The reference led them to Ikeja.
Not immediately.
It took two more archive requests, a cross-check of an old property register, and nearly half a day of tracing numbers that appeared unrelated until Segun placed them side by side.
By noon, he was standing beside Damilare’s desk with three documents in his hand.
“I think I’ve got it.”
Damilare looked up.
“Got what?”
“The destination.”
Temilade turned from her computer.
“Of the related records?”
Segun nodded.
“At least according to the movement trail.”
He placed the documents on the desk.
The first was an old transfer note.
The second was a property-related correspondence.
The third contained a reference to an external storage facility in Ikeja.
Temilade read the last page twice.
“Ikeja?”
“Yes.”
“Private facility?”
“That’s what the record says.”
“When?”
“Late nineties.”
Damilare picked up the transfer note.
“Does it actually say the Yaba records went there?”
“Not in those exact words.”
Temilade looked at him.
“What does it say?”
Segun pointed to a line near the bottom.
“Related records transferred for external storage.”
Temilade followed the reference number.
“And this number?”
“Same family as the earlier movement records.”
She looked at Damilare.
“That’s enough to check the facility.”
“Enough to check,” he agreed.
“Not enough to conclude.”
“Exactly.”
Temilade nodded.
That distinction had become their working rule.
They did not need certainty to follow a lead.
They needed enough evidence to justify the next question.
The facility stood on a quiet industrial road away from the busiest part of Ikeja.
There were warehouses on both sides.
Old office buildings.
A tyre shop.
A few mechanics working beneath corrugated roofs.
The afternoon heat pressed against the windscreen as Damilare parked.
Temilade looked through the glass.
“Doesn’t look like a place that has been here since the nineties.”
Segun checked the address again.
“The company name changed.”
“How many times?”
“At least once.”
Damilare switched off the engine.
“Then let’s establish what we’re actually looking for before we ask questions.”
They got out.
At the gate, a security guard looked at them.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” Damilare replied.
“We’re looking for records concerning an old storage account.”
The guard studied him.
“Which company?”
Damilare gave him the name from the document.
The man’s expression changed slightly.
“I’ll call inside.”
He walked toward the small security office.
Temilade watched him.
A few minutes later, another man came out.
He was older, perhaps in his sixties, wearing a faded shirt and carrying a ring of keys.
“Who sent you?”
Damilare showed him the document.
“We’re tracing an old storage reference.”
The man looked at the page.
His eyes stopped at the reference number.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he looked at Damilare.
“That one is old.”
“We know.”
“Very old.”
“We’re not asking you to release anything. We just need to confirm whether the reference existed.”
The man looked at Temilade.
“Who are you?”
“I’m working on the documentary review.”
He looked back at the document.
“Give me a few minutes.”
He disappeared inside.
Temilade watched him go.
“What do you think?”
Damilare kept his voice low.
“Nothing yet.”
She smiled faintly.
“You’re getting good at that.”
“We’ve had practice.”
They waited nearly twenty minutes.
When the man returned, he carried a thin ledger.
He placed it on a wooden table near the entrance.
“Some of the older records were transferred.”
“Where?”
“Another facility.”
“Do you know when?”
“Not exactly.”
He opened the ledger.
The pages were yellowed.
Others had handwritten additions.
Segun leaned closer.
“There.”
The reference number appeared on the page.
Temilade’s heart quickened.
“What does it say?”
Segun read the entry.
“1997.”
He followed the handwriting.
“Transferred.”
“To where?”
Segun looked at the next line.
The destination had been partly obscured by damage.
Only the first few letters were clear.
Temilade stared at the page.
“Can you make out the rest?”
The man shook his head.
“No.”
Damilare pointed to another line.
“What about this?”
The man leaned closer.
“That looks like a return notation.”
“Return of what?”
He shrugged.
“I can’t tell.”
Temilade looked at the ledger again.
A movement.
A transfer.
A return.
The same language they had been seeing elsewhere.
But still no person.
No signature.
No explanation.
“What does this mean?” she asked.
The man closed the ledger halfway.
“It means somebody moved something.”
“Do you know who?”
“No.”
“Who would have had access?”
“Staff. Authorized clients. Management.”
“Do you have staff records from that period?”
The man gave a small laugh.
