Six Four
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
First published in the Japanese language as Rokuyon (64)
by Bungeishunju in Tokyo in 2012
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Quercus
This edition first published in 2016 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
Copyright © 2012 Hideo Yokoyama
English translation copyright © 2016 Jonathan Lloyd-Davies
The moral right of Hideo Yokoyama to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 984 2
Print ISBN 978 1 84866 526 2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Born in 1957, Hideo Yokoyama worked for twelve years as an investigative reporter with a regional newspaper north of Tokyo, before becoming one of Japan’s most acclaimed fiction writers. Six Four is his sixth novel, and a phenomenon of Japanese crime literature: having sold over 1 million copies domestically. Six Four is his first novel to be published in the English language.
1
Snowflakes danced through the evening light.
The man’s legs were stiff as he stepped from the taxi. A forensics official in a police-issue overcoat was waiting outside the entrance to the station. He ushered the man inside. They passed a work area for duty officers and continued along a gloomy corridor before taking a side door out to the officers’ parking area.
The mortuary stood by itself at the far end of the grounds, a windowless structure with a tin roof. The low rumbling of the extractor fan told him there was a body inside. The official unlocked the door and stepped back. He gave the man a deferential look, indicating he would wait outside.
I forgot to pray.
Yoshinobu Mikami pushed open the door. The hinges groaned. His eyes and nose registered Cresol. He could feel the tips of Minako’s fingers digging through the fabric of his coat, into his elbow. Light glared down from the ceiling. The waist-high examination table was covered in blue vinyl sheeting; above it, a human shape was visible under a white sheet. Mikami recoiled at the indeterminate size, too small for an adult but clearly not a child.
Ayumi . . .
He swallowed the word, afraid that voicing his daughter’s name might make the body hers.
He began to peel back the white cloth.
Hair. Forehead. Closed eyes. Nose, lips . . . chin.
The pale face of a dead girl came into view. In the same moment the frozen air began to circulate again; Minako’s forehead pushed against his shoulder. The pressure receded from the fingers at his elbow.
Mikami was staring at the ceiling, breathing out from deep in his gut. There was no need to inspect the body further. The journey from Prefecture D – by bullet train then taxi – had taken four hours, but the process of identifying the corpse had been over in seconds. A young girl; drowned, suicide. They had wasted no time after receiving the call. The girl, they were told, had been found in a lake a little after midday.
Her chestnut hair was still damp. She looked fifteen or sixteen, perhaps a little older. She hadn’t been in the water for long. There were no signs of bloating, and the slender outline running from her forehead to her cheeks was, along with her childlike lips, unbroken, preserved as though she were still alive.
It seemed a bitter irony. The girl’s delicate features were, he supposed, the kind Ayumi had always longed for. Even now, three months later, Mikami was still unable to think back on what had happened with a cool head.
There had been a noise from Ayumi’s room upstairs. A frenzied sound, like somebody trying to kick through the floor. Her mirror was in pieces. She’d been sitting with the lights off in the corner of her room. Punching, scratching her face, trying to tear it apart: I hate this face. I want to die.
Mikami faced the dead girl and pressed his hands together. She would have parents, too. They would have to come to this place, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, and face up to the awful reality.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
His voice was hoarse. Something dry was caught in his throat.
Minako seemed vacant; she made no attempt to nod. Her swollen pupils were like glass beads, empty of thought or emotion. This wasn’t their first time – in the last three months they had already identified two bodies of Ayumi’s age.
Outside, the snow had turned to sleet. Three figures stood breathing chalky clouds in the dark of the parking area.
‘A great relief.’
The pale, clearly good-natured station captain proffered his card with a hesitant smile. He was in full uniform, even though it was outside working hours. The same was true of the director, and of the section chief of Criminal Investigations flanking his sides. Mikami recognized it as a sign of respect, in c
ase he’d identified the girl as his daughter.
He gave them a low bow. ‘Thank you for getting in touch so quickly.’
‘Not at all.’ We’re all police. Skipping any further formalities, the captain turned to gesture at the building and said, ‘Come in, you should warm up a little.’
There was a nudge in the back of Mikami’s coat. He turned and caught Minako’s imploring gaze. She wanted to leave as soon as possible. He felt the same way.
