I point at that underlined why and start to ask Shaun what he means, but he shushes me and shakes his head. He’s agitated again. He’s poised to write something else, but he seems uncertain. No, he’s scared, just like he was that night in this same room, right before the am-I-going-to-die business kicked in and he stopped talking.

I watch him write something, then cross it out. He tears off the note and screws it up. He glances at me, then at others in the room – I can’t be sure who – then starts again.

He finally tears off the note and passes it to me, low down, like he really doesn’t want anyone else to see. It’s an odd feeling, being frightened for someone else suddenly, but the look on Shaun’s face makes me think that whatever the note says, writing it might be the bravest or the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

there’s something i need to tell you.

I start to say that we should probably go somewhere else to talk, but then my phone rings, and when I see who’s calling I say, ‘Later’ and stand up fast because I need to answer it. Shaun looks bereft as he watches me leave with the phone still ringing. I’m aware of some sarcastic tutting and catch the look of naked hatred from Lauren at having her peaceful enjoyment of Saturday night TV so rudely interrupted.

It’s still ringing as I try to find somewhere quiet to take the call. Or at least somewhere I can’t be overheard. I settle for the chair next to the airlock.

‘Hey, Banksy . . .’

‘I’ll have to be quick,’ he says. ‘I’ve only got a minute.’

He sounds very serious. ‘OK . . .’

‘I’ve just found out. They’re going to make an arrest in the morning.’

It’s a few seconds before I can say anything or even breathe again. ‘Who is? Which—’

‘It’s only the one team now. An arrest in connection with the McClure murder.’

I stare through the airlock towards the lift. The doors open and I watch a young couple step out and move towards the door of the ward opposite mine. They look nervous. ‘Do you know who it is?’

‘That’s literally all I’ve heard. The forensic results are in and everything’s apparently lined up, so they’ll be coming to the hospital first thing tomorrow.’

‘Right . . .’

‘Just thought you’d want to know. Listen, I’ve really got to—’

‘No worries. Listen, thanks, Banksy . . .’ I wait, but he’s gone.

I put my phone away, walk back into the main corridor and turn towards my room. This is exactly what I’ve wanted since the moment Debbie came screaming out of Kevin’s room. Since I started coming back to life and feeling like a copper again. This is validation, isn’t it?