exclusive. It was always a mix of fatigue and self-satisfaction, causing Mikami to wonder if lust was the closest approximation to what the press felt when they were chasing a story.
Mikami settled down next to him.
‘Week’s off to a fine start, thanks to you.’
‘Just doing my job. How did the others react?’
‘You can get that from Tejima.’
‘Fair enough. What was it you wanted to talk about?’
Akikawa was gradually regaining his usual cool. Mikami realized it was the first time they’d seen each other since their clash in the Secretariat.
‘Why didn’t you call to confirm the story before running it?’
‘Just exercising my rights.’
‘Who was your source?’
‘You expect me to reveal my source? Come now, Mikami, that’s not like you.’
‘You got a handshake from Station F.’
‘Mikami. Why keep asking when you know I’m not going to tell you?’
‘No, you got the information directly from Arakida.’
Mikami made his move. A pause, indicating a bullseye. But Akikawa did nothing more than blink slowly.
‘It’s a big risk.’
‘I’m not following.’
‘There’s nothing more expensive than a free lunch,’ Mikami said threateningly.
Akikawa’s cheeks twitched. The look on his face resembled dread. Someone like Akikawa would know it all too well. It was dangerous to snap up a story being dangled before you. You ended up with a debt of obligation; if you weren’t careful, you could end up becoming a tool for the police to manipulate, an opening for the police to infiltrate.
Akikawa made a show of sighing.
‘So, I take it you didn’t call me here to discuss the apology?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your apology to the Press Club, for what happened in the Secretariat. You know, I could have sworn you’d called me to go through the preparations.’
Akikawa hadn’t been at Amigos, but it seemed as though news of Suwa’s legwork had reached him anyway.
‘Would you call off the boycott, if I did make an apology?’
‘That’s why I came here, to give you my answer. Which is “no”.’
‘What about the others?’
Akikawa frowned, clicking his tongue. ‘You really don’t get it. If the Press Club stopped functioning every time one of us ran an exclusive, it would have come apart long ago.’
It could have been confidence. It could have been a bluff.
Akikawa got to his feet. ‘I’ll be in the branch office. You can reach me there if anything comes up.’
‘You’re not going to Station F?’
‘I’ve already sent Tejima. I’m going to attend the one here, in the headquarters.’
‘Here?’
Mikami shot a look at Kuramae. He caught Mikumo’s eye in the same movement. Both faces told him they didn’t know.
‘We’re not holding a press conference here.’
‘Uh-huh, sure.’ Akikawa strode calmly from the room, showing no surprise at the answer.
Something was going to happen. He had another play.
Was he planning something? Or was it the Toyo – did they intend to unveil something during the round-table meeting? Or could it be . . .
He thought about it for a moment.
The Toyo had got its exclusive from Arakida. Mikami was sure of this now, after his talk with Akikawa. Perhaps it was this sudden certainty that made him sense the shadow of Criminal Investigations in Akikawa’s bravado.
43
One o’clock. The round-table meeting had commenced on schedule. Kuramae had gone to take notes, Mikumo to help serve tea, leaving Mikami on his own in the office.
The reporters who had gone to Station F were still there. Suwa had reported in to let him know that the details they’d given the captain about the woman Hayashi had already taken effect. The press were already chasing her story, looking for holes in the Toyo’s article. Mikami didn’t doubt their motivation, but he knew their efforts were futile as long as Hayashi had written evidence. Thanks to Suwa, they had been able to dissuade the reporters from accepting the story at face value, and in time for the evening-edition deadlines. Their follow-up articles would be conservative in comparison to the size of the scoop.
Mikami put the phone down again. He had tried Shozo Odate a few more times but still hadn’t managed to get through. It was possible he wasn’t out on a walk, that he’d gone to the hospital or the rehabilitation centre for treatment.
Mikami was about to pull out a cigarette when his eyes spotted a clear plastic file lying on his desk. It was Kuramae’s. He’d left it there on his way out. It contained a number of sheets, all filled with his neat writing. He’d said it was his report about Meikawa – they’d only got halfway through it. Mikami felt no particular need to finish it, but he had been thrown by the points Kuramae had decided to focus on.
Kuramae was the typical office type, his best feature his commitment to the job. He’d spent time in Second Division in district, filling in at a desk job for someone who was on long-term sick leave, but he also had experience in Transport and Local Community; in the Prefectural HQ, he’d spent time in Welfare. Having been shunted through so many divisions, he lacked a territory he could call his own. People who failed to specialize tended to get trampled on in the force, and Kuramae was a case in point. It was hard to reconcile the passion he’d poured into compiling and delivering this particular report with his usual dependence on Suwa to help him out.
Perhaps it felt personal somehow, reminding him of his father or someone of his father’s generation. Whatever the reason, to let himself get so distracted when the office was riding turbulence like this . . .
‘I’m coming in.’
The door cracked open and Mikumo stepped into the room. She usually stayed away until the meetings were over, but Mikami had suspected she might duck out of this one and wasn’t surprised to see her.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
She stood to attention in front of her desk.
‘Chief Ishii is still giving his speech.’
‘What is he talking about?’
‘Anonymous reporting, and the provision of new services.’
‘What is the reaction like?’
‘He’s only just started, so everyone is still listening. It’s pretty quiet.’ She went on to explain that the local and major press were all represented by their respective branch heads or editors in chief – not a single one had sent someone to take their place.
‘The Press Club likes to call itself the “Four Seasons”, did you know that?’
‘Just the name.’
‘You don’t know why?’
‘No.’