‘That’s very kind, but we should get going. We have a train to catch.’
‘No, no, you should stay. We’ve arranged a hotel.’
‘We appreciate your consideration, but we really do need to go. I have to work tomorrow.’
When he said this, the captain’s gaze dropped to the card in his hands.
Superintendent Yoshinobu Mikami. Press Director. Inspector, Administrative Affairs Department, Personnel Division. Prefecture D Police Headquarters.
He sighed as he looked back up.
‘It must be tough, having to deal with the press.’
‘It can be,’ Mikami said evasively. He could picture the mutinous faces of the reporters he’d left back in Media Relations. They had been in the middle of a heated argument over the format of press releases when the call had come in to notify him of the drowned girl. He had got to his feet and walked out without a word, earning the wrath of the reporters, who were unaware of his family situation: We’re not finished here. Are you running away, Mikami?
‘Have you been in Media Relations long?’ The captain looked sympathetic. In district stations, relations with the press were handled by the station’s vice-captain or vice-director; in smaller, regional stations, it was the captain himself who stood in the firing line.
‘Just since the spring. Although I had a brief stint there a long time ago.’
‘Have you always worked in Administrative Affairs?’
‘No. I spent a long time as a detective in Second Division.’ Even now, this engendered a certain amount of pride.
The captain nodded uncertainly. It was unlikely, even in the regional headquarters, that he had seen any examples of detectives switching into the role of press director.
‘I would imagine, with your insights into Criminal Investigations, that the press might actually listen to you.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
‘You know, it’s a bit of a problem here. There are . . . certain reporters who like to write what they please, true or not.’
The captain scowled and, without changing his expression, waved towards the garage. Mikami was troubled to see the front lights of the captain’s black car flick on. The taxi he’d kept waiting was nowhere to be seen. There was another nudge in his back, but he was hesitant at this point to call another taxi and upset the well-meaning captain.
It was already dark when they drove to the station.
‘Here, this is the lake,’ the captain said from the passenger seat, sounding a little awestruck as a deeper stretch of darkness appeared beyond the window to the right. ‘The internet really is appalling. There is a horrible website, the “Top Ten Suicide Spots” – this lake is listed there. They’ve given it an eerie name, something like the “Lake of Promise”.’
‘The “Lake of Promise”?’
‘It looks like a heart, depending on the angle. The website makes the claim that it grants you true love in the next life; the girl today, she was the fourth. We had one come all the way from Tokyo not too long ago. The press decided to run an article, and now we’ve got the TV to deal with.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Absolutely. It’s a disgrace, peddling articles about a suicide. If we had had time, Mikami, I would have liked to ask you for some pointers in dealing with them.’
As if he were uncomfortable with silence, the captain continued to talk. For his part, Mikami lacked the will to carry out any animated conversation. While he was thankful for the captain’s tact, his responses became increasingly terse.
It was a mistake. It wasn’t Ayumi. His thoughts were joyless all the same; no different to those on the journey out. To pray she wasn’t their daughter. He knew all too well that this was the same as wishing she was someone else’s.
Minako was perfectly still at his side. Their shoulders pressed together. Hers felt abnormally frail.
The car turned at a junction. The bright light of the train station came into view directly ahead of them. The square in front of the building was wide and spacious, strewn with a few commemorative monuments. It was almost empty of people. Mikami had heard that the building of the station was the result of political manoeuvring; no one had thought to consider actual passenger numbers.
‘There’s no need to get out, you’ll only get wet,’ Mikami said quickly. He had the rear passenger door halfway open, but the captain beat him out of the car regardless. The man’s face was flushed red.
‘Please accept my apologies for the unreliable information and the trouble you’ve taken to come here. We thought, well, from her height and the position of the mole that she might be . . . I just hope we haven’t caused you too much distress.’
‘Of course not.’
Mikami waved a hand to dismiss the idea, but the captain took hold of it.
‘This will work out. Your daughter is alive and well. We will find her. You have 260,000 friends looking for her, around the clock.’
