Segun called before nine.
“I traced the 1997 reference further.”
Temilade was already at Damilare’s office.
She looked up from her notebook.
“The related reference?”
“Yes. And I found where the original number was redirected.”
Damilare put down his phone.
“Come in.”
A few minutes later, Segun entered carrying three sheets of paper.
“I checked the archive index again.”
He placed the documents on the desk.
The first was a photocopy of the 1996 collection record.
The second was the 1997 archive entry they had examined the previous day.
The third was an index page from a separate section of the records.
Temilade leaned forward.
“What changed?”
Segun pointed to the 1996 reference.
“Look here.”
Temilade studied it.
A handwritten number had been entered beneath the original reference.
“The old number was crossed out.”
“Not completely,” Segun said.
“Someone drew a line through it and entered another number underneath.”
“Who?”
“There is no signature.”
Damilare picked up the photocopy.
“And the new number?”
Segun pointed to the second document.
“It leads to the private correspondence section.”
Temilade looked at the heading.
PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE
Beneath it was the description they had seen the previous day.
CORRESPONDENCE — EXTERNAL REPRESENTATIVE
She frowned.
“No name.”
“No.”
“No company.”
“No.”
“No address.”
“No.”
Temilade looked at Damilare.
“So we’re back where we started.”
“Not exactly,” he said.
“How?”
“We now know the reference was redirected.”
Segun nodded.
“That is what the archive notation shows.”
“Shows,” Temilade repeated.
Damilare gave her a brief smile.
“You’re learning.”
“I’ve had a good teacher.”
“I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
Segun turned to the third page.
“The related reference leads here.”
Temilade moved closer.
A notation appeared beneath the reference.
FOLLOW-UP CORRESPONDENCE
She read it twice.
“Same year?”
“Yes. 1997.”
“Same matter?”
“The reference is related.”
“Related how?”
“We haven’t established that yet.”
Damilare took the page from him.
He studied the reference numbers carefully.
“They aren’t identical.”
“No.”
“But they’re close.”
“Yes.”
“Could they belong to the same file series?”
“Possibly.”
“Can you confirm?”
“Not yet.”
Temilade looked between them.
“So we have one reference leading to private correspondence and another related reference leading to follow-up correspondence.”
Segun nodded.
“That is what the index shows.”
“What happened to the first correspondence?”
Segun turned the page.
“The index says it was returned.”
“To the external representative?”
“Yes.”
“Again without a name?”
“Again.”
Temilade shook her head.
“Someone was able to move these records without leaving a proper identity.”
“Or the records that identified them didn’t survive,” Damilare said.
She looked at him.
“That’s possible too.”
“It is.”
Temilade sat back.
She had spent days learning that old records rarely gave her a complete story.
They gave her fragments.
Names without explanations.
References without documents.
Documents without signatures.
Statements without the people who could explain them.
Now there was another layer.
A trail showing that someone had continued dealing with the matter after the events of 1996.
She looked again at the year.
Samuel had disappeared.
Simi had already sent her first message to Bolanle.
The child was with the family.
And yet something connected to the old Yaba matter was still moving through the records.
She looked at Damilare.
“So the matter wasn’t simply closed.”
“Not necessarily.” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
“Something was still being handled.”
“Yes.”
“By someone.”
“Yes.”
“An external representative.”
“That’s what the record calls them.”
“But we don’t know whose representative.”
“Correct.”
Temilade exhaled.
“That word is doing a lot of work.”
Damilare smiled.
“That’s why we don’t let it do more than the document allows.”
She nodded.
“What about the second file?”
Damilare’s expression changed slightly.
“What about it?”
“If the second file was collected in 1996, and this correspondence appears in 1997, could the two be connected?”
“It could.”
“But?”
“But we don’t know.”
She nodded.
“What about the person who collected the second file?”
“Same problem.”
“Could it be the external representative?”
“It is possible.”
“Could it be someone else?”
“Also possible.”
Temilade leaned back.
“At least you’re consistent.”
“Evidence tends to be.”
She opened her notebook.
“What exactly do we know?”
Damilare looked at her.
“You’re making a list again?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead.”
She wrote.
WHAT WE KNOW
1995 — Samuel challenged the financial figures.
She added another line.
1995 — Samuel refused to sign until the figures were reconciled.
Then:
1996 — The matter was handled through a private settlement.
Another:
1996 — A second file was collected.
She paused.
The original connected to the collection was not returned.
She continued.
