In the corridor outside, an argument was being conducted in German. Someone was telling another person to get on with it. The other person replied in poor German that he’d be as quick as possible but there was a procedure to follow. Moments later, that person came into the room: a tall man in plain clothes carrying a large notebook. He seemed nervous as he sat opposite Prince, constantly adjusting his wire-framed spectacles, all the while nervously coughing. As he opened the notebook, Prince could see his Jesper Holm legitimationskort interleaved between the pages.

‘Your name is Jesper Holm.’ It sounded like a statement rather than a question, but Prince nodded nonetheless. Then every detail on the legitimationskort was checked: profession, address, date of birth.

More questions: where did he work; his father’s name; his mother’s name; which school he’d gone to. As nervous as he was, Prince had little trouble answering.

‘The problem is that for reasons they don’t share with us’ – Prince detected a hint of bitterness – ‘the Gestapo not only had the name Jesper Holm on a watch list, but also a description matching you, and that means we really have a very limited role in dealing with you, I’m afraid.’

A long pause. I’m afraid – a hint of sympathy, possibly.

‘In a case where the Gestapo has an interest in a suspect, our job is simply to process you – fill in a few forms – and then hand you over to them. That way we maintain the pretence that the Germans aren’t really our occupiers.’ The man held up his hands as if to indicate there was no more he could do.

Prince knew full well that the Jesper Holm identity was unlikely to survive a Gestapo interrogation. The fact that they were looking for someone who matched his description would explain why he’d been stopped so often on the journey from Esbjerg. Fortunately, the man they’d stopped then was Hans Olsen rather than the Jesper Holm they were looking for.

‘I’m sorry.’ The Danish policeman sounded sincere, allowing an embarrassed smile to cross his face. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’

In the apartment, when she’d surprised Prince by telling him her real name, Hanne had justified it by saying that knowing her true identity might help him. Now he was about to put that to the test. He leaned across the table as far as the handcuffs would allow, looking up into the face of the police officer as he coughed nervously once more.

‘I need your help.’

The policeman’s eyes widened, more in fear than anything else.

‘It’s essential I avoid the Gestapo. I have a contact with you – with the police. I beg you to tell that person I’m here. I’m risking my life telling you this… and theirs.’