Another man spoke, younger and quite presentable, his voice quieter and his approach very clear and calm. ‘Back in November, you went to the registration and records department at Polititorvet and asked them to issue a legitimationskort for a Peter Rasmussen. You authorised it yourself; we have all the paperwork. This Peter Rasmussen, using the very same legitimationskort, travelled to Berlin in December in the company of a Danish businessman called Otto Knudsen. While in Berlin, Rasmussen and Knudsen were involved in acts of espionage against the Reich. It therefore follows that you know Peter Rasmussen and I’d appreciate your help’ – his voice rose slightly – ‘in telling us where he is.’

A wave of utter relief swept over her. Such a basic and naïve error to reveal that they didn’t know where Peter was. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m still struggling to recollect this man. What did you say the other gentleman was called?’

‘Otto Knudsen.’

Agent Horatio.

‘Maybe if you ask him?’

‘Don’t try and be clever. We were about to try that yesterday and then the bastard went and killed himself.’

She felt she did a reasonable job of not reacting one way or the other to the news of Horatio’s death. She was sorry, of course, but she doubted he’d have coped too well with an interrogation. Perhaps it was for the best. But she knew they’d find something out sooner or later. She’d have to play for time.

I’d really like to help… I just cannot recall a Peter Rasmussen… I deal with dozens of people each month… My apartment? Of course, here’s the key.

They’d find absolutely nothing in the apartment, but she realised they were unlikely to leave it at that. They’d ask her neighbours, and one of them was bound to mention her father’s flat – the one opposite hers, the one where Peter lived. And even though she’d done her best to tidy that up after he’d left for Rostock, they’d ask more questions and it was hard to think they wouldn’t eventually establish a link.

The interrogation went on for days, the Gestapo using their predictable tactics of allowing her an hour’s sleep then waking her up and questioning her for a few hours, keeping the light on in her cell all the time, depriving her of food and drink, even some quite unpleasant roughing up, though they stopped short of what she’d describe as torture.

But it was bad enough, and there were moments when she felt she couldn’t hold out much longer and thought that wouldn’t be so bad, because she’d resisted for long enough and Agent Laertes ought to be safe.

Agent Laertes. Peter. Her Englishman. Safe.