Bailey tried to laugh along with him but couldn’t stand the thought of him being in pain, for that was surely the reason they’d be increasing the dosages.

He took her hand in his and smiled at her affectionately. ‘I wanted to tell you that I’ve come to a decision about what to do next. I’ve decided to go into a hospice. It’ll be less hard on your mother than if I’m at home hooked up to all these drugs with her having to take care of me. The hospice has its own doctors and nurses and a special palliative care team. And apparently I get my own room with my own TV. It sounds like a nice environment, a bit nicer than this hospital anyway, and it has a little garden and a café, which will be pleasant for you and your mother when you come and visit.’

Bailey swallowed hard, trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her.

‘So when are you moving?’ she asked.

‘You have to be referred. The doctor’s written a reference for me. He told me it should take two to three weeks before a place becomes available. It’s kind of a one-in-one-out situation, if you know what I mean,’ he said with a dry smile.

She managed to summon a limp smile at his gallows humour but she couldn’t escape the unavoidable grimness of what he was saying.

She clutched his hand a little tighter in hers and prayed inside herself that against all odds he might somehow recover. But she knew it was a futile hope. He squeezed her hand in response and smiled at her from his position propped up on the pillows.

‘I know we argue sometimes, Bailey,’ he said. ‘But did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?’

Bailey gulped and felt herself begin to well up. ‘Stop it, Dad.’

He nodded in the direction of his bedside table. ‘My book,’ he said.

She saw that there was a paperback sitting on the bedside table, some big brick-like airport novel. She picked it up and handed it to him, but he shook his head.

‘Open it,’ he said.

She frowned, wondering what he was getting at. It looked like some trashy thriller. Did he want her to read to him from it? She shrugged and opened it to where it was bookmarked.

She looked at him quizzically.

‘The bookmark,’ he said.

The bookmark was a folded piece of paper. She took it out and unfolded it, and when she recognised what it was, her heart sank slightly.

It was a picture of Mister Snigiss. The only existing picture of Mister Snigiss. Drawn by eight-year-old Jennifer all those years ago, not long before she’d gone missing. Her father had kept it and he carried it with him everywhere he went. It was emblematic of his quest for Jennifer and it was the closest he had to any kind of clue as to the identity of Mister Snigiss. And it wasn’t much of a clue.