‘A twist in the plot, more like.’ Holm reached for a muffin. ‘It’s like this: during our investigations we’ve come across Henderson. We’ve discovered he’s importing Nazi artefacts and they’re like gold dust to fascist groups. Bits of the Führer’s bunker. Tatty old SS uniforms. Propaganda material from the thirties. The right-wing nutters worship this sort of stuff, make shrines of it. Henderson is creaming off a cool ten K a month simply by getting the stuff through customs. Once it’s here he auctions it to the highest bidder. To combat the trade we’re going to need the shipping manifests for SeaPak. We’ll need to obtain them surreptitiously so as not to alert Henderson but I reckon we can do that through the Border Force by telling them we need the manifests for every vessel for the past three months.’

‘Fascists? I thought we were investigating animal rights groups? Do you think the sudden change of strategy will wash with Huxtable?’

‘Remember the attack in Hamburg a few weeks ago? A right-wing terror group targeting immigrants? Perhaps I can weave that into the story. Anyway, as long as we’re bumbling along on our stupid little investigation, Huxtable doesn’t care.’ Holm took a bite of his muffin and then tapped the document in front of him. ‘I told her we were successful in disrupting an extreme animal rights group so who’s to say we can’t do the same with the fascists? She’ll sanction a request for the manifests to the Border Force. They’ll get them and pass them to us.’

‘And if the act of getting the manifests flags us up to somebody?’

‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take, right?’

Javed didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. ‘Right.’

An hour later the van was edging into low hills, following a winding route towards Naples. Before they hit the coast again they headed north, and at the town of Calabritto they left the main roads behind and forged up into the foothills of the Monti Picentini. Dense forests clung to steep terrain, with lush grassy valleys below, and as they pushed deeper, high stony crags towered above them, angular and bare. The tiny road they were on hairpinned back and forth, and just as Silva was tiring of the constant weaving, they turned off the lane onto a small track. The track skirted a steep valley and at the far end, nestled under a mass of near-vertical forest, stood a wooden lodge. Something like a large ski chalet, with a steep pitched roof and a balcony running across the front of the building.

‘È qui,’ Gavin said as they rumbled towards the house. ‘Own water and power, satellite internet. The only thing you can’t get is a mobile phone signal.’

‘Our stuff?’ Itchy said, leaning forward.