‘I think “needle” and “haystack” are the words you’re looking for, boss,’ Javed said. ‘If ten K containers go through here each day the chance of finding something must be minuscule.’

‘That’s true,’ Cornish said. ‘But intelligence from various sources allows the Border Force to target individual cargoes. Even so, when one of the big vessels comes in it really is needles in haystacks.’ Cornish halted at the vast doorway to the warehouse. ‘I think it’s about time you came clean with me, don’t you think?’

Chapter Sixteen

Silva left Fairchild’s envelope untouched until the next day. It sat on the saloon table along with a letter from her bank and a postcard from Sean. The picture on the front of the card was of a cute kitten and the caption said: You are Purrfect. On the other side Sean had scribbled a brief note: Sorry. Can we talk? Love, Sean.

No, they couldn’t talk. At least not about the most pressing issue in Silva’s life. She realised she’d been petulant walking out on him, but the situation around Karen Hope had to be resolved before she could even begin to consider if she had any kind of future with Sean.

She left the postcard on the table, picked up the envelope and ripped it open. It contained the photographs of Positano she’d already seen as well as various other images: Brandon Hope with Jawad al Haddad and high-ranking Saudis at some trade conference; Karen Hope on the election trail; other members of the Hope family; some blurred pictures of Mohid Latif. There were a number of other pieces of paper including a map and an itinerary. Everything to do with Fairchild’s mad plan. That wasn’t what she was interested in, so she delved inside again. This time she pulled out some kind of dossier. Printed but with additions and amendments scribbled across it in red pen. Pieces of shorthand, editing marks, a few short sentences. The handwriting was her mother’s.

A rush of emotion overcame her and, for a moment, with the dossier in her hand, Silva could sense her mother’s presence.

Move on, Rebecca. Live your life.

But she couldn’t. She knew too that in a similar situation her mother wouldn’t have been able to either. She began to read.

An hour later she’d finished. Little in the dossier was new – essentially it contained the same information Fairchild had told her – but seeing the amendments and comments in her mother’s own hand lent a certain veracity to the evidence. Whereas she’d been convinced Fairchild had been spinning the story, now she read the same information as the plain, unadorned truth. There was more though.