Hitler’s birthday that Tuesday provided Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler with the perfect cover. He was able to slip out to the consulate on the ground floor.

‘I need some travel papers.’

‘Where are you going, sir?’ The clerk was trying to close the office early.

‘Not for me. I need to send a new courier over to Sweden. Annoyingly, he doesn’t return from the Reich until next Monday, and then he’s supposed to travel the next day. If I give you his details, can you draw up the necessary papers?’

‘We really need his identity documents, sir. How long would he be in Sweden for?’

‘No more than twenty-four hours.’

‘In that case, I suppose I can issue temporary papers. It’s slightly irregular, but I’m sure it will be fine. Do you want me to book the transport too?’

‘I would be most grateful. Book him onto Tuesday morning’s ferry to Malmö, please. Charge it all to my budget. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble, so I don’t mind if you book everything more informally.’

‘No problem, sir. I’ll have everything ready by Friday afternoon.’

Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler collected the travel papers from the consulate on Friday afternoon and prepared to leave the embassy. It had been a long week, he told his secretary, and he seemed to be developing a cold, so he would be going home early.

Before that, though, there was an important telephone call to make. On Tuesday, after seeing Prince in the bicycle shop, he’d rung an acquaintance, a fellow diplomat with the thankless job – amongst other things – of being liaison officer at the Danish police headquarters on Polititorvet.

‘Probably nothing, Hermann, but it may be something I need to refer to the Gestapo, and I thought I’d ask you first. Could you very discreetly find out what’s happened to a Hanne Jakobsen; she’s a police officer in Copenhagen?’

‘Give me until the end of the week, Ferdinand. Call me back then.’

He called Hermann before leaving the embassy on Friday afternoon.

‘I don’t think you’re going to need to refer the matter to the Gestapo after all, Ferdinand.’

‘How come?’

‘They arrested her back in January. As far as I can gather, she’s being held somewhere back in the Reich.’

Ferdinand Rudolf von Buhler had told his housekeeper she could leave early on Friday as long as she was back on Sunday afternoon, which gave him two full days to himself. From the garden shed he removed a wooden box hidden under a pile of junk and brought it into his study. It was a small typewriter he’d brought with him from Germany after his last visit home. He’d found it in a second-hand shop, and apart from being compact, it had a smaller font size than normal, and tighter spacing.