He found himself unable to side with Criminal Investigations. He couldn’t think of a single reason to protect them. Was it because of the way they’d treated him as an exile? Was it because he’d caught a glimpse of the dark history behind Six Four? No. It was because he didn’t yet know what Tokyo was trying to do. He could tell himself he was still a detective at heart, but, as long as he was unable to imagine the danger Criminal Investigations faced, it was impossible to see things from their perspective.
And he had his own perspective. He had the feeling that he was also a victim, of Criminal Investigations having interfered with his current job, of them having violated his territory. Their trap had been laid right at the feet of Media Relations. Arakida was trying to use the press as a weapon and had set the stage for his war right in Mikami’s office.
Even so . . .
Mikami didn’t feel angry. And that was why, he realized, the skin concealing his true feelings – his guilt because he hadn’t warned Akama about the trap; his hostility for Criminal Investigations – had peeled cleanly away. Both were nothing more than footnotes. By the time they reached the stairs, Mikami had become slave to a single idea. Akama’s wiry frame stood there before him.
If he were to warn him about the trap . . .
If he were to hold out his hand, rescue this weakened, panic-stricken tourist . . .
Akama would change the way he looked at him.
Someone I can trust.
If that happened, Mikami would never have to worry about being transferred away.
Sir . . .
Mikami was on the verge of speaking up when Akama turned suddenly around. ‘You should use this as a chance to make your apology, too.’
He’d said it almost without thinking.
All the tension seemed to dissipate in an instant.
Apology? About what . . . who to?
‘To the Press Club. You need to fix the clash you had over anonymous reporting. Get on your hands and knees if you have to – just make sure the press withdraw their intention of boycotting the interview.’
Mikami couldn’t think of anything to say. He wouldn’t show himself as weak before the press. Akama had just crossed the line Mikami had drawn for himself.
‘If that’s not enough, assure them that all future announcements will include the full identity of everyone involved. We only need the commissioner’s visit to be a success. Once it’s over, you can rescind your statement, cause all the trouble you want.’
He had to have misheard.
An empty promise . . . but this was something completely different to Shirota’s suggestion of fleshing out their services. Akama was telling him to lie, and about anonymous reporting, the most incendiary issue his office faced.
‘You should see yourself.’ Akama smiled, without looking amused. ‘We’ll have to put up with it for three days. But there’s nothing to worry about. Criminal Investigations can wriggle all it wants. Come Thursday, it’ll be gone.’
46
The press conference had been continuing without issue.
‘. . . in light of the aforementioned circumstances, I am able to report that a disciplinary committee was convened in the Prefectural HQ earlier today at which it was decided, after a thorough discussion, that the actions of Sergeant Yoshitake Kuriyama, aged fifty, were in clear violation of the propriety and behaviour that is expected of an officer of the law. As such, Sergeant Kuriyama has been placed under emergency arrest and has today been dismissed from the force . . .’
Twenty-three reporters. Five TV cameras.
Akama was sitting at the centre of the table put out for the conference, talking in a monotone. Not having had the time to put together a full statement, all he had to hand were a few quickly drafted notes. Shirota was at his side, every now and then passing along a sheet with more scribbled notes.
Mikami was watching the reporters from the corner of the room. Apart from the two representing the Toyo, they all seemed to be in varying states of despondency. No one had shown displeasure when Mikami had walked into the room. The atmosphere had clearly changed from the previous week. Perhaps it was possible to turn the boycott around, if, as Suwa had suggested, they were able to capitalize on the other reporters’ resentment for the Toyo. And Mikami had been freed from his responsibilities. The format of the apology had been left to Shirota’s discretion. Mikami didn’t doubt that the lie of full disclosure would prevent the boycott from taking place, but he also suspected that the same might be achieved without breaking any promises – if he directed his apology at the melee surrounding the written protest.
But his mind wasn’t focused on such preparations. Those kind of thoughts raced along on the surface of his consciousness but failed to breach the deeper layers of emotion.
Come Thursday, it’ll be gone . . .
Alarms were flashing red, deep in his mind. In the end, he’d let Akama take his seat without even hinting at the trap. Gone. The impact of that one word had been too much.
Was Mikami reading too much into it? Akama hadn’t been in a normal state when he’d made the utterance. His pride had been injured, his standing in Tokyo placed under threat. It might have been a vengeful remark, an exaggeration of the trouble Criminal Investigations would no doubt have to face. It might have been nothing more than a battle cry. And yet the alarms continued to flash, growing brighter still. What could ‘gone’ mean, supposing it hadn’t been an exaggeration? It went beyond concepts like shock, loss and damage. What it seemed to suggest was an ‘end’, an ‘extinction’.
‘. . . we are treating this case with the utmost severity. To make sure nothing like this ever happens again, Captain Tsujiuchi has called on all nineteen district stations to reinforce their controls concerning the management of the detention facilities.’
Akama gave Shirota a signal. They both stood; it was part of the ritual. The cameras flashed in waves.
‘We offer our most sincere apologies to the citizens of our prefecture and to the nation, to the victim of this heinous crime, and to everyone else affected. I believe I speak for everyone in the Prefectural Headquarters when I say that we intend to do all we can to recover the goodwill and trust lost due to our shortcomings in this case.’
The two men came forward in a bow.
Shutters clicked as countless flashes went off, bathing the front of the room with an otherworldly brightness. Akama raised his head after a few seconds, followed soon after by Shirota. They retook their seats.
‘We will take questions now.’
Mikami’s eyes were trained on Akikawa. But it was Tejima, next to him, who was the first to raise his hand.
‘I seem to remember someone killing themselves in one of your detention cells, a couple of years ago. In light of today, wouldn’t you agree there might be a fundamental problem in the management of the prefecture’s detention facilities?’
The question.
Akikawa had followed through on his pact with Arakida, with Tejima as his mouthpiece.
‘When you say fundamental problem . . .?’ Shirota asked in response, holding a hand to his ear. Tejima floated a sly grin.
‘Oh, you know, that maybe you don’t see managing the facilities as important, so you don’t post any of your better officers to the job. That sort of thing.’