‘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.’

‘How sure are you of the precise wording inside the book you were given?’

‘A hundred per cent. “Every bed is narrow”. I never forgot the words, because …’ I stop, having stupidly said too much. I’d rather not tell Gibbs this part of the story, and now I’m going to have to. ‘Something weird happened later that night – one of those funny coincidences, although at the time I was a bit freaked out and wondered if there was a connection. Though there was no way the two things could have been connected.’

‘Go on,’ says Gibbs.

‘I stayed in a hotel that night. The hotel was very near the theatre – no more than a two minute walk. I remember the route: leave the theatre, cross the road, head right, first left, walk along a bit, the hotel’s on your left. I can describe the hotel reasonably well, I think – one of those fusty three-star places where a really depressing wedding might happen – navy carpet with a fleur-de-lis pattern, that type of place.’