Six Four (42 page)

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.’

‘It’s because there used to be twelve member agencies. They made the comparison with the number of months in a year. They didn’t like it when the
FM Kenmin
joined; in the end, they decided to keep the name because its membership was only provisional.’

He’d been hoping to alleviate the tension, but Mikumo’s expression only stiffened. Probably because he was on edge. It wasn’t anything rational. She’d made a stand. Defied an order. He understood that he’d driven her to do it, at least in his mind, but it was hard to face up to the truth here in the office.

Especially if . . .

As he’d feared, Mikumo wasn’t going to let her chance to apologize slip by.

‘Sir, about last night—’

There’s no need.
Mikami cut her off. There was nothing worse than having someone ask forgiveness when they’d done nothing wrong. ‘Let’s just move on, shall we? How did it go after our call?’

She looked unsure.

‘I’m asking seriously. I just want to know what you thought about it, about dealing with the reporters.’

‘Okay . . . Well, I think I learned a lot.’

‘About?’

‘We talked a lot. I think I got a good feel for their side of the story.’

‘Their side of the story?’

She gave an awkward nod.

‘One of the things that shocked me the most, when I started here, was the hostility of the reporters. It reminded me of when I worked for Transport in district. Whenever we caught someone who was parked illegally or speeding, they always got angry; they would throw insults, treat us with contempt, make cutting remarks. Some would get aggressive and make threats, criticizing us for trying to make a quota, doing the work for its own sake. That was when I started to think that – at least when it
came to the general public – what we did was a kind of necessary evil. It seemed the same with the reporters. They were reluctant to show any understanding. Decided we were the bad guys. That’s what it felt like to witness their aggression every day. But then—’

‘Sorry, just hold on,’ Mikami cut in, unable to stop himself. One of the phrases she’d used he repeated in a wave of indignation. ‘You thought we were a
necessary evil
?’

Mikumo looked a little anxious but was ready to defend herself. ‘I only meant to say there’s a part of that, in what we do, as far as the public is concerned.’

‘Those people were annoyed at getting a ticket. And they saw a woman so they thought they could get away with shouting. That’s all.’

‘Maybe. But they were right in that I had a quota to fulfil.’

‘And it’s also a fact that cars parked illegally block the way for fire engines, ambulances.’

‘That’s what I kept telling myself, to justify the work. But it wasn’t like when I was working in a
koban.
I couldn’t take pride in my work. I spent a lot of time debating with myself about whether we
were
a necessary evil.’

She wouldn’t last. Even supposing she got through her time in Media Relations, she would be torn to pieces in some other office.

‘Listen, we’re not here to discuss personal feelings. This isn’t your home and I’m not your father. The force is far from being any kind of mother figure.’

Mikumo stared at him, unblinking. There was a pause before she let out an almost imperceptible, shaky breath. She brought a hand up to her chest. She was trying to control her feelings.

‘Let’s go back to your report on Amigos.’

‘Okay.’

‘The reporters consider us a necessary evil. Is that what you want to say?’

Mikumo quickly shook her head. ‘I used to think so – but I
was wrong. They are definitely sceptical. And they strongly believe they have to work to keep us in line. But they don’t doubt for a minute that we’re a necessary part of society. Far from it – they deal up close with so much violent crime I think they’re actually afraid, for the sake of the public, of what might happen if we start to lose our authority. If I’m right, I think there’s hope yet.’

‘Hope?’

‘For making Media Relations into an open window.’

It felt like a punch to the chest.

‘Yes, but you’ve seen the reality of how things are now. We’re no such thing.’

Mikumo started to nod, but reconsidered. She looked as though she was holding herself back.

‘You once told me you thought the
koban
performed that function?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Always open to the outside. With a more direct connection to the people. Was that what you meant?’

‘Yes. But also that it demonstrates through what it does on a daily basis that we’re essentially good. Everyone who expresses an interest in joining the force is the same. They want to help other people, contribute to making the world a little better. Officers new to the force don’t try to hide their sense of purpose, their will to do good. And that kind of frank openness has a positive effect on the press.’

Mikami had underestimated her – he’d assumed she was just letting off steam about her time in Transport, but she’d boomeranged back to talking about the press.

‘How so?’

‘Reporters aren’t aggressive or hostile with officers in the
koban
. I think that something about the atmosphere there helps them forget about the conflict; they wake up for a while. There’s a single-minded focus to the role of a
koban
that causes them to
remember their original motivations – the sense of duty, of what’s right – for joining the press.’

The room was briefly quiet.

‘You think we lack that quality here?’

Mikumo bit her lip. Her arms and fingers were locked straight.

‘If you’ve got something you want to say, just say it.’

Nothing.

‘More personal feelings?’

‘No,’ she answered immediately, her voice constricted. She took a pained breath then looked up. ‘I don’t think we can become a window if we continue to focus on
tactics
. The more calculated we are, the more we exacerbate the hostility.’

Mikami made his face impassive and folded his arms.

‘Go on.’

‘Of course. We shoulder all the responsibility for dealing with the press. As far as they’re concerned, we’re more than just a portal to the inside; in many cases, they think of us as an embodiment of the organization itself. If we show them nothing but calculated moves designed to keep control over them . . . I worry they’ll see that as applying to the whole police force. I wonder if we can’t be a little more relaxed in our approach, less structured, more open-minded. I understand that tactics are sometimes necessary, I do, but if we really want to become a two-way conduit, isn’t the best tactic
not
to rely on strategy any more than we need to?’

