The photographs from Ikorodu were still open on Tope’s laptop when Bayo returned to the office the next morning.
He had barely slept.
Not because of fear.
Because of the route sheet.
PERMIT 7A-214.
TRANSFER POINT — IKORODU.
SECONDARY DESTINATION: …ISLAND.
And on the reverse:
M.A.
CONFIRM BEFORE RELEASE.
The missing destination bothered him most.
A torn line could be an accident.
A damaged file could be ordinary.
But the more records they found, the more often the same thing happened: the part they needed most was the part that was missing.
Bayo placed his phone on the desk.
“Tope.”
She looked up.
“I’ve been checking the address.”
“Which one?”
“The Ikoyi address.”
She turned the laptop toward him.
“I compared it with the address on the route sheet from Ikorodu.”
Bayo leaned forward.
“Same?”
“Same building.”
He waited.
“Tope.”
“I said the same building.
Not the same company.”
“Right.”
She opened another document.
“The address appeared on the Crestline Logistics correspondence.
It also appears on the old route sheet.
But the documents don’t establish ownership.”
Bayo nodded.
“Good.”
“You’re pleased?”
“I’m pleased we’re not making the mistake we’ve been avoiding.”
She smiled.
“Fair enough.”
Bayo studied the screen.
“So what do we know about the building?”
“The property is still there.”
“Current occupant?”
“Different.”
“Can we find the old tenant records?”
“Maybe.”
“Then let’s go.”
The Ikoyi building stood behind a low wall on a quiet street.
It was not particularly large.
That surprised Bayo.
He had expected something more imposing after seeing the address appear repeatedly in documents spanning different years.
Instead, it was an ordinary commercial property.
Painted walls.
A narrow entrance.
A few parked vehicles.
Nothing about it suggested that it had once appeared in transportation records, corporate correspondence and government paperwork.
Tope introduced them to the property manager.
His name was Akin.
He listened carefully when she explained why they were there.
“Crestline Logistics?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Akin frowned.
“That was a long time ago.”
“You remember them?”
“Not personally.”
“But the company used this address?”
“For correspondence.”
Bayo looked at him.
“Not as an operating office?”
“Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“Letters came here.”
“Where were they forwarded?”
Akin pointed toward the street.
“There used to be a forwarding arrangement.”
“Where?”
“Marina.”
Bayo and Tope exchanged a glance.
“Do you have records?”
Akin laughed softly.
“Records from fifteen years ago?”
“We are looking for anything that survived.”
He thought for a moment.
“The old property manager kept notebooks.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“I don’t.”
“Who was the manager?”
“Mr.
Femi.”
“Surname?”
Akin shook his head.
“Everyone called him Femi.”
“Is he still around?”
“I don’t know.”
Bayo looked at the building again.
“Was Crestline the only company using this address?”
Akin hesitated.
“No.”
“How many?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Different companies?”
“Yes.”
“Same people?”
Akin shrugged.
“Sometimes.”
“Can you identify any?”
“No.”
Bayo nodded.
“What about people collecting mail?”
“Agents.”
“Do you remember one?”
“There were several.”
“Anyone named Adeyemi?”
Akin looked thoughtful.
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Do you know which Adeyemi?”
“No.”
Bayo stopped there.
He had learnt not to turn recognition into identification.
Akin looked at the old photograph Tope had shown him.
“Wait.”
He took the photograph.
“The building looked like this?”
“Yes.”
He studied it again.
“The entrance has changed.”
“But the structure?”
“Mostly the same.”
“Can we look at the old mail area?”
Akin led them around the side of the building.
The room had been converted into a storage space.
Old shelves remained against one wall.
Dust covered the lower sections.
Akin opened a cabinet.
Nothing.
Then another.
Old maintenance records.
Utility receipts.
Property notices.
He opened the bottom drawer.
A thin notebook lay beneath several papers.
He pulled it out.
“This may be what you’re looking for.”
