CHAPTER SEVEN
Leah had spent sixteen years believing her father died in a burning car.
There were facts attached to that belief. A coroner's report. Dental records. A blackened watch recovered from the driver's footwell. A funeral with no open coffin and three rows of police officers standing in rain so hard the flowers collapsed before the service ended.
Facts were supposed to be stronger than memory.
The photograph in her hand made them look pathetic.
Drew took it from her before she tore it without realising.
"Name," he said.
"Michael Quinn. Detective Inspector when he died. Serious organised crime."
"When you were how old?"
"Seventeen."
"And you identified him?"
"Not the body. There wasn't enough left.
" She heard the old words coming back exactly as they had been given to her.
"Vehicle left the road outside Beverley.
Hit a concrete drainage wall. Fuel tank ruptured.
The fire burned for twenty minutes before anyone got close.
They used dental records. His watch was in the car.
His wedding ring was fused to what they said was his hand. "
Drew glanced at the photograph again.
"They said."
"Yes."
"Who ran the investigation?"
Leah looked up.
The answer arrived before she wanted it to.
"Marcus Venn was on the team. Detective Sergeant then."
Nobody in the office moved.
Gareth Pike sat with both hands locked around the edge of the desk. Mia Carter stared at the floor. Sam Ridley had stopped pretending to drink his tea.
Drew's expression barely changed.
"That's inconvenient."
"That's one word for it."
"You ever see your father's case file after joining?"
"I tried."
"And?"
"Restricted. Then partially missing. Venn told me there had been an archive migration and some exhibits were lost."
"And you believed him?"
Leah's temper flared because the question landed where it should.
"I was twenty-three. He'd been my father's friend. He was the man who came to our house and told my mother the car was his. He helped carry the coffin."
Drew did not apologise.
That was one of the things she was beginning to understand about him. He did not soften a question because the answer hurt.
"What was your father investigating?"
"Import routes. Cocaine, weapons, cash. Mostly through Hull and Immingham. Different names then. Different clubs. Same roads."
Sam swore under his breath.
Leah turned to him.
"What?"
The older man rubbed his jaw.
"Michael Quinn came to North End once."
Gareth's head snapped around.
"When?"
"Before you were president. Before Owen had enough beard to pretend he was dangerous." Sam looked at Leah. "Your dad came to the old clubhouse. No warrant. No uniform. Had coffee with Mick Pike for nearly an hour."
Gareth's father.
The club's founder.
Drew's eyes narrowed. "You never mentioned that."
"Didn't matter until now. Quinn wanted something from Mick. Mick wanted something from him. Neither told me what. Three weeks later Quinn died."
"And Mick?" Leah asked.
"Shot outside a betting shop six months after that."
Gareth stood so fast the chair scraped backwards.
"We're not digging up my old man while my daughter's in a fucking box somewhere."
Leah looked at him. "This may be why your daughter is in a box somewhere."
His face hardened.
Drew moved between them without making it obvious.
"We deal with what's alive first."
Leah almost laughed at the wording.
Then her undercover phone rang.
Every person in the office looked at it.
The screen showed UNKNOWN.
Drew held out his hand.
Leah ignored him and answered.
"Quinn."
A pause.
Then Marcus Venn said, "I was wondering when you'd stop using Trent."
Her entire body went cold.
Drew stepped closer until his shoulder touched hers. He could not hear the words clearly, so she put the call on speaker.
"Where is Amy Pike?" Leah asked.
"Alive."
Gareth surged toward the phone.
Drew stopped him with one arm.
"Ben Harker?"
Another pause.
"Also alive. For the moment."
Leah closed her eyes briefly.
Ben alive. Not a recording. Not a rumour from a terrified hostage. Venn had just confirmed it.
"What do you want?"
"The damaged brick from the Yard."
Drew looked at her.
Gareth mouthed, The coke?
"You've got plenty of cocaine," Leah said. "Why that one?"
Venn gave a quiet laugh.
"You were always brighter than your father gave you credit for."
The sentence hit harder than the photograph.
"You've spoken to him."
"Tomorrow. Eleven at night. Old Humber fruit terminal. East warehouse. Bring the brick. Bring Gareth Pike. Nobody else."
Gareth jerked against Drew's arm.
"Put Amy on."
Venn ignored him.
Leah said, "I want proof they're alive. Live proof."
"Check your messages."
The call ended.
Two videos arrived within seconds.
In the first, Amy Pike sat on a chair beneath a bare bulb, wrists tied in front of her. She looked exhausted but uninjured. A television behind her showed a morning news programme. She stared into the camera.
"Dad, don't do anything stupid."
Gareth made a strangled noise.
Amy continued, "They want the thing from the package. That's all I know. Don't trust the police."
The recording cut.
The second showed Ben Harker.
Leah had worked with him twice before his disappearance. Good detective. Terrible coffee. A laugh that carried across an office.
Now half his face was bruised purple and one eye was nearly closed.
He raised two fingers.
"Leah. Violet umbrella."
Then the video ended.
Drew frowned. "That mean something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"It means it's him. We used it as a challenge phrase on an old operation."
Gareth pointed at the phone. "Tomorrow. We go."
"Not yet," Leah said.
"He has my daughter."
"And he wants a brick Drew already said was wrong."
Drew was moving before she finished. He left the office, returned less than a minute later carrying the half-open package from the Yard inside a clear plastic sack.
"Nobody's touched it since."
He placed it on the desk.
Leah pulled on a pair of disposable gloves from a first-aid kit.
"You keep evidence gloves in a haulage office?"
"Sam bleeds on paperwork."
"Once," Sam muttered.
She examined the package.
The powder itself looked wrong because it was wrong. Drew had known from texture and smell. Leah had assumed adulteration.
Now she looked at the wrapping.
Two layers of plastic. Brown tape. A thin metallic heat barrier beneath.
On one corner, the metallic layer had a double seam.
"Knife."
Drew gave her his folding blade.
She eased it beneath the seam and cut only the outer skin.
Something black appeared between the layers.
Not much bigger than her thumbnail.
A microSD card sealed inside a waterproof sleeve.
Gareth stared at it.
"All this for that?"
"Depends what's on it," Leah said.
Drew looked at the six men who now knew it existed.
"Nobody leaves."
Sam gave him a flat look. "You including yourself?"
"Especially me."
Leah removed the card and held it beneath the desk lamp.
A single letter had been scratched into the plastic with a blade.
Q.
Her surname.
Or her father's.
Drew saw it too.
"You have a computer we can sacrifice?"
"Office laptop," Sam said.
"No internet," Leah said. "Pull the router first."
Gareth laughed bitterly. "Now she sounds like police and suddenly everybody listens."
Drew met his eyes.
"Right now, she's the only police officer in Yorkshire I'm even considering listening to."
The room quietened.
Sam disconnected the router. Leah inserted the card.
One encrypted folder appeared.
No label.
One text file sat outside it.
She opened it.
There were only four lines.
IF THIS CARD REACHES LEAH QUINN, THE OPERATION HAS FAILED.
MARCUS VENN IS COMPROMISED.
DO NOT TRUST THE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT.
ASK DREW SAYER WHO KILLED DANIEL SAYER.
Leah read the last line twice.
Then she turned.
Drew had gone absolutely still.
"Who's Daniel?"
His eyes stayed on the screen.
"My brother."
"What happened to him?"
Drew's mouth flattened.
"Police said Redmile killed him nine years ago."
Leah looked back at the message.
For the first time that night, Drew Sayer looked frightened.
Not of a gun.
Of an answer.