“Madam, that was almost thirty years ago.”
Temilade nodded.
Fair.
“Do you have anything else connected to this reference?”
He hesitated.
“Maybe.”
Damilare looked at him.
“Maybe?”
“There were property records.”
Temilade’s attention sharpened.
“Property?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Old transaction papers. Correspondence. Storage notes.”
“Are they still here?”
“Some.”
“Can we see them?”
The man looked at Damilare.
“You’ll have to make a formal request.”
Damilare nodded.
“That’s fine.”
The man closed the ledger.
“But there is something else.”
They waited.
“Someone came asking about the old recordings.”
Temilade felt the room change.
“When?”
The man thought.
“Three years ago.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember his name.”
“What did he want?”
“Recordings.”
“Specifically?”
“Old audio material.”
Temilade exchanged a glance with Damilare.
“What did you tell him?”
“That we couldn’t release anything without authorization.”
“Did he ask about the Yaba records?”
The man paused.
“I don’t remember.”
“Did he mention a name?”
“No.”
“Did he return?”
“Not that I know.”
Temilade looked at the ledger.
The cassette remained unverified.
The audio reference remained incomplete.
And now an old storage facility had produced a separate recollection of someone asking about recordings years after the original material had supposedly been moved.
It was a lead.
Nothing more.
Damilare seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“Do you have a visitor register from three years ago?”
The man shook his head.
“Not anymore.”
“Any security records?”
“Not for that period.”
Temilade exhaled.
Another person without a name.
Another question without an answer.
But this time there was something different.
The question about recordings had come from the present.
Not the nineties.
Not the archive.
The present. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Before leaving, Segun asked to see the property correspondence.
The man brought out a folder.
It was thin.
Several pages were missing.
But the surviving documents carried dates.
Temilade scanned them carefully.
One page referred to material received for storage.
Another contained a handwritten note:
Original returned.
Below it, in different handwriting:
Copy retained.
She looked at Damilare.
“Same pattern.”
He nodded.
“Don’t assume it’s the same material.”
“I know.”
She continued reading.
Near the bottom of another page, part of a name appeared.
The paper had been damaged.
Only the ending was visible.
“…Roberts.”
Temilade stopped.
“Roberts.”
Segun leaned over.
“That’s all we have.”
“Could be a company.”
“Could be a person.”
“Could be part of an address.”
Damilare looked at the document.
“We don’t know yet.”
Temilade nodded.
She wrote the fragment down.
Then beside it:
Unverified.
She underlined the word.
As they prepared to leave, the older man returned.
“There’s one thing I should tell you.”
Damilare turned.
“What?”
“The request you made this morning.”
“Yes?”
“Someone called before you arrived.”
Temilade looked at him.
“Called about us?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did they ask?”
The man hesitated.
“They asked whether anyone had come to look at the old records.”
Temilade felt a chill despite the heat.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Before we arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they give a name?”
“No.”
“Did you tell them we were coming?”
The man shook his head.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
Damilare was silent.
Temilade looked at him.
The man continued.
“They didn’t ask for your names. Just whether anyone had come about the old records.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
“No.”
“Did they call again?”
“Not while I was there.”
Temilade looked at the gate.
Outside, traffic moved along the road as if nothing had changed.
She turned back to Damilare.
“That’s strange.”
“Yes.”
“Could be coincidence.”
“Could be.”
She looked at the ledger again.
They had arrived because the records had led them here.
Someone else appeared to have asked about the same records before they arrived.
But there was no name.
No number.
No proof that the call had anything to do with them.
Damilare gathered the copies.
“We don’t write more than we know.”
Temilade nodded.
“Then we write exactly what happened.”
They returned to the car.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Segun sat in the back seat with the copies on his lap.
Damilare started the engine.
Temilade looked through the window at the storage facility.
The place was already disappearing behind them.
But the questions remained.
The old records had been moved.
Some had been returned.
Some copies had been retained.
A damaged document contained part of a name.
Someone had asked about recordings three years earlier.
And someone had called that morning to ask whether anyone had come looking for the old records.
None of those facts, by themselves, established a connection.
But together, they changed the shape of the investigation.
The trail was no longer confined to the past.
For the first time, there was a reason to ask whether someone in the present had noticed the records they were following.
And they still did not know what that meant.