‘The two of you live in Rawndesley?’

‘Yes. Though not together any more.’

Gibbs nods. ‘I need to get all these details – your address, husband’s address, his work and contact details … You’re right: he might remember where the theatre was, so we need to talk to him. This white book you were given – I’m assuming you haven’t brought it with you. Do you still have it?’

I stand up, walk over to the table and open the bottle of sparkling water. No glass. I’ll have to drink from the bottle, which I suppose is no more undignified than using a suitcase as a footstool. Some spoilt prima donna I turned out to be. I decide to leave the pickled onion Monster Munch alone; I don’t fancy having to suck sticky crisp particles off my fingers in front of DC Gibbs. ‘Does it matter where the theatre was?’ I ask him.

‘The …’ He doesn’t want to talk about the theatre any more for the time being. He thinks he made that clear. ‘Does it matter? Yes. Obviously.’

‘It’s not obvious to me. Let’s say Gabe remembers and it turns out it was the Everyman in Cheltenham. That doesn’t tell us Billy lives in Cheltenham.’

‘It tells us he might. Or he might have strong links to the place,’ says Gibbs.

‘Purely because he’s at a gig there? I disagree. This is a man who goes round giving small white books containing lines of poetry to people he subsequently murders. His victims live in a range of different places, right? He’s presumably chosen each pair of friends in advance – and then, from what I’ve heard in various news reports, he goes to where they live to kill them. Has gun, will travel. So he could be from anywhere, and he came to my gig at wherever-it-was because I was there – not because it was where he lived, or near where he lived.’

‘And he gave you a little white book, but then didn’t kill you,’ says Gibbs pointedly, as if by still being alive I’m messing with the neat pattern. ‘Maybe because it was too near his home, and/or because you saw him.’

‘Didn’t kill me yet,’ I say. ‘He still might. Part of the reason I’m here is to try and make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘His four victims were all dead within a few weeks of being given a book. Also, if the man you met was Billy himself – if he handed you the book in person – that’s another big difference.’ Gibbs drags a chair away from the table and sits down. ‘You didn’t answer my question: where’s the book he gave you?’

‘I threw it away. Don’t look at me like that. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I wish I’d kept it, but I thought he was just a weird guy. I had no idea he was a serial-killer-in-waiting. I chucked the book in the nearest bin, just as I would have if he’d given me a leaflet advertising conservatories or double-glazing. Or maybe I just left it on the table in the venue – I don’t remember. Either way, I don’t have it any more.’