Bastard.
Mikami pretended he hadn’t heard and started off down the corridor. Yamashina gave him an overly familiar tap on the shoulder before disappearing into the adjacent Press Room. Through the half-open door Mikami caught a glimpse of the reporters, looking stern as they huddled together.
5
Outside of the lunch hour it was rare to pass anyone on the first-floor corridor. Accounting. Training. Internal Affairs. The doors to each division were shut tight, keeping prying eyes out. It was quiet. Mikami’s footsteps provided the only sound as they echoed on the corridor’s waxed floor. Administrative Affairs. The words on the faded doorplate seemed to demand a certain feeling of apprehension. Mikami pushed open the door. Division Chief Shirota was sitting up ahead, at the far end of the room; Mikami bowed in silence before walking over, checking the inspector’s window desk out of the corner of his eye. Futawatari wasn’t there. His light was off, and the desk was clear of papers. If he wasn’t having a day off, he was probably in Personnel, on the first floor of the north building. Rumour had it that planning was already under way for the following spring’s personnel transfers. Futawatari was in charge of putting together a proposal for changes in executive positions. This fact had been a source of discomfort ever since Mikami had learned about it from Chief Ishii. What did it mean for his own transfer? Had his unplanned return to Media Relations really been the sole decision of Director Akama?
Mikami cut through the room and knocked on the door to Akama’s office.
‘Enter.’ The response came from Ishii. As it had been on the phone, his voice was pitched an octave higher than usual.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Mikami made his way over the thick carpet. Akama was sitting back on a couch, his fingers scratching at his chin. The gold-rimmed glasses. The tailored pinstripe suit. The distant, angled gaze. His appearance was no different than usual – the image of executive management, the kind new recruits were so apt to dream of emulating. At forty-one, he was five years Mikami’s junior. The balding man in his fifties, typically sycophantic as he sat bolt upright next to Akama, was Ishii. He gestured for Mikami to come over. Akama didn’t wait for Mikami to sit before he opened his mouth.
‘It must have been . . . unpleasant.’ His tone was casual, as though to suggest Mikami had been caught in an evening shower.
‘No, it’s . . . I’m sorry to let personal issues get in the way of my work.’
‘Nothing to worry about. Please, take a seat. How were the locals? I assume they treated you well?’
‘They did. They took good care of me, the station captain in particular.’
‘That’s good to hear. I’ll make sure to send my personal thanks.’
His custodial tone grated.
It had happened three months earlier. Seeing no possible alternative, Mikami had approached Akama for help. He had confided that his daughter had run away from home just one day earlier, and appealed for the search to be expanded from his local district station to include the other stations throughout the prefecture. Akama’s reaction had been completely unexpected. He had scrawled a note on the search request Mikami had brought with him, then called Ishii in and instructed him to fax the document to headquarters in Tokyo. Perhaps that meant the Community Security Bureau. Or the Criminal Investigations Bureau. Maybe even the Commissioner General’s Secretariat. Akama had then put down his pen and said, ‘You don’t need to worry. I’ll have special arrangements in place before the day is out, from Hokkaido to Okinawa.’
Mikami couldn’t forget the look of triumph on Akama’s face. He had known immediately that it contained more than a simple look of superiority at having demonstrated his authority as a Tokyo bureaucrat. Akama’s eyes had lit up with the expectation of change. They had become fixated on him, peering from behind those gold-rimmed glasses, desperate not to miss the moment this upstart regional superintendent who had resisted for so long finally capitulated. Mikami had shivered to the core, realizing he’d given Akama a weakness to exploit. How else could he have responded, though, as a father concerned for the safety of his daughter?
Thank you. I am in your debt.
Mikami had bowed. He’d held his head under the table, lower than his knees . . .
‘And this, the second time now. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to make those trips.’ Not for the first time, Akama was dwelling on the subject of Ayumi. ‘I know I’ve suggested this before, but perhaps you might consider releasing more of your daughter’s details? More than just her photo and physical characteristics. There are all sorts of other things – fingerprints, dental records, for example?’
Mikami had of course considered all of these before Akama suggested it. It was close to torture each time he was called out, each time he had to peel the white cloth from the face of a corpse. And Minako’s nerves were stretched to breaking. Yet he remained hesitant. Fingerprints. Hand prints. Dental impressions. Records of dental treatment. All were types of data most effectively used in the identification of dead bodies. I want you to look for my daughter’s corpse. It was tantamount to saying exactly that, and Mikami couldn’t bear the idea.
‘I’ll need some more time to think about it.’
‘Well, be quick. We want to keep any losses to a minimum.’
Losses?
Mikami called on his sense of reason, forcing down the surge of anger. Akama was trying to provoke him. Testing the extent of his submission. Pulling himself together, Mikami said, ‘What was it you wanted to see me for?’
All the curiosity drained from Akama’s eyes.
‘The truth is,’ Ishii said, leaning forwards in his stead – it was clear he’d been itching to speak the whole time – ‘the commissioner general is going to pay us an official visit.’
It took a moment for Mikami to respond. This was not what he’d expected.
‘The commissioner general?’
‘We’ve just been notified ourselves. It’s scheduled for this time next week, so as you can imagine, we’re in a bit of a flap. I can’t think how many years it’s been since the last commissioner’s visit . . .’