By nine the next morning, Bayo and Tope were already on the road to Ikorodu.
The route from the island toward the outskirts of Lagos changed gradually.
The buildings became less polished.
Commercial activity spread along the roads in uneven layers.
Mechanics worked beneath makeshift coverings.
Traders stood beside displays of spare parts, food and household goods.
Danfo buses stopped wherever passengers raised a hand, forcing other vehicles to brake and squeeze past.
Bayo watched the city through the windscreen.
This was another Lagos.
Not the quiet streets of Ikoyi.
Not the offices and government buildings around Marina.
Not the construction sites where contractors discussed figures over conference tables.
Here, movement was everything.
Goods moved.
People moved.
Vehicles moved.
And the road carried the evidence of all of it.
Tope checked the notes on her phone.
“The property is still there.”
“Are you sure?”
“The old location matches the archive reference.”
“And the storage yard?”
“That is what we’re going to find out.”
Bayo nodded.
They had learnt enough from the records to know that the route was real.
What they did not know was what happened at the end of it.
The archive had recorded Ikorodu.
The permit had recorded the movement.
The route-change instruction carried A.
Adeyemi’s initials.
But there was no surviving document showing what happened after the material reached the transfer point.
That missing piece bothered Bayo more than the documents they had found.
A complete record could be examined.
A missing record could hide almost anything.
The old storage property was difficult to identify.
The original company name was gone.
The sign above the entrance belonged to a different business now.
RAJI AUTO & INDUSTRIAL SERVICES
Bayo slowed the car.
“This should be it.”
Tope checked the address again.
“Yes.”
They parked outside.
A man in his seventies was sitting beneath a corrugated awning near the entrance.
He was thin and grey-haired and wore an old mechanic’s overall.
Tope approached first.
“Good morning, sir.”
The man looked up.
“Good morning.”
“We’re looking for information about this property.”
He glanced at the building.
“What information?”
“It used to be a storage yard.”
“Many things have happened here.”
“Do you remember a company called Crestline Logistics?”
The man’s expression changed slightly.
“Crestline?”
Bayo stepped closer.
“You remember them?”
“I remember the trucks.”
“When?”
He shrugged.
“Long time ago.”
“Fifteen years?”
The man thought.
“Could be.”
“Were you working here then?”
“Yes.”
“What was your name?”
“Raji.”
Bayo introduced himself and Tope.
Raji looked from one to the other.
“What happened?”
“We’re trying to understand some old transportation records.”
Raji nodded slowly.
“Records.”
He almost laughed.
“People are always looking for records after everybody has forgotten.”
“We’re trying to understand what happened,” Bayo said.
Raji studied him.
Then pointed toward the compound.
“Come.”
The inside of the property had changed considerably.
Parts of the old storage area had been converted into workshops.
Vehicles stood in different stages of repair.
Metal doors had replaced some of the original structures.
But the layout was still recognisable.
Raji stopped near the rear of the compound.
“Trucks used to wait here.”
Bayo looked around.
“How many?”
“Sometimes two.
Sometimes five.
Depends.”
“Crestline trucks?”
“Some carried Crestline papers.”
Bayo noticed the wording.
“Some?”
Raji nodded.
“That was how it was.”
“What do you mean?”
“The driver would come with the vehicle.
Papers would come with the the driver.
Sometimes the name on the paper was different.”
“Different from the company?”
“Sometimes.”
Bayo exchanged a glance with Tope.
“What company hired them?”
Raji shrugged.
“Depends on who you asked.”
“Who gave the instructions?”
“A man.”
“What, man?”
“I don’t remember his name.”
“Did he work here?”
“No.”
“Government?”
“I don’t know.”
“Company?”
“I don’t know.”
Raji looked annoyed by the questions.
“You people want me to remember fifteen years ago like it happened yesterday.”
Bayo softened his tone.
“No.
We only want what you actually remember.”
The old man studied him.
Then nodded.
“There was one man.”
“What did he do?”
“He checked the papers.”
“Which papers?”
“Vehicle papers.
Delivery papers.
Route papers.”
“Was he a driver?”
“Was he with Crestline?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he look like?”
Raji thought.
“Medium height.
Always carried a folder.”
“What kind?”
“Brown.”
Tope immediately looked at Bayo.
He saw it.
But neither reacted.
Raji continued.
“He used to come and check the trucks before they moved.”
“What would he do?”
“Check the vehicle number.
Check the driver’s name.
Look at the papers.”
“Then what?”
“Sometimes he would tell them to wait.”
“Why?”
“Paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“I don’t know.”
Bayo looked around the compound.
“Did he ever tell a driver to move without complete documents?”
Raji hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
“What did he say?”
Raji frowned, trying to remember.
“Something like…”
He paused.
Then shook his head.
“I don’t want to say what I am not sure about.”
Bayo nodded.
“That’s fine.”
Raji looked relieved.
After a moment he added:
“He would sometimes say, ‘Just drive.
We will sort the paper.'”
Tope wrote it down.
Bayo remained silent.
That sentence bothered him.
Not because it proved wrongdoing.
It proved nothing by itself.
But it suggested that paperwork and physical movement did not always happen in the same order.
“Did the drivers always know which company they were working for?” Tope asked.
Raji shrugged.
“Some did.”
“Some didn’t?”
“Sometimes the driver would say one company name, and the paper would carry another.”
“Can you remember an example?”
