Several pages detailed arms exports. These were above board and legal, the arrangements brokered between governments and signed off at official visits by US and UK diplomats. On one page there was a copy of a handwritten memo purportedly from a US State Department official to somebody in British intelligence. The memo was a masterful piece of obfuscation, skirting round the subject of what Brandon Hope might or might not be up to and gleefully ignoring the evidence that Jawad al Haddad could be funding various terror groups. The official advised that, all things considered, British and American interests were best served by continuing the policy of reviewing Hope’s file on an annual basis, but of taking no further action for now.

Passing the buck, Silva thought. Both governments suspected Brandon Hope could well be a conduit between Haddad and the terrorists, but they weren’t prepared to risk the loss of the lucrative arms trade. The death of innocent civilians didn’t appear to have weighed on their consciences at all.

Silva knew that kind of moral myopia would have incensed her mother, and she could well imagine the memo being the catalyst that had triggered the investigation into the Hopes. The problem was that her mother had miscalculated the lengths the family would go to in order to fulfil their political ambitions. In short, Francisca da Silva had been murdered so Karen Hope could become president.

They finished their tour of the port after speaking to Border Force officials and the port police but without telling anyone the purpose of their visit. As good as her word, Cornish took them to a truckers’ cafe just up the road. A huge mug of dark tea and a plate of sausages, eggs, hash browns and baked beans put Holm in a much better mood. He mopped up the last of his egg with a piece of bread and pushed his plate away.

‘This doesn’t go any further,’ he said. ‘We need to keep a lid on it to prevent anybody getting tipped off. So nothing up the ranks or down, OK?’

Cornish nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘You suspected people smuggling, right?’ Holm couldn’t help but glance to his left where two truckers conversed in a language he couldn’t place. Cornish nodded again. ‘Well I think you’re bang on.’

‘Right. My preliminary hunch is this is something to do with Eastern European women sold into sex slavery.’

‘We’re MI5, remember? As unpleasant as your hunch sounds, that wouldn’t interest us.’ Holm turned his head to look out the window. Next door was yet another haulier’s. Dozens of containers. Truck cabs parked in a line. ‘Imagine if a couple of terrorists were hiding in the depths of a container. Their chance of being discovered would be minimal.’

‘Aren’t there easier ways of getting into the UK?’