The woman in the long dark red coat and dark beret was waiting by the kiosk and he duly followed her to the ferry port. The voyage across the Great Belt, the narrow strait dividing the islands of Funen and Zealand, was a choppy one, the waves tossing the small ferry in every direction, and it was with some difficulty that Prince climbed below deck, where he found an empty table. He laid the Berlingske in front of him and began to read it, breaking off a piece of his chocolate as he did so. After a few minutes a large man with a full and messy beard joined him, his enormous arms resting on the newspaper and taking up much of the table between them.

‘I do this journey twice a week and it’s a long time since I’ve known it as bad as this. I’m surprised we left port, to be honest. I’ll tell you what: I’ll swap a cigarette for some of that chocolate.’

As Prince broke off a chunk of the chocolate, he noticed the man opposite him looking around before leaning closer and speaking more quietly.

‘You’re going to Copenhagen?’

Prince wasn’t sure how to reply. He assumed he was going to Copenhagen, but he was no longer the master of his own destiny and he didn’t know if he could volunteer that information. The man lit a cigarette and handed it to him. Prince paused as a German plain-clothes officer stopped at their table.

‘Legitimationskort.’ He was talking to Prince, ignoring the other man. Prince handed over the card, relieved he’d checked the year of his birth. The German looked at it, angled it against the light, glancing back at Prince.

‘Name.’

‘Olsen. Hans Olsen.’

‘Place of birth?’

‘Aarhus.’

The German nodded; another look of disappointment as he tossed the card back on the table. ‘I’d better see your card.’ He’d turned to the man opposite. He gave the card a cursory glance, said nothing and moved on.

‘I wonder why they picked me out?’

‘There’s no method to their madness. Look, I have a van on the deck full of cheese, which I’m taking to Copenhagen. I like to have company. If you give me some more chocolate, I’ll drive you there.’

Prince told him that sounded like a good idea, even though he wasn’t sure it was. Had he made a mistake? Seeing the boy who reminded him of Henry, and all the legitimationskort checks, could well have affected his judgement.

‘That’s a deal then. By the way, my name’s Egon.’

Copenhagen. Richard Prince – or Marius, as his Danish relatives insisted on calling him in memory of a great-grandfather he’d never met – had never been fond of the city, though of course he knew better, even as a young child, than to express such feelings.