Mikami had closed his eyes.

It felt like someone was telling him it was wrong to kill, even as he stood amidst a bloody crime scene. Applying the fundamentalist grammar of the
koban
to Media Relations wouldn’t poke even a pinhole through their thick walls, let alone a window.

The gap in enthusiasm brought on a wave of lethargy.

However impassioned her speech, Mikumo’s image of Media Relations was one that was free to think up new approaches;
sadly, that just didn’t fit with the reality of the office, entangled as it was in executive politics.

And yet . . .

If anyone was capable of opening a window to the outside, it was Mikumo. While he’d felt discouraged by her missionary zeal, like sun shining through a biting wind, another part of his mind had caught sight of a fleeting but welcome hope. And not just because she was uncontaminated, or a woman. She had grown wings in the course of a single night, and he’d seen in that a limitless potential. The impossible stopped being so.
She
could connect with the reporters.
She
could wade through the scum of one-upmanship and ambition, clear the waters for a younger, more naive earnestness to shine through.

She was right, he knew it. Tactics could never genuinely move a person. He wanted to believe they were both gazing at the same peak, even if they saw different routes, even if a landslide had left them both unable to move. He hadn’t forgotten: two sides were needed to shake hands.

They were trying too hard to be smart.

‘Sir,’ Mikumo started, sounding formal. ‘Please, let me work with the reporters.’

Mikami tutted. He made a wincing smile, surprised she’d even ask at this point.

I’m not afraid to dirty my hands a little.

He could still hear the words from the night before aching in his ears, but he felt confident now that she wouldn’t do anything rash. She’d just told him the best tactic was to minimize tactics.

‘Sign up for once-a-week training – on how to make an arrest.’

‘Sir . . .?’

‘Did anyone try to touch you, make a pass?’

She looked scandalized. In the next moment, the look dissolved into a smile.

‘No, nothing of the sort. I think I actually scared them off.’

‘I can see where they’re coming from,’ Mikami said, breathing out, checking the clock on the wall.

It was five minutes to two.

He’d expected the meeting to have ended by now, but Kuramae had yet to return. Sensing what was on his mind, Mikumo put on a serious face and bowed. She told him she was going to help with clearing up after the meeting and walked out.

Mikami leaned into his chair. He lit a cigarette. He took what felt like his first normal breath in a while. Eventually, he let out a chuckle.

He thought back to the look on Mikumo’s face as she’d turned around briefly on her way out. All the formality had gone from her eyes. He’d recognized it as a measure of gratitude, affection in the way one would think of a parent, but he’d also seen traces of the particular familiarity that was shared after a romantic encounter, even the joy of discovery he’d witnessed in Akama’s daughter when she’d found herself able to communicate with a single glance. Inside everyone is unlimited potential. People might work for you, but that doesn’t mean their emotions are any less valid.

Mikami knew it well enough – he’d spent twenty-eight years working for other people. He understood that no one was unquestioning in their obedience, just as he realized that no leader could ever hope to understand the inner workings of their staff. Yet they still made themselves gods. Whenever someone was newly appointed to them, they would tend to classify them as this or that kind of person, applying brightly coloured tabs to shoehorn them into the role they wanted performed.

Mikami had been the same at home.

Even at home.

A gentle wife who kept to herself. A daughter, spoiled but kind at heart.

He’d been quick to label them for whatever reason, then leave the classification unchecked, unaltered, as five, then ten years had gone by.

Had he known Ayumi at all?

Mikami felt himself tense, recognizing the onset of his dizziness. Everything around him started to go black. His vision blurred and spun. He pushed his elbows out and lay his face flat on the desk.

Ayumi was standing there, inscrutable, as his head lurched.

The only sound was the ticking of the office clock.

As before, the attack abated after five minutes. All that remained was a lingering echo, like a fading cramp in the leg, causing Mikami to forget all ideas of check-ups and hospital appointments.

Even after half past two, neither Kuramae nor Mikumo had come back. Nor had anybody called to let him know the meeting was over. Knowing they were due to discuss anonymous reporting, he had expected the press to deliver lengthy, padded-out speeches, but this was taking too long even with that in mind.

He had finally got hold of Odate. His wife had called out with the vitality of a young woman when he’d given her his name.

‘Mikami. It’s been a long time.’

‘Sorry I haven’t been better at staying in touch.’

‘Not at all, we know things are busy. How are Minako and Ayumi? I trust they’re well?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Mikami had decided not to tell the truth, not wanting to add to the strain the director was already under. Even so, it had been three months already. He’d expected the information to have reached him by now. That it hadn’t only provided a glimpse into the solitude of retirement, of growing distant from the force, even for a man like Odate, who had worked his way up to becoming director of Criminal Investigations.

‘Do you mind if I ask what you’re calling about? My husband
is resting at the moment. It’s the rehabilitation exercises, they really wear him out. I do sometimes wonder if they’re actually doing any good . . .’

Laughter flooded into his ear. While Odate’s retirement had meant an increased separation from the force, it had also allowed him a peaceful life at home. Where his wife had previously been reserved, always a few steps behind her husband, she was now bright and open, perhaps relieved of the hidden burden her role had exacted.

‘How is the director coping?’