‘I have to admit, we get decent food, and when the SS men come in, we get to wear nice clothes and have a bath first. Some of the men aren’t violent. One that I had last night was actually quite sweet: he showed me pictures of his daughters. You could join us, Hanne. I could put in a good word for you, and hopefully they wouldn’t think you’re too old. It’s easier than working in those bloody fields.’

Hanne glanced down at her hand, which was bandaged after an accident with a spade that morning. She’d been working the fields for the last few weeks and it was back-breaking toil, dawn to dusk with barely a break.

She told Marit not to be so ridiculous and said she’d see her soon. But as she walked back to the field, she found herself wondering whether going to work with Marit would be so dreadful after all.

She wondered if she’d ever recover from the shock of that morning in Copenhagen at the end of January. She’d been at her desk in the Major Robbery Unit at Nørrebro when she became aware of the door being flung open and people marching towards her. She had no time to react, not even enough time to put the cap on her pen. They asked if she was Hanne Jakobsen, and when she said yes, she was hauled to her feet and more or less dragged outside and thrown into a car. A few minutes later, they were at the Gestapo headquarters on Kampmannsgade.

‘Do you know a Peter Rasmussen?’

At least she’d had enough time to anticipate that question. She frowned, appearing to rack her brain, then shook her head. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but it doesn’t ring a bell. It’s not exactly an uncommon name, is it? You’ll have to help me…’

‘You have to help us, not the other way round. Do you know a Peter Rasmussen?’

‘In what context?’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ A different man took over; a thickset man with a lisp of some sort. ‘You either know him or you don’t.’

‘In that case, the answer is no, I don’t know anyone of that name. Is he supposed to be someone I may have arrested – or worked with, maybe?’