“No.”
Bayo nodded.
“That’s important too.”
Raji looked at him.
“Important that I cannot remember?”
“It’s important that we don’t turn uncertainty into fact.”
The old man smiled.
“You are different from the people who used to come here.”
Bayo did not ask what he meant.
Instead, he asked:
“Do you still have any old records?”
Raji laughed.
“Records?”
“Anything.
Route sheets, delivery papers, and vehicle registers.”
“Most things were thrown away.”
“Most?”
Raji looked toward one of the workshops.
“Wait.”
He walked slowly toward a small office at the back.
Bayo and Tope followed.
Inside, dust covered an old wooden cabinet.
Raji opened one drawer.
Nothing.
Another.
Receipts.
Old invoices.
Vehicle parts records.
He opened the bottom drawer.
A pile of folded papers sat underneath a layer of dust.
Raji removed them.
“Some of these may be old.”
Bayo put on the gloves Tope had brought.
They examined the papers carefully.
Most were useless.
Different dates.
Different businesses.
Different vehicles.
Then Tope stopped.
“Bayo.”
He came closer.
She held up a folded sheet.
At the top was a partially faded company name.
CRESTLINE LOGISTICS
Below it:
PERMIT 7A-214
Bayo’s attention sharpened.
“Where did you find that?”
“Here.”
Raji looked over.
“I don’t remember that one.”
Bayo opened the sheet carefully.
It was a route document.
The first part was clear.
TRANSFER POINT — IKORODU
Below it:
SECONDARY DESTINATION:
The rest of the line had been torn away.
Bayo stared at it.
“What is this?”
Raji shrugged.
“Looks like a route sheet.”
Tope turned it over.
There was writing on the back.
Faded.
Partly smudged.
But still readable.
M.A.
Then underneath:
CONFIRM BEFORE RELEASE
Bayo read it twice.
“Who wrote this?”
Raji shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Does M.A.
mean Adeyemi?
”
“I don’t know.”
Bayo looked at Tope.
She was already shaking her head.
“We can’t say that.”
“I know.”
He looked again at the front.
The line beneath SECONDARY DESTINATION was torn.
Only the edge of another word remained.
Something ending in: This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
…ISLAND
Bayo’s pulse quickened.
Lagos Island?
Another island?
A street name?
There was no way to know.
He placed the sheet flat on the table.
“Can we photograph this?”
Raji nodded.
Tope took several photographs.
Front.
Back.
The permit number.
The handwritten notation.
The torn destination.
Everything.
Bayo stared at the document.
They had found another piece.
But it was incomplete.
Again.
He looked at Raji.
“Do you remember anything about this particular movement?”
The old man frowned.
“Maybe.”
“Take your time.”
“There was a truck.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Driver?”
“No.”
“Where did it go?”
“I think it left here.”
“After someone checked the papers?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Raji looked at the route sheet.
Then shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember Balogun?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed.
“Balogun?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know him?”
“I may have seen the name.”
“Did he come here?”
“I can’t say.”
Bayo stopped.
That was enough.
He would not push the man into manufacturing a memory.
“Thank you.”
Raji looked at him.
“You found what you were looking for?”
Bayo looked at the torn route sheet.
“No.”
The old man raised an eyebrow.
“We found something.”
They sat in the car outside the property.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Tope looked at the photographs on her phone.
“The secondary destination is missing.”
“Yes.”
“The route sheet confirms the permit.”
“Yes.”
“There’s M.A.”
“Yes.”
“And ‘confirm before release’.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You’re thinking Adeyemi.”
“I am.”
“But?”
“But thinking isn’t evidence.”
Tope nodded.
Bayo started the engine.
They drove slowly away from the property.
He looked back once.
The old storage yard disappeared behind a row of buildings.
Another place where the past had left something behind.
Another place where memory had survived just enough to complicate the documents.
On the way back to Surulere, Tope opened her notebook.
“Let’s separate what we know.”
Bayo nodded.
She read from the page.
“Permit 7A-214.”
“Known.”
“Crestline Logistics.”
“Known.”
“Route through Ikorodu.”
“Known.”
“Transfer point at Ikorodu.”
“Known.”
“A.
Adeyemi connected to a route-change instruction.”
“Known.”
“M.A.
written on the route sheet.”
“Known.”
“‘Confirm before release.'”
“Known.”
“Secondary destination ending in ‘…Island.'”
“Observed, but incomplete.”
She paused.
“Connection between M.A.
and A.
Adeyemi.”
“Unproven.”
“Connection between the Ikoyi address and this route sheet.”
“Unproven.”
“Connection between Crestline Logistics and the later Crestline Industrial Services records.”
“Unproven.”
She closed the notebook.
Bayo nodded.
The distinction mattered.
They had spent days following connections.
Now they had to learn how to stop themselves from inventing them.
He looked through the windscreen.
“Tomorrow.”
“To where?”
“Back to the paper trail.”
Tope looked surprised.
“I thought you wanted people.”
“We have people.”
“And?”
“They’ve given us enough to know what we’re missing.”
He looked at the road ahead.
“The secondary destination.”
Tope nodded.
“We find it.”
Bayo tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Somewhere between Apapa and Ikorodu, a vehicle had followed a route that had been changed by someone whose identity was still uncertain.
The record showed the movement.
The people remembered parts of it.
But the destination had been torn away.
And until they found it, the story remained incomplete.