The following morning, Marius told him they were about to leave for the train station. ‘Here’s your ticket. You’re going to Nyborg. The train departs in twenty minutes. I’ll walk to the station and you follow me. When we’re on the main concourse, I’ll go to another platform. You’ll be travelling on your own; you won’t see me again. When you arrive in Nyborg, a woman will be waiting by the news kiosk in front of the station. She’ll be wearing a long dark red coat and a dark beret. Don’t speak with her or acknowledge her at any point. Only approach the kiosk if her handbag is in her right hand, understand? At the kiosk ask for a copy of the Berlingske newspaper and some chocolate so she will know who you are. Christ, this sounds like something out of one of those detective novels I used to read at university in preference to Old Norse. Did you read those kinds of books?’

Prince shrugged. He thought it better to avoid the subject of detectives.

‘Where were we? Ah yes, then you follow her. She’ll take a bus to the port. Don’t follow her once you’re there. She’ll go into a café; you’ll buy a ticket for the ferry to Zealand.’

‘And then?’

‘If someone calling themselves Egon approaches you, do what they say. No more questions, please: everything is being taken care of for you.’

The train had barely pulled out of Odense station before Prince dozed off, and it was when he was woken up by the ticket inspector that he imagined Henry was opposite him. That short encounter quite unsettled him: for the remainder of the journey he leaned against the cold window, staring at the Funen countryside rushing past him. He was thoroughly depressed, bitterly regretting agreeing to this mission, cursing his willingness to please people and his inability at times to say no. He should have stayed with Henry.

At the ticket barrier in Nyborg station, his legitimationskort was checked again. This time he had good cause to feel singled out: as far as he could tell, no one else’s card was being checked.

‘Name?’

‘Hans Olsen.’

‘Place of birth?’

‘Aarhus.’ Prince felt his heart beating fast. He couldn’t remember if the card said he was born in 1906 or 1908.

‘Occupation?’

‘Sales representative. I sell tools and—’

‘Off you go.’ The German soldier thrust his card back at him, a fleeting look of disappointment on his face.