The notebook was small enough to fit inside Bayo’s palm.
Its cover had faded from years of handling.
Tope photographed the outside before opening it.
The first pages contained ordinary entries.
Dates.
Names.
Companies. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Mail received.
Mail collected.
Forwarding instructions.
Then Bayo saw it.
CRESTLINE LOGISTICS
He looked at Tope.
She leaned closer.
Beside the company name was the Ikoyi address.
And underneath:
FORWARDED — MARINA
Bayo felt the same sensation he had experienced when the route sheet appeared in Ikorodu.
Another piece.
Not the answer.
But another piece.
“Take a photograph.”
Tope did.
Bayo continued reading.
Several entries followed over different dates.
The same company name.
The same address.
The same forwarding destination.
Marina.
“Does it say who collected the mail?” he asked.
Tope examined the page.
“Not here.”
She turned another page.
Nothing.
Another.
Then she stopped.
“There.”
Bayo leaned closer.
The handwriting was faint.
A name appeared beside one entry.
MRS ADEYEMI
He stared at it.
Tope did too.
Neither spoke.
After a moment, Bayo said:
“We don’t know who she is.”
“Correct.”
“We don’t know whether she is related to A.
Adeyemi.”
“Correct.”
“We don’t even know whether this is the same person.”
“Correct.”
Bayo nodded.
“Photograph it.”
Tope did.
They continued through the notebook.
Another entry mentioned a man collecting documents.
No full name.
No company.
Just a note:
COLLECTED PAPERS — MARINA
Bayo frowned.
“Any description?”
Tope shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Brown folder?”
She checked.
“No.”
“Don’t add it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
They moved through several more pages.
The trail became ordinary again.
Utility notices.
Property correspondence.
Different companies.
Different names.
Some forwarding instructions.
Nothing conclusive.
Eventually, Bayo closed the notebook.
Akin was standing nearby.
“Did you remember any of this?”
“Some.”
“Crestline?”
“I remember letters.”
“Who collected them?”
“People came.”
“Who?”
“Agents.
Staff.
Sometimes the company people themselves.”
“Did you know where they worked?”
“No.”
Bayo thanked him.
Before leaving, he asked one final question.
“Did Crestline operate from this building?”
Akin shook his head.
“Not as far as I know.”
“Then why use the address?”
“For correspondence.”
“And the mail went to Marina?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Akin shrugged.
“Maybe their office was there.”
Bayo looked at him.
“Maybe?”
“People used addresses in different ways.”
That answer stayed with Bayo as they walked back to the car.
They drove to Marina.
The afternoon traffic had begun to thicken.
Tope held the photographs on her phone.
“Do you think we’re finally connecting the two trails?”
Bayo kept his eyes on the road.
“No.”
She looked at him.
“No?”
“We’ve found another overlap.”
“That’s not a connection?”
“Not yet.”
She smiled.
“You really don’t want to give yourself any room.”
“I want evidence.”
“You have evidence.”
“We have evidence that Crestline used an Ikoyi correspondence address.”
“Yes.”
“We have evidence that some of its mail was forwarded to Marina.”
“Yes.”
“We have a route sheet that ends with an incomplete destination.”
“Yes.”
“And we have an unidentified M.A.”
“Yes.”
Bayo glanced at her.
“Those are four facts.”
“Which together suggest something.”
“They suggest a question.”
“Which is?”
He looked back at the road.
“Where did the physical movement and the paperwork meet?”
Tope was quiet.
She understood.
They were still following two separate trails.
One was physical.
Apapa.
Waterfront.
Elegushi.
Ikorodu.
The other was administrative.
Crestline.
Ikoyi.
Marina.
Documents.
Somewhere, the two trails had crossed.
But they had not found that point yet.
At the Marina office, they met Femi.
The man was older now, with a slow walk and a memory that came in pieces.
When Bayo showed him the notebook photograph, Femi nodded.
