The ferry was exceptionally busy, and although security was tight, most of it seemed to be reserved for Danish or Swedish passengers. Prince’s papers showed he was a German, a courier for the embassy, and so he had few problems. He caught the first tram to the station and within half an hour was on a train to Stockholm.

He slept little that night in the hotel by the station. It was a mixture of nerves, the excitement of travelling home and the anticipation of seeing Henry, but also the realisation that every step of his journey was taking him further from Hanne. He felt partly responsible for whatever terrible predicament she was in.

The following morning, he found a bench in a small square near enough to the British Embassy to be able to keep the main entrance in view. At eleven o’clock, he spotted a man coming out who looked just like a bank manager from any English high street. Taking his chance, Prince followed him, making sure at the same time that he wasn’t being followed himself. Three blocks later, he intercepted the man as he was about to cross a main road.

‘Excuse me, I work for the British government and I urgently need to see George Weston. I fear my life may be in danger.’

The man looked at him kindly, as if he’d encountered a lost child. Prince realised that tears were forming in his eyes. ‘I’ve escaped from Germany…’

The man took him by the elbow and guided him towards a side street. ‘You see that café over there? Wait inside and I’ll go and get George. Don’t worry, old chap, it’ll be all right. I say, where are you from?’

‘Lincoln, sir.’

‘Nickname of the football team?’

‘The Imps.’

‘Colours?’

‘Red and white striped shirts, sir, black shorts.’

‘And the ground?’

‘Sincil Bank.’

‘Splendid: and I’ll need a name to give George.’

‘Just say Laertes, sir. Agent Laertes.’

‘That’s an awful lot to take in.’ George Weston looked somewhat put upon, though not altogether unsympathetic. ‘I knew something was up with Agent Osric, told London as much. No consolation being right, though. Still, well done you – getting in and out of Germany like that, and then over here. I imagine Gilbey will have lots to ask you. You’ll stay at the embassy for the time being; much the safest option. I’ve got my work cut out. I need to file to London and then see what we can do about getting you home.’

Richard Prince travelled to London the following Monday on a British passport issued by the embassy in Stockholm. From Bromma airport he took a Swedish Intercontinental Airlines flight to Scone in Scotland, where Hendrie greeted him with a brisk handshake and a ‘Well done… welcome home’ before leading him across the tarmac to a waiting Halifax.

‘Tom’s got lots to ask you, Prince.’