‘They’re all here.’ She tapped two large ledgers on her desk. ‘The blue book is passengers leaving, the green one passengers arriving. These are just for Danish citizens, you realise that? Germans and other nationalities are in other books. There’s a separate one for Jews, even though they’re allowed to travel.’

‘I’m only interested in Danish nationals, thank you.’

‘You don’t need to tell me anything, of course, but just in case anyone asks anything, though that’s highly unlikely…’

‘Just say it’s a financial crime. Hopefully they’ll find that boring. I’ll be fine on my own, thanks, Margrethe.’

She’d written nothing down, of course, but she remembered every detail of her conversation with George Weston. Weston was the MI6 head of station in neutral Sweden, who’d inherited Hanne when MI6 hurriedly shut down its operation in Copenhagen at the start of the war. On a visit to Stockholm in 1940, he’d told her to lie low. No one knows about you. Let’s keep it like that, eh? Don’t do anything that’s going to draw attention to yourself. I’ll call you when I need you, and when I do, rest assured it will be most urgent.

Weston had been counting the months to his retirement when the war started, but his fluency in Swedish and Danish ensured he was too valuable to let go. Having spent the two or three years prior to the war becoming increasingly raddled in appearance and testy in spirit, he’d now found a second wind and was enjoying every moment. At the end of October 1942, he’d summoned Hanne to Stockholm. They met in the main bar of the Grand Hotel on Södra Blasieholmshamnen and exchanged pleasantries. He insisted she try a turquoise-coloured cocktail, his hand resting on her knee, even when she tried to move it. ‘Part of the cover, dear: be a good girl, eh?’ He continued in that manner once they left the hotel and walked by the harbour towards Skeppsholmsbron.

‘Danish chap popped in to see us the other day. Move a bit closer, dear.’ His arm reached round her waist, guiding her towards him. He allowed it to rest on her backside. ‘There we are. Now we don’t look like a couple having a row, do we?’

‘I’m young enough to be your daughter!’ she’d replied.