But it didn’t reach for Mikami’s card on the table.
Loss of social function. Reclusive behaviour.
It was as if Amamiya had crossed into that kind of category. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t working any more. Mikami had heard that, ever since the kidnapping, Amamiya had left the management of Amamiya Pickles in the hands of his cousin.
‘Excuse me, but . . .’ He had to ask the question. ‘When did your wife . . .?’
Amamiya looked dimly towards the altar. For a while he stayed like that. Eventually, his head came back around. Mikami thought he saw a dark glow in the man’s pupils.
‘She collapsed from a stroke six years ago. It was last year that she—’
‘I’m sorry.’ The man’s frozen emotions were beginning to thaw. Even realizing this, Mikami didn’t think to return the conversation to business. ‘She was too young to go.’
‘She was. To leave us like that. And without knowing the . . .’
She had died without ever seeing the kidnapper brought to justice. As he perhaps recalled his wife’s bitter disappointment, Amamiya’s unfocused eyes flickered shut for a moment. Mikami felt his heart ache. Each time he heard the case mentioned, he felt a sense of shame burning in his chest.
One fateful day.
The fifth of January, in the sixty-fourth year of the Showa period.
I’m going to get my New Year presents.
Shoko Amamiya had headed out saying these words a little after midday, only to disappear on her way to the house of a nearby relative. Two hours later, her kidnapper had called the Amamiyas, demanding ransom. The voice of a man in his thirties or forties, slightly hoarse, with no trace of an accent. The content of the call had been textbook.
I’ve got your daughter. Get 20 million yen ready by midday tomorrow, then wait. She dies if you talk to the police.
Her father had answered the call. He had begged to hear his daughter’s voice, but the kidnapper had simply put the phone down.
After a lot of agonizing, Amamiya had notified the police. That was after six in the evening. Within forty-five minutes, the four officers of a Home Unit dispatched from Criminal Investigations First Division in the Prefectural HQ had covertly entered the Amamiyas’ residence. At the same time, the local NTT office had called to notify the police that people were in place to trace any more calls. They’d been just a step too late. The kidnapper’s second call had come in just moments earlier.
I want used bills. Put the money in the largest suitcase you can buy at Marukoshi. Bring it to the location I’ll give you tomorrow, and come alone.
If we’d only recorded the bastard’s voice. If only that damned trace had been ready.
These were phrases uttered by every detective who ever came to work on the case, always mingled with a sigh.
At eight the same evening a Special Investigative Headquarters was established in the Prefecture D central police station. Another thirty minutes later Mikami was on his way towards the Amamiyafamily home, appointed sub-leader of the Close Pursuit Unit, with orders to go through the details of the following day’s handover. The officers of the Home Unit were already interviewing the parents.
Did you recognize his voice? Has anything suspicious happened recently? Do you know anyone who might bear a grudge? Are any of your old employees having money trouble?
The parents just frowned, the blood drained from their faces, shaking their heads the whole time.
It was a long night. Nobody slept a wink, just glared at the phone. Not once did Amamiya break his formal
seiza
sitting position. But the third call didn’t come in, even after it had started to grow light outside. Toshiko had been making rice balls in the kitchen. She’d made more than everyone could eat then made more rice and started over, mechanically repeating the task. The posture had made it seem like she was praying. But . . .
Her prayers had been ignored.
The sixty-fourth year of the Showa period had lasted for
Loss of social function. Reclusive behaviour.
It was as if Amamiya had crossed into that kind of category. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t working any more. Mikami had heard that, ever since the kidnapping, Amamiya had left the management of Amamiya Pickles in the hands of his cousin.
‘Excuse me, but . . .’ He had to ask the question. ‘When did your wife . . .?’
Amamiya looked dimly towards the altar. For a while he stayed like that. Eventually, his head came back around. Mikami thought he saw a dark glow in the man’s pupils.
‘She collapsed from a stroke six years ago. It was last year that she—’
‘I’m sorry.’ The man’s frozen emotions were beginning to thaw. Even realizing this, Mikami didn’t think to return the conversation to business. ‘She was too young to go.’
‘She was. To leave us like that. And without knowing the . . .’
She had died without ever seeing the kidnapper brought to justice. As he perhaps recalled his wife’s bitter disappointment, Amamiya’s unfocused eyes flickered shut for a moment. Mikami felt his heart ache. Each time he heard the case mentioned, he felt a sense of shame burning in his chest.
One fateful day.
The fifth of January, in the sixty-fourth year of the Showa period.
I’m going to get my New Year presents.
Shoko Amamiya had headed out saying these words a little after midday, only to disappear on her way to the house of a nearby relative. Two hours later, her kidnapper had called the Amamiyas, demanding ransom. The voice of a man in his thirties or forties, slightly hoarse, with no trace of an accent. The content of the call had been textbook.
I’ve got your daughter. Get 20 million yen ready by midday tomorrow, then wait. She dies if you talk to the police.
Her father had answered the call. He had begged to hear his daughter’s voice, but the kidnapper had simply put the phone down.
After a lot of agonizing, Amamiya had notified the police. That was after six in the evening. Within forty-five minutes, the four officers of a Home Unit dispatched from Criminal Investigations First Division in the Prefectural HQ had covertly entered the Amamiyas’ residence. At the same time, the local NTT office had called to notify the police that people were in place to trace any more calls. They’d been just a step too late. The kidnapper’s second call had come in just moments earlier.
I want used bills. Put the money in the largest suitcase you can buy at Marukoshi. Bring it to the location I’ll give you tomorrow, and come alone.
If we’d only recorded the bastard’s voice. If only that damned trace had been ready.
These were phrases uttered by every detective who ever came to work on the case, always mingled with a sigh.
At eight the same evening a Special Investigative Headquarters was established in the Prefecture D central police station. Another thirty minutes later Mikami was on his way towards the Amamiyafamily home, appointed sub-leader of the Close Pursuit Unit, with orders to go through the details of the following day’s handover. The officers of the Home Unit were already interviewing the parents.
Did you recognize his voice? Has anything suspicious happened recently? Do you know anyone who might bear a grudge? Are any of your old employees having money trouble?
The parents just frowned, the blood drained from their faces, shaking their heads the whole time.
It was a long night. Nobody slept a wink, just glared at the phone. Not once did Amamiya break his formal
seiza
sitting position. But the third call didn’t come in, even after it had started to grow light outside. Toshiko had been making rice balls in the kitchen. She’d made more than everyone could eat then made more rice and started over, mechanically repeating the task. The posture had made it seem like she was praying. But . . .
Her prayers had been ignored.
The sixty-fourth year of the Showa period had lasted for
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