Mikami remained in a low bow, watching the tail lights as the captain’s car pulled away. Minako’s neck was getting wet in the cold rain. He pulled her slight form close and started towards the station. The light from a police box – one of the koban – caught his eye. An old man, possibly a drunk, was sitting on the road, fending off the restraining arms of a young policeman.
260,000 friends.
There was no exaggeration in the captain’s words. District stations. Koban. Substations. Ayumi’s picture had been sent to police departments across the nation. Officers he would neither know nor recognize were keeping watch day and night for news of his daughter, as if she were their own. The police force . . . family. It inspired confidence, and he was indebted – not a single day went by in which he wasn’t thankful for being part of such a powerful and far-reaching organization. And yet . . .
Mikami bit down on the cold air. He had never imagined it. That his need for help could have become such a critical weakness.
Submission.
Now and then, his blood felt ready to boil. He could never tell Minako.
To find your missing daughter. To hold her alive in your arms. Mikami doubted there was anything a parent wouldn’t put themselves through in order to achieve such a goal.
An announcement rang out along the train platform.
Inside, the train was marked by empty seats. Mikami ushered Minako to a window seat, then whispered, ‘The captain’s right. She’s safe. She’s doing okay.’
Minako said nothing.
‘They’ll find her soon. You don’t need to worry.’
‘. . . yes.’
‘We had the calls, remember? She wants to come back. It’s just pride. You’ll see, one day soon, she’ll just turn up.’
Minako was as hollow-looking as before. Her elegant features shone in the dark window of the train. She looked worn. She had given up on make-up and hairdressers. How would she feel, though, if she realized this only served to draw attention to the natural, effortless beauty of her features?
Mikami’s face was also in the window. He saw a phantom image of Ayumi.
She had cursed the way she’d taken after him.
She had made her mother’s beauty the focus of her anger.
He slowly pulled his eyes away from the window. It was temporary. Like the measles. Sooner or later, she would come to her senses. Then she would come home with her tongue stuck out, like she had done when she made mistakes as a small girl. She couldn’t genuinely hate them, want to cause them pain, not Ayumi.
The train rocked a little. Minako was resting against his
shoulder. Her irregular breathing made it hard to know if she was groaning or just asleep.
Mikami closed his eyes.
The window was still there, under his eyelids, reflecting the ill-matched husband and wife.
2
Since the morning a strong northern wind had been blowing over the plains of Prefecture D.
The lights were green up ahead, but the traffic was backed up and Mikami could do nothing but edge forwards. He took his hands off the steering wheel and lit a cigarette. Work had already begun on another cluster of high-rise apartments, gradually stealing away the outline of the mountains framed through the car window.
580,000 households. 1,820,000 citizens. Mikami remembered the numbers from a demographic survey he’d seen in the morning paper. Close to a third of that population lived or worked within the limits of City D. After a laboured and drawn-out process the city had successfully merged with the neighbouring cities, towns and villages, giving momentum to the process of centralization. Despite this, work on a universal public transport system – the very first item on the agenda – had yet to begin. With only a few trains or buses in service, most of the routes hugely impractical, the roads were overflowing with cars.
Get a bloody move on, Mikami muttered to himself. It was five days into December, and the morning congestion was particularly bad. The radio seemed poised to announce eight o’clock at any moment. He could make out the five-storey structure of the Prefectural Police HQ up ahead. The sight brought an unexpected sense of nostalgia for its cold but familiar outer walls, despite the fact that he’d only been away in the north for half a day.
He hadn’t needed to go all that way. He’d known from the start that it would be a waste of time. It was obvious now, a day later. Ayumi hated the cold more than most; it was ludicrous to think she would venture north. Even more that she would decide to throw herself into a frozen lake.
Mikami stubbed out his cigarette and pushed down on the accelerator. Space enough for a few cars had opened up ahead.
Somehow, he managed not to arrive late. Having stopped in the station parking area, he hurried towards the main building. As he did this, force of habit pulled his eyes towards the spaces set aside for the press.
He stopped dead. The area, usually empty at this time of day, was packed full of cars. Correspondents representing each of the news outlets would be gathered inside. For a brief moment Mikami wondered if something had happened. But no – they were here to continue yesterday’s discussions, that was all. They would be inside, waiting for him to show.