By two thirty, he was on the main concourse of Rostock central railway station. Much of the roof was missing and the inside of the station showed extensive evidence of bomb damage. As far as Prince could tell, only two platforms were operating, and the board over one of them showed that the next train departing was at a quarter to three, stopping at Stralsund and arriving in Greifswald at a quarter past five.

Only now did he realise quite how hungry he was. Overnight he’d eaten the sandwich and apple he’d packed, and he’d had his last biscuit as the ferry crossed the Baltic. There was a station café, which looked inviting as long as one ignored the broken windows, but he decided not to push his luck. The sooner he boarded the train, the more likely he was to get a window seat in the centre of a carriage: in one session at Matlock, Hendrie had mentioned how police on a train seemed to be more bothered with people sitting in aisle seats by the doors, since they were likely to be looking for a quick getaway.

He found a seat by a window in the centre of a carriage towards the front of the train: he was counting on any police checks starting from the guard’s wagon at the back. He helped an elderly lady with her case and listened to her talk about her son for a few minutes. She introduced herself as Frau Henlein, and told him that she was going to Greifswald too. Would he be kind enough to help with her case when they arrived?

Prince assured her that of course he would and – through a bout of coughing – asked her to excuse him but he was not feeling too good and perhaps she’d understand if he rested for a while?

Not only did she understand, she also had a perfect remedy for him. From an apparently bottomless handbag she produced a bottle of schnapps.

‘It’s homemade,’ she told him. ‘My mother’s recipe: made with plums from my own garden. Please have some, it will make you feel better… and you must have some of this cake, too, made with my own cherries. You look so hungry…’

Prince dozed off, the schnapps warming him up inside. He dreamt of Frau Henlein’s garden, a veritable Garden of Eden, and somewhere in the dream he and Henry were helping the old woman to collect plums, of which there were more than they could handle.

He was woken by shouting in the carriage: ‘Tickets! Identity cards! Make sure they’re ready!’

He was still slumped in his window seat when they arrived alongside. He peered up, apparently having just woken up.