‘There,’ Holm said. The rear doors were closed, but there was no seal. ‘Let’s open it up.’

Holm winced at the noise as Javed shifted an empty pallet box over to the container. Holm clambered up on top of the box and worked at the handle. Metal squeaked on metal as the rods top and bottom sprung from their holes and Javed helped Holm pull the door open. Inside were a number of wooden crates, each labelled with the words ‘Genuine Volvo Penta Marine Parts’.

‘These are similar to the ones we saw in Naples,’ Javed said. He began to undo the metal ties holding one of the crates closed and then lifted the lid. ‘Looks legit to me.’

‘Right.’ Holm moved his attention to the rear of the container where there was something odd about the back wall. He tapped the metal and glanced down the side to the open doors. ‘Too short,’ he said.

‘What is?’

‘The inside of the container. There’s something beyond this.’ He tapped the metal again. ‘With these boxes loaded you wouldn’t notice if you glanced in from the rear.’

‘But anyone taking their time would realise.’

‘Yes, but remember this container never left UK jurisdiction. If it was ever checked the inspection would be cursory at best.’ Holm moved to one side where the seam of a weld looked rough and badly made. He grasped at a couple of bolt heads. ‘Here, help me.’

Javed came across. He flashed the light of his phone at the corner, placed it on a crate, and moved to lend a hand. By gripping the bolt heads they were able to lift a section of the wall. Something clicked and the wall swung open on invisible hinges. Behind was a small compartment the width of the container and a pace deep.

‘They’re not here.’ Holm looked round, trying to conjure something from the bare metal. ‘The men. They should have transferred over from the container Kowlowski loaded onto the boat.’

‘I told you, boss. They got off somewhere in mainland Europe, or else they switched to another container. Some kind of trick.’ Javed picked up his phone and shone it round. ‘You know we could work in here. It’s not much smaller than our office.’

Holm wasn’t listening. He’d fucked up. Latif was home free. Somewhere in the UK. Before long he’d begin to prepare for the next attack. People would die and it was all Holm’s fault. Stephen Holm, no longer a name that would be associated with the capture of Taher, but rather one that would go down in the training manuals under the heading of how not to do it.

‘A trick. Right.’ Holm tapped the side of the container. ‘Damn.’