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Visser threw back his head and roared with laughter. He had done it. He had escaped.

His body was suddenly convulsed with mirth, all the tension and agony of the past few hours pouring from him, as he revelled in his triumph.

Even though he was hidden away in the bowels of the ship, concealed behind endless boxes of cleaning equipment in a tiny, cramped store cupboard, with no window or access to air, there was no question that they were moving.

A celebratory blast of the foghorn had signalled their departure, yet still Visser waited impatiently for signs of momentum, of speed, of action.

It was subtle at first, the ship taking a while to reach its cruising speed as it exited cautiously from the docks, but now there was no doubt about it. They were on their way to Denmark.

It was a profound relief, after the worst couple of days of his life.

His meeting with Emilia Garanita had been horrendous, not simply because of the unconscionable insults she rained down on him, but more because of his overriding feeling that he was missing something, that unbeknownst to him she had played some trick on him, a feeling that had only grown when he later discovered that she was tailing him.

How else could she have found him unless she was tracking him in some way?

Paranoid, anxious, he had taken the precaution of dumping his clothes in favour of sailor’s overalls, remembering also to toss his knife into the murky waters of the harbour as he slipped onto the ship.

It had served its purpose and there was no point holding on to anything incriminating now.

Emilia’s close attention had been bad enough, but things had really gone south when that Turkish whore escaped from the hospital.

The desperate act had provoked an avalanche of unfortunate consequences, not least the severing of his relationship with Leyla and the collapse of their profitable joint venture.

Thereafter, pretty much everything had gone wrong.

He’d lost his truck, the gold, his beloved Feyernoord scarf and been chased halfway round Southampton docks.

He’d nearly been caught, only the tiny squeak of gravel on concrete alerting him to the approaching police officer at the last second.

Fortunately, his mind had been clear, and his hand true, allowing him to step over the fallen officer and be on his way to the departing ship, before anyone could apprehend him.

For a moment, his mind flitted back to the sprawled woman, her face ashen, her chest oozing blood, wondering what had happened to her.

But then he realized he neither knew nor cared, so pushed the image from his mind.

She was the price of his freedom and that was all there was to it.

He had no idea what he would do once he got to Copenhagen, how he might slip off the vessel unseen, how he would make his way back to his native Rotterdam undetected.

He had a yearning now to be back amongst his own people, in the city’s boisterous bars, enjoying a glass of bockbier and a smoke.

That was where he belonged, where he was safe, it was there that he needed to be right now.

Leaning back against the humming wall of the storeroom, Visser toyed with his last remaining cigar, imagining the joy it would bring him as he set foot on dry land once more, lighting it up in triumph.

It would be a fitting celebration following his lucky escape and he intended to enjoy it to the full.

Unlike the fallen officer on the dockside, he would live to fight another day.