The Knock 100 page Sample - Copyrighted Material

A True Story of an Innocent Man, a Twisted Accusation & the Fight for Truth

Maxwell Winshire

Copyright © 2023 Maxwell Winshire

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.K. and U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact max@maxwellwinshire.com.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

IBSN (eBook): 978-1-7399589-2-3

ISBN (Print): 978-1-7399589-3-0

Book Cover by Designamic.Studio

Seedwood Publishing

Also By

What’s Your Problem? A Game of Truth

Book 1: Katy’s Loss

Book 2: Tony’s Cross

Book 3: Max’s Shadow

To my wife, I couldn’t have got through this without you,

And to my son, whatever they say about me, I fought the good fight;

always fight for what you believe in, whatever the world thinks.

Foreword

Independent Research

I.

‘Between 2015 and 2019, nearly 62,000 obscene publications offences against children were recorded across 39 police forces within England and Wales (Office for National Statistics, 2020). In the same time frame, 8,318,529 unique indecent images of children were added to the Child Abuse Image Database (CAID), with over 700,000 falling into the most severe category of image.

‘The actual number of IIOC offences is likely much higher due to the anonymous culture of the internet. Elliott and Beech (2009) also argued that offenders are only likely to reveal their identities by mistake, such as when using registered credit cards. Importantly, a substantial parallel has been identified between the volume, availability, and circulation of IIOC and the augmentation of the internet (Carr, 2003; Wolak et al., 2011).

‘While possession offences of this nature are not new (the Protection of Children Act 1978 first made IIOC possession offences illegal within England, Wales, and Northern Ireland, with similar provisions in Scotland), the number of recorded offences has been growing year by year (Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre, 2012).

‘Despite the true figure not being known, it has been suggested that in 2013, around 50,000 individuals within the United Kingdom downloaded IIOC (Giles & Alison, 2021). These growing figures have attracted public interest in recent years.’

Public perceptions of indecent image offenders

Taylor-Smith, J.S. (2021) The Plymouth Student Scientist, 14(2), pp. 636-650.

II.

‘Around 850 people, mainly men, are arrested each month in England and Wales for downloading indecent images or grooming children online. In 2010 there were only 407 arrests across the entire year; since then, there has been a staggering 25-fold rise that threatens to overwhelm UK police capacity.

‘One reason for this is the ease of accessing abusive material. Earlier this year, Rob Jones, director of threat leadership at the National Crime Agency, warned: “The prevalence on the open web of images of child sexual abuse – and the use of the web to groom and livestream abuse – represents a crisis for modern society.”

‘According to police figures, their UK database of known child abuse images has 17m unique entries on it, and it is growing by 500,000 images every two months.

‘“I felt like the world dropped away,’ Emma says of the evening police officers arrived to inform her of her ex-husband’s arrest.”’

The knock that tears families apart

The Guardian

31st July 2021

Preface

To any pupils reading this, please stop, you really don’t want to know the truth about some teachers. And to any teachers reading this, please stop and go outside and burn every memory stick, floppy or hard drive you have ever owned; disposal or deletion isn’t good enough. For anyone accused of downloading indecent images, sell your house now, it will never feel like home again, change your name, and if you can, move to another country, permanently. You will soon find out who your friends are; None. If your face was in the papers, change your appearance, get a facelift, or glasses and a moustache—it’s predominantly men—and never tell anyone what you did. Never. Your life will never be the same again; innocent or guilty.

For those remaining, please stop and pay close attention, class is about to begin.

I had to go back through painful events, like following a fine spider’s web, to find the cause and effect because it felt like random events at the time, but, of course, a number of agencies were coordinating behind the scenes. When you suddenly become suspected of downloading indecent images you know nothing about the process, and you are only told what they think you need to know. Knowledge is power, as they say, and it felt like they wanted to keep it that way. I later gained access through freedom of information requests, among other things.

This book is about the darkest places and, by necessity, contains police descriptions of indecent images, and pulls no punches, which may be upsetting to some. Pure evil is not dressed up or glorified but faced head-on. Not everyone can handle that.

Much of it horrified me, made me physically and mentally sick, and I was depressed and suicidal, as you will see. This is a normal reaction, so if it has happened to you, you’re not alone. And if I can get through it, anyone can. If you’re guilty, plea bargain at the first opportunity, but if you’re innocent, like me, never stop fighting. I still am, and, probably, always will be.

