‘All the cards on the board are for us,’ says Fiona. ‘They’re thank-you cards.’

‘It doesn’t say thank you anywhere on it.’

‘No, well … not everyone’s very good at expressing themselves.’

‘But this is a book, not a card. Look. It has several pages.’

Fiona nods. ‘I’m sure it’s full of meaning for the person who sent it, or brought it in.’

‘Do you know who that was? Or which it was – sent or brought?’

‘No. I hadn’t noticed it till you showed it to me. Why do you ask?’

Because I think it’s the handiwork of a serial killer. Isn’t that jolly? More exciting than cancer.

‘No reason.’ I hold out my hand to take the book back.

‘Do you want it?’ Fiona looks confused. ‘But … it belongs to the ward. It was on our noticeboard.’

‘It’s not addressed to you and you don’t know how it got there. Whereas I … Look, I can’t explain, but I think I might know something about this … thing, and I need to take it with me. I’ll bring it back, I promise, but can I take it?’

‘I don’t think so, Kim. I’m sorry. It’s just that often people who’ve been in here come back –’

‘I know. With caramel slices.’

‘– and if they’ve brought in a card for us and they see it’s not on the board—’

‘This isn’t a card, it’s a book. Trust me: it might be on your noticeboard, but it’s not meant for you. It’s meant for—’ I stop myself, remembering I have no proof of anything. It’s a theory, and an outlandish one at that.

‘I’m really sorry, but I’m going to need to stick it back up on the board,’ Fiona says firmly. ‘I wouldn’t be allowed to let you take it.’

I could tell her the truth and admit I need to take the book to show the police. Somehow, I doubt she’d hand it over even then. Who in their right mind would hand over possible evidence in a serial murder investigation to a sarcastic comedian who swallows parts of Fruit Rush cans? Fiona would do the right and sensible thing: she’d promise to look after the white book until the police were able to come and collect it.

That’s not good enough. Once it’s out of my sight, I don’t know it’s safe. I need to take it with me, whatever I have to do.

‘Will you do me a favour and let me have a quick last look at it?’ I hold out my hand again.

She falls for it. Once the book’s back in my hands and I’m flicking through it again, I say, ‘I’m sure you’re right, but can you check?’

‘Check?’

‘Yeah, with whoever’s in charge – the ward sister or whoever. You never know, she might say it’s fine to let me take it.’ I smile hopefully.

Fiona looks uncertain. ‘She’s not here at the moment.’

‘Yeah, where is everybody? Buried under piles of flapjacks?’