A faint smell of cooking grease greets her when she opens the door and looks into a large, almost perfectly square room. About twenty men are standing at the bar or sitting at tables, some alone, others in groups. Everyone is staring intently at a TV mounted on the wall. Karen walks over to a free table by the window, puts her bag down on the floor and glances over at the TV. Manchester United versus Sunderland, she notes, so a home side victory is unlikely. She walks over to the bar and pulls her wallet out of her coat pocket.

The woman behind the bar looks to be in her late sixties. A faded beauty of the bombshell variety, she radiates warm motherliness. Her platinum blonde hair is set in perfect curls, her lipstick is meticulously applied, and nestled in her ample cleavage is a gold cross on a thin chain. When Karen approaches, the woman’s face breaks into a smile so lovely not even the small spot of hot pink lipstick on her right front tooth can spoil the effect.

‘Hi, lambkins, what can I get you?’ she asks and Karen can feel herself beaming back. Even with the pain and exhaustion, it’s impossible not to.

‘A Spitfire, please,’ she says. ‘Oh, I’ll have a glass of Groth’s as well,’ she adds.

Just a bit of research in case I do end up having to stop by the distillery, she tells herself. I should really let Smeed pay.

‘Which one, love? I reckon we have every kind there is.’

The woman makes a sweeping gesture toward the shelf behind the counter where a handful of different bottles with the familiar logo are lined up.

‘Wow, I’m not sure,’ Karen says, studying the selection. ‘Actually, strike that, I’ll have an Old Stone Edition.’

Definitely research, she muses with a glance at the picture of the Gudheim ship setting on the label.

‘You have a seat and I’ll be out in a minute.’

Karen gratefully limps back to her table. Ducks her head a little when she passes between the men and the TV so as not to deprive them of a second’s game time.

She wearily lowers herself onto her chair and looks around the room. A typical Doggerian pub, unabashedly inspired by its British counterparts. But here, the paintings on the walls are of maritime scenes and fishermen’s tools rather than horses, hunting horns and hounds. The obligatory wooden rowing boat is suspended from the ceiling while its crossed oars adorn one of the walls and the equally obligatory fishing net with glass floaters hangs in its usual place above the bar. It could have been the Hare and Crow back in Langevik, or any other of the thousands of pubs still operating in Doggerland.

‘By far the Britons’ most important contribution to this country,’ her father had liked to say.