It is true I used to be a teacher. It is true I wrote a book called What’s Your Problem? and published the first book online in 2009. It is true that I was accused of downloading indecent images. It is true that these indecent images were freely available online. This is what is out there, none are fictionalised. It is true I pleaded not guilty and opted for a jury trial. It is true Social Services voted to remove my son. All the references to news articles, police and legal procedures are also true, as far as I know.

But I had to change some personal things, so that it was almost unrecognisable for reasons that will become clear; in short, who likes living in the big house. So, I begged, borrowed and stole from anyone and anything before anyone shouts, ‘He’s lying: He made it all up!’

The truth is: it’s the truth; And I made it all up. This is a dramatized account based on a true story, not a memoir, to entertain the general reader with an open mind and no prior prejudice.

This is simply called ‘The Knock’ because that it is how it has become known to one and all, and it is the knock on my door that changed my life, and many other people’s lives too. You never stop hearing it.

The sad truth is if you’ve ever watched porn—and be honest, who hasn’t—it could happen to you.

Sorry, was that a knock at the door?

Max Winshire

July 2023

‘The books that the world calls ‘immoral’ are books that show the world its own shame.’

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

‘Someone must have been telling tales about Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested.’

Franz Kafka, The Trial

‘If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying them; if you have none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay almost of procuring your sustenance; for no persons of character will receive you into their houses. Thus you are often driven by necessity itself into a state of shame and misery, which unavoidably ends in the destruction of body and soul.’

Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones

Prologue

Tuesday, 11th September 2018

When Max walked into the staffroom at Brighton college at seven-thirty this morning, everyone he met eyes with, from teachers to students, returned his smile and wished him good morning—the last time they would—before his arrest, for something he couldn’t remember.

Planning lessons until five-thirty, his head started making silly mistakes with dates which annoyed him and he left.

Max’s arms weighed heavy on the steering wheel when he turned into Saltdean Park Road, pulled into the drive, windscreen wipers on full, rain hitting the fabric roof like pellets. He made a dash for the door with his case over his head.

Max changed out of his wet suit into a black T-shirt, jeans and trainers.

He saw his son, Tristan, watching The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on his tablet in the lounge when he walked in and Tristan immediately got up and hugged Max around the knees. Max kissed him on the crown of his head and patted him on the back.

‘How is the best boy in the world?’ Max took Tristan’s hand and walked to the kitchen. ‘Something smells good.’ Citra was cooking at the hob and smiled when she saw him. He kissed her on the cheek.

‘Thai pad krapow—sit—it’s ready!’

Lightening flashed outside the window, momentarily lighting the garden swing, followed a few seconds later by the rumble of thunder.

‘Yum, yum, yummy yum yum,’ Max sang to Tristan rubbing his belly to distract him from the storm, ‘ready for my tummy, tum tum!’

Tristan laughed and copied him, rubbing his belly.

Suddenly there was a ferocious loud banging on the front door. Max looked up and he could see the whites of Tristan’s eyes grow wide. Citra turned off the hob and started for the door.

‘Just watch your tablet,’ Max told Tristan and then caught Citra by the arm, ‘stay here with him. Let me deal with this.’

Max crossed the lounge to the hall, clenching and unclenching his fists, wondering whether he should grab a snooker cue, or call the police, but there wasn’t time to think when he heard the banging hard enough to break the glass on the door.

‘POLICE! OPEN UP OR WE’RE COMING IN!’

Max rushed to the door and opened it, eyeball to eyeball with a police officer, five Policemen lined up behind him in black body armour like stormtroopers, lit by flashes of lightning in the torrential rain, red and blue warning lights swirling on luminescent striped blue and white police cars behind them.

‘Are you Maxwell Winshire?’ A young-looking policeman asked him. He looked pathetic, Max thought, like he’d just left Cadet training college.

‘Why?’

Thunder rumbled with an echo like it was advancing, getting closer.

‘We are here to carry out a search of the premises under Section 32 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984,’ he said.

Lightning flashed again.

‘ARE YOU MAXWELL WINSHIRE?’ A policeman behind growled menacingly.

‘Yes, but there must be some mistake.’ Max’s adrenalin was pumping and he tried to remain calm and talk it through. ‘Do you have a search warrant?’

The growling impatient officer pushed Max in the doorway and spun him round. ‘You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

Max suddenly saw Citra and Tristan at the lounge door as he felt the cold steel lock around his wrists like a solid watchstrap that was too tight.

Five policemen rushed into the hall and ran into different rooms, ransacking shelves, cupboards and drawers. Citra pulled Tristan aside as they entered the lounge, staring at Max helplessly.

