In the end, they told her they didn’t believe her: there was the irrefutable evidence that she’d requested the identity papers for the same Peter Rasmussen who’d travelled to Berlin, and neighbours said that a man matching his description had been seen going in and out of the block where her father’s apartment was.

‘Our orders,’ said the man with the lisp, ‘are to send you to Berlin. Our colleagues there are going to deal with you. You’ll soon wish you’d been more forthcoming with us.’ He sounded quite disappointed.

Two or three days later, she’d been flown to Berlin on a military aircraft. She knew little about the journey, as she was blindfolded and in handcuffs. The plane was cold and the noise almost unbearable. It seemed like an age while they waited for a van to collect them from the airport, followed by a long and uncomfortable drive into what she took to be the city.

The van drove into what felt like a basement garage, and she was led through a series of corridors and down some narrow steps into a room where the blindfold was finally removed.

It took a while for her eyes to become accustomed to the light, and when they did, she saw she was standing in front of four men behind a table, rather like the panel that had interviewed her for her last promotion.

‘Welcome to Berlin.’ The man who spoke looked dishevelled, as if he’d slept in the clothes he was wearing – a feeling she was familiar with. When he spoke, his mouth opened wider than normal, revealing a set of yellow teeth. His name was Lange, he told her, Manfred Lange, and he was the officer in charge of finding Peter Rasmussen.

‘Have you heard of Prinz Albrecht Strasse?’

She replied that she hadn’t.

‘Well that is where you are now. This is the headquarters of the Gestapo. And let me tell you,’ he added, leaning forward and smiling broadly, ‘that I am one of the most…’ he paused, obviously thinking about which words to use, ‘accomplished investigators here. I am personally responsible for breaking the spy ring that Peter Rasmussen was involved with.’

He stopped and looked at her carefully, hoping to discern some kind of reaction. She remained as impassive as possible. She was desperate for the toilet and was using that to focus her attention on. She wondered whether to smile or look defiant, but settled on what she hoped was a neutral expression.

‘Does the name Albert Kampmann mean anything to you? He also went under the name Kurt? He was an Oberst in the Luftwaffe. Thanks to my officers,’ he looked appreciatively at the men either side of him, ‘he’s now dead. He was one of your spy ring.’

Your spy ring. She shook her head.