‘Not if these people don’t have the right passport, not if they’re on a watch list, not if they want to pass undetected, not if they’re taking equipment with them. And by equipment I mean weapons and explosives. There could be people arriving at this port tonight who are on Europol’s most wanted list. They could have travelled from anywhere. All they have to do is board a cargo ship and slip into the UK unnoticed. Then…’ Holm clenched both his hands into fists and placed them together before pulling them apart and spreading his fingers. ‘Boom!’

‘Bloody hell, Stephen, do you have proof of this?’

‘Until a few days ago we had nothing.’

‘But this is a priority with the security services, I guess. I imagine you’ll be in contact with my chief constable so we can pool resources?’

‘Not exactly.’ Holm glanced at Javed. The young man gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head as if to confirm Holm’s words. ‘You see…’

‘What?’ Cornish looked from Holm to Javed and back again. ‘Tell me!’

‘Nothing,’ Holm said. He leaned forward. ‘I’d like to know more about the new operations manager of SeaPak.’

For a moment Cornish appeared perturbed, but then she gave a half smile.

‘Spooks,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘The word trust simply isn’t in your vocabulary, right?’

‘Well…’

‘Come on, then, rather than tell you, I’ll show you. Let’s go.’

Outside, they piled into Cornish’s car and went on a twenty-mile drive through the quiet Suffolk countryside. They left the main road and negotiated a tangle of tiny lanes which ran through prime agricultural land. Fields of corn rolled gently into the distance, bisected by occasional pockets of woodland. Heat haze rose at every crest of the road and they barely saw another vehicle. Then they rounded a corner and Cornish slowed. On one side of the lane stood a newish dwelling. There was a separate garage and out front a blue Mercedes glowed with a fresh wax sheen.

Cornish stopped their car well before the house. She gestured through the windscreen.

‘The current SeaPak operations manager lives here. Paul Henderson. A couple of my lads have spent the best part of two days dissecting his life. Apparently the Merc is his wife’s new car. He’s had major work done on the house in the last couple of months – a new bathroom and kitchen for a start. There’s a paddock to the side of the house and a stable block has been erected. He’s bought his daughter a pony and—’

‘I get the picture. Ben Western wouldn’t cooperate or discovered something he shouldn’t have. He was threatened and left his job. Perhaps he then tried blackmail or said he’d go to the police. The ultimate result of which led to his murder. Henderson, on the other hand, was happy to take a bung.’