“I remember this.”
“You worked here?”
“I managed forwarding.”
“For the property?”
“For several properties.”
“Crestline?”
“Yes.”
“Did their mail come through here?”
“Sometimes.”
“From Ikoyi?”
“Yes.”
“Who collected it?”
“Different people.”
“Do you remember Adeyemi?”
Femi thought.
“Which one?”
Bayo almost smiled.
“A.
Adeyemi.”
“Maybe.”
“What does ‘maybe’ mean?”
“I remember the name.”
“Do you remember the person?”
“No.”
Bayo nodded.
“What about a man carrying a brown folder?”
Femi looked away.
“There were many men with brown folders.”
“Any particular one?”
“Not enough to identify him.”
“What did he collect?”
“Papers.”
“What kind?”
“Company papers, letters, and sometimes movement documents.”
Bayo’s attention sharpened.
“Movement documents?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember Crestline documents?”
“Some.”
“Where did they go?”
“Usually whoever came for them took them.”
“Did you ever see where they were taken?”
“No.”
Femi paused.
“There was one thing.”
Bayo waited.
“Sometimes the papers came from Ikoyi, but the people collecting them were not from the building.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they mention a company?”
“Sometimes.”
“Which?”
Femi frowned.
“I remember Crestline.”
“Logistics?”
“Maybe.”
“Industrial Services?”
“I can’t say.”
Bayo stopped himself.
He could feel the temptation.
The pieces were close enough to make the conclusion attractive.
But attractiveness was not the same as truth.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Femi looked relieved.
Bayo asked one last question.
“Did you keep records?”
“For a while.”
“Do you still have them?”
“Some notebooks.”
Bayo looked at Tope.
She had already started writing.
“Can we see them?”
Femi shook his head.
“Not today.”
“Why?”
“Somewhere in storage.”
“Where?”
He gave them an address.
Bayo wrote it down.
“Tomorrow?”
Femi smiled.
“Maybe.”
They returned to Surulere just before evening.
The office had emptied.
The traffic outside had become louder.
Bayo stood before the whiteboard.
Tope placed the photographs on the desk.
He began writing.
Under PHYSICAL TRAIL, he added:
7A-214
APAPA
WATERFRONT
ELEGUSHI
IKORODU
SECONDARY DESTINATION — MISSING
Under PAPER TRAIL, he wrote:
CRESTLINE LOGISTICS
IKOYI CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS
MARINA FORWARDING
UNKNOWN RECIPIENTS
MISSING LETTER
He stared at the board.
Then drew a line between the two columns.
He stopped halfway.
His hand remained there.
Then he erased the line.
Tope watched him.
“You don’t believe they connect?”
“I believe they might.”
“Then why erase it?”
“Because believing isn’t proving.”
She nodded.
Bayo wrote underneath both columns:
WHERE DID THE TWO TRAILS MEET?
Then, below it:
DO NOT ASSUME THE CONNECTION.
PROVE IT.
He put down the marker.
For several seconds, he stood silently.
The investigation had begun with a discrepancy in a current government contract.
It had led to a company name.
Then another company.
An address.
A signature.
A permit.
A route.
A storage yard.
A forwarding arrangement.
Each discovery opened another door.
But none had yet shown him the room beyond it.
Bayo picked up the photograph of the old route sheet.
The torn destination stared back at him.
…ISLAND
Somewhere, that missing word existed in a complete record.
And somewhere in Lagos, there was still a person who might remember what happened after the vehicle left Ikorodu.
He looked at Tope.
“Tomorrow, we find the missing record.”
She nodded.
“And if we find it?”
Bayo looked back at the board.
“Then we see where the two trails meet.”
Outside, Lagos settled into another restless evening.
Inside the office, Bayo switched off the lights.
The questions remained on the board.
So did the gaps.
And for the first time, he understood that the missing pieces were no longer simply things the past had lost.
Someone might have known exactly where they belonged.