‘It’s OK, honey, everything’s gonna be fine,’ Max said.

Tristan’s tablet played the calming tones of Mickey Mouse, incongruous in the surrounding chaos and sounds of trophies, picture frames and ornaments hitting the laminate floor, and Tristan began to cry.

‘It’s OK, Tristan,’ Max said, ‘look at me, it’s OK … Remember your superpowers, be strong and brave for mama.’ But Tristan only sobbed harder, pretending to watch the tablet obediently.

Citra’s eyes suddenly flared and Max turned his head to see a tall woman march through the front door in a long black trench coat with her collar raised, long flaming red hair dripping wet. She turned on the spot in the hall, taking in the surroundings: the snooker table; the large gold mirror; the crucifix on the wall; and when she looked up at the chandelier, he noticed a scar across her Adam’s apple and then spoke in a high lilting Scottish accent, ‘How bonnie!’ Like none of this was a surprise to her.

She walked up to Max, knees pulling against the slim navy pencil slit dress, high-heels tapping on the laminate floor, and flashed her I.D. and badge with long red fingernails, and in a low man’s voice like a well-rehearsed almost different personality, ‘DCI Dedrick. Where’s the laptop?’

Max frowned in the direction of the study, ‘In there,’

‘I’ll take see,’ she said, resuming her feminine tone to the officer beside him, ‘let him walk.’

Max walked to the door of the study but instead of following him she walked up to his son and snatched the tablet out of his hands, ‘Safeguarding!’

Tristan fell to his knees sobbing harder. Max tried to pull his hands free but he felt the metal cut into the vein on his wrists.

‘Your wee life is never going to be the same again,’ she said to Citra, ‘sit the bonny lad down there.’ She pointed at the couch before crossing the hall with the tablet in her hands and opened the door of Max’s study. She saw the laptop on the desk.

She pushed passed him into the study, took off her coat like she was planning to stay, and sat down in his leather chair, with Max’s wet jacket around it, at his pentagonal desk, in front of his laptop, and powered it on, swivelling from side to side in the chair, and a login screen came up.

‘What’s the password?’

‘I have the right to call a lawyer,’ Max said.

‘Oh, you do, do you? Need your phone?’

‘Yes. In my jacket behind you.’

She reached in the inside pocket and pulled out his folded timetable, with the mobile, and waved the latter at him.

‘The laptop password, please?’

‘One-nine-seven-eight,’ Max said without thinking.

She tapped it into the computer and the home screen opened.

‘Braw!’

Max could hear the crash of falling objects coming from the other rooms and panicked.

‘Can I make a call now?’

She stood up, walked slowly towards him, swinging her hips, like she had all the time in the world, and turned the mobile on. ‘Oh dear, you can’t reach. Let me help you, what’s the password?’

‘Nine-nine-nine-nine,’ Max said, staring at his phone which looked tiny in her long fingers and nails.

‘That’s original,’ she smiled at the phone and when the home screen came up, she cackled again, ‘Braw!’ Like an excited crow and showed him the open home screen, and walked back to his chair, pressing and swiping the screen.

‘What are you doing … I gave you the password …’

‘Thanks,’ she sat down, crossed her legs, and stared at her tights, before looking up, ‘don’t you think I’ve got great legs?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A little fairy told me that you liked ladyboys,’ she gave him a hard stare and then in her deepest voice said, ‘or am I too old for you?’

Lightning flashed through the window, but this time the thunder immediately followed; the storm was overhead.

‘I want to speak to a lawyer. NOW!’

‘What’s the rush? I’m not going anywhere.’ She walked over to his book shelf and pulled down one of his journals and flicked through the pages. ‘A writer?’

‘That’s personal. You can’t …’

‘25th April 2017,’ she read out, ‘the truth is I went to the doctor for anxiety medication …”

Max closed his eyes with embarrassment,

‘… pleading for Xanax or Diazepam, because I was terrified my money was …’

‘You can’t. That’s personal.’

‘… about to run out and I couldn’t buy any alcohol’ … Ooh, you’re right, it is personal … ‘4th May 2017, it may sound like bitter grapes, but coming back on the bus, I really really really’—three reallys? Really? Not much of a writer, really—’was thinking, ‘Citra, please don’t make me work at that school.’ What school? Are you a teacher? Do you like kids, Max? Is that your bonnie wife, Citra?’

‘I want to speak to my lawyer.’