Samuel was last reported in connection with the property before his disappearance.
Her pen stopped.
She looked at Damilare.
“What about the other man?”
Damilare considered the question.
“We know an unidentified man was associated with events around the time Samuel disappeared.”
“We still don’t know who he was.”
“No.”
She wrote it down anyway.
Then:
1997 — Private correspondence connected to the Yaba matter existed.
And:
1997 — The correspondence was returned to an unidentified external representative.
She stared at the list.
“What about what we don’t know?”
Damilare gestured toward the empty side of the page.
She turned the page.
WHAT WE DON’T KNOW
Who warned Samuel?
Who followed him?
What happened after he left the property?
Who collected the second file?
Who the external representative was.
What the 1997 correspondence contained.
Why it was returned.
Who authorised the return.
She looked at the page.
Then added:
Why the related correspondence was created.
She stopped.
Then, after a moment, added one final question:
Whether any of these people were connected.
Damilare read the list.
“That’s the important one.”
“Because they could all be connected?”
“Because we don’t know whether they were.”
Temilade looked at him.
“You really won’t let me make the story easier.”
“No.”
She smiled faintly.
“Good.”
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Temilade looked at the two pages.
The list of what they knew was beginning to grow.
But so was the list of what remained unanswered.
She had once believed that finding the truth meant finding one missing document.
Now she understood that it might be more complicated than that.
A document could point to another document.
A reference could point to another reference.
A name could disappear while the transaction remained.
And sometimes the most important evidence was not what a record contained.
It was what someone had done with it.
She looked at the crossed-out reference again.
“Why would someone change the reference number?”
Segun answered.
“To move the record into another category.”
“Could that be routine?”
“It could.”
“Could it also be deliberate?”
“It could.”
“Can the archive tell us who made the change?”
“Not from this page.”
“Then find the movement record.”
Segun nodded.
“I already started looking.”
Before he could say more, Temilade noticed something near the bottom of the third page.
“Wait.”
Segun stopped.
She pointed.
“What does that say?”
He leaned over.
A faint handwritten instruction sat beneath the reference.
Confirm before release.
Damilare took the page.
He read it carefully.
“That’s important.”
“Why?” Temilade asked.
“Because someone wanted confirmation before the material was released.”
“Confirmation of what?”
Segun shook his head.
“It doesn’t say.”
“Identity?”
“Possibly.”
“Authority?”
“Possibly.”
“Something else?”
“Also possible.”
Temilade sighed.
“Another gap.”
Damilare looked at her.
“Or another instruction.”
She considered that.
“Do we know whether the correspondence was actually released?”
Segun checked the index.
“The record says it was returned.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
“Returned after release?”
“We don’t know.”
“Returned without release?”
“Also possible.”
Temilade looked at Damilare.
“And we are back to not knowing.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“But at least this time we know where not knowing begins.”
Damilare nodded.
“That matters.”
Segun gathered the papers.
“I’ll check the archive movement notes.”
Temilade stopped him.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Transfers. Internal movements. Return records. Anything showing who handled the correspondence before it left the archive.”
“And if the name isn’t there?”
“Then we’ll know that too.”
Damilare nodded.
“Do it.”
Segun left.
Temilade remained seated.
“Movement notes,” she said quietly.
Damilare looked at her.
“What?”
“If something was returned, somebody had to move it first.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“Not a conclusion.”
“Exactly.”
She closed her notebook.
Outside the office, Lagos continued as though nothing had changed.
Traffic moved.
Phones rang.
People hurried through the streets.
But inside the room, the past had opened another door.
Not to the second file.
Not yet.
To something that had happened after the file disappeared from view.
A record from 1997.
A private correspondence.
An unidentified external representative.
A related follow-up reference.
And an instruction that someone had written beside the record:
Confirm before release.
Temilade looked at Damilare.
“So we follow the shadow.”
He nodded.
“Carefully.”
She picked up her notebook.
“Because we don’t know what we’re following.”
“Exactly.”
She looked once more at the crossed-out reference number.
There was something unsettling about it.
A reference had been crossed out.
Another had been entered beneath it.
The correspondence had been handled.
It had eventually been returned.
And somewhere along that trail, a name had disappeared.
Temilade stood.
“Find the movement record.”
“I will.”
“And if it leads nowhere?”
Damilare met her eyes.
“Then we follow the next reference.”
She nodded.
That was the difference now.
They were no longer searching blindly through the past.
They were following the path the records themselves had left behind.
A paper trail.
One reference at a time.