‘I bet you’re used to thinking you’re always right, with all those lovely wee kiddies looking up to you?’

‘That’s rude and unnecessary.’

‘Do you teach ethics? What’s the phrase—Those who can do, those who can’t teach—you’re not very ethical are you, Mr Winshire?’ She opened the metal filing cabinet, ‘and what do you keep in here?’

‘Nothing.’ She followed his eyes to the bottom drawer and pulled it out.

‘What do we have here?’ She lifted out a hard drive, and then another hard drive and started piling them up on the floor. ‘Now why would anyone need so many hard drives?’ She nodded her head behind him as if he was suddenly of no interest, ‘Take him away.’

‘What are you doing?’ Max struggled against the policeman pulling him back into the hall, ‘I gave her the password. I need to make a call …’

Tristan looked at his father from the sofa in the living room, like he expected him to do something, tears running down his face. His look killed Max. Max had always promised he’d be there for Tristan, no matter what, and now he was powerless to do anything to protect him.

Two officers turned him roughly around by the shoulders and pushed Max out the front door into the heavy rain. They opened the rear car door and gently pushed his head down, which seemed to him like an incongruous act of kindness, as they put him in the car and sat either side.

Max stared in dismay at their open front door—what if someone stole anything? Rotating red and blue lights flooded the empty street, taking him away to an unknown location, with no idea why he had been arrested, what to expect, or for how long.

Part I: THE ARREST

Containing as much of the present circumstances of the soon-to-be accused, and accuser, as is necessary to acquaint the gentle reader with their lives before, and imminently leading to, arrest.

Chapter 1

A date with destiny

Max is college-tested. Crucial park meetings go unnoticed. Damaged laptop and odd, significant, encounter with repairer.

Wednesday, 11th July 2018 – England crashes out of the World Cup

Max could feel their eyes on the back of his head in silent anticipation as he drew a slightly crooked line diagram on the white board. GDP up the vertical axis, and, years from 1995 to 2018 across the horizontal axis and wrote at the top, ‘The Boom-and-Bust Cycle’ – the story of my life, he thought - large in blue marker. Switching to the red marker, Max drew a waving red line rising and then falling in 1998, and then rising and falling in 2008, and then rising followed by ‘…’

‘So, what must naturally happen next?’ Max turned to scan the thirty innocent fourteen-year-old faces with their heads slightly tilted, as if trying to make sense of a confusing ordnance survey map. There was a worrying silence. Max noticed the principal in the corner of his eye at the back of the room looking over her glasses around the room and then down at his lesson plan. Never start with a graph, he silently cursed his lesson plan. Maybe the pupils didn’t want to risk an answer in front of the principal, but they must have realised he was the one being tested.

Come on. ‘Can’t you see a pattern?’ Max desperately traced along the line with his ﬁnger; It’s there. ‘What went wrong in 1998 and 2008? What does the vertical axis represent …’

Max quickly scanned the names he’d asked them to write on paper folded at the front of their desks, ‘… Ellen?’ ‘GDP,’ she said, reading where Max pointed. ‘Great! And what is GDP?’ ‘Gross Domestic Product.’ ‘Excellent Ellen.’ Let’s build up the pace. ‘And what does Gross Domestic Product mean … William?’ ‘Everything we make.’ ‘Great! The monetary value of ﬁnal goods and services. Exactly. Well Done, William. So, if there’s a rising and falling pattern of everything we make, every ten to twelve years, look at the horizontal axis—notice how the dips are similarly spaced—then what should happen next in 2018 … Howard?’ Max squirmed his face like a clue. ‘What happens if England lose tonight?’ ‘Disaster!’ Howard laughed. ‘Tragedy,’ another boy shouted out. ‘Exactly,’ Max said, ‘an economic crash, right?’

They both looked at the principal in the corner. Max thought she smiled but it was like judging the Mona Lisa, and then she wrote something down.

Max sorely hoped it was something nice.

***

Max stared down at the pin-pricks of his shiny wine brogues in the wood-panelled hall outside Brighton College’s conference room, and tried to stop his shaking hands from spilling the coﬀee on them by leaning his pin-striped elbows on pin-striped knees; everything was pin-pricked like he was covered in tiny holes about to leak at any time. He took a sip and burnt his lips.

He watched the surface shaking in the cup like Brighton’s wild brown sea outside the window and carefully put it down on the wooden side-table.

‘We’re ready for you,’ Rodrica said.

The principal was sitting in the centre of a horseshoe of tables and as Rodrica, the HR Manager, took a seat on her left after showing him in, the principal introduced the director of studies on her right, and invited him to ask the ﬁrst question.

‘You said you’ve been teaching for,’ the director studied the paper in front of him, ‘ﬁfteen years?’

‘That’s correct,’ Max steepled his hands. He’d read somewhere it showed conﬁdence.

‘Holden School for two years?’

‘That’s correct. Then I was coordinator of business studies at King’s Cross School for ﬁve and taught overseas for eight, China, Singapore, Malaysia—where I met my wife—ﬁfteen total. We got married in the Singapore Botanic Gardens and our son, Tristan, four, was born in Kuala Lumpur.’

‘I see. But before that, it says here you left Holden School in 1998,’ he pointed at the page, ‘and you started at King’s Cross School in 2003?’ The others were rapidly checking the papers in front of them. ‘You realise we have to account for any gaps for safeguarding?’ He emphasised the word like a judge an oﬀence. He said it was their number one priority.

Max mentally checked the dates, but they were right. What was wrong? ‘That’s correct.’

‘So, what were you doing between 1998 and 2003?’

‘Oh, I see what you mean. Sorry, I was writing … writing.’ Max repeated more loudly, unnecessarily, as they wrote it down. And elaborated even more unnecessarily, ‘A book. Books … Plural.’

‘Oh really?’ The principal said, ‘published?’

Max paused, ‘Yes, no, well … self-published.’

‘What did you write about?’ Rodrica asked, chewing the tip of her pen. Max felt his leg shaking and tried to hide it by pressing his foot down hard on the floor, hoping it didn’t show below the desk. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’

‘I was writing about … No, I’m ﬁne, thanks …’ How do you put a sexploitation TV show into the right words for an Economics Subject leader’s position? Max looked out of the window at the rough and foreboding sea for inspiration. ‘It was a kind of dark Orwellian dystopian fantasy trilogy commenting on contemporary culture and society.’

‘1984?’ The director of studies asked.

‘Animal Farm?’ Rodrica said.

Max cascaded stapled ﬁngers, ‘Correct,’ he said, ‘but … not that good!’ He raised his eyebrows comically and smiled modestly.

Rodrica smiled back. Nervously.

‘Next question,’ the principal said, ‘what are your three greatest strengths—you’ll see where this is going,’ she looked over her glasses, ‘and your three greatest weaknesses, please?’

‘Greatest strengths?’ Max said, repeating for time to think, ‘I suppose I’m creative?’ He asked like a question, and then said more ﬁrmly, ‘Like I did in the lesson, you know, I tried to deduce the graph of The Trade Cycle from the news reports I gave the kids, I mean students. Sorry. I read the news every morning to stay up on current aﬀairs.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the director of studies said, ‘I still call them kids.’

The principal didn’t look impressed and stared, ‘Three?’

‘Sorry, yeah, three? Well, I also look at the facts, the evidence, of course, like in the lesson. Evidence is everything … I read the news every morning …’

‘Could you have done anything differently in the lesson?’ She asked as if it was obvious what she had been getting at, but it wasn’t to Max.

‘Yeah,’ Max said, ‘I suppose I could have asked them to draw the graph themselves to make it more pupil-centred, but there wasn’t time.’

‘Perhaps if you’d have projected the graph onto the overhead projector, rather than draw it by hand, you would have had more time?’

‘Yeah, that’s a good idea.’

The principal nodded—which felt good to Max—and wrote something down.

‘Creative … factual,’ Max said, ‘evidence … and … inspiring. You know, I wanted to leave them asking questions. You know, Maynard Keynes versus Milton Friedman, what will happen next? Who’s right, right? The future’s unknown, right? The crash should happen now, according to the pattern in the data, because it’s 2018. But it hasn’t, or will it?’

‘What do you think will happen next?’ The principal narrowed one eye.

‘I’ll get the job!’ Max smiled overconﬁdently.

‘And three greatest weaknesses … briefly?’ The principal said, and shared an aside glance to the director of studies as if the question was slightly unnecessary, which Max knew meant something, but he didn’t get what.

‘Perfectionist. Over-working. Ambitious.’ Max said, trying to make every bad a good, then pointed at the director of studies, ‘I want his job.’ They really scribbled quickly this time, he thought.

‘Rodrica?’ The principal prompted her.

‘Max, tell me, if you were successful in your application, what would you do for the ﬁrst six months?’

Max explained he would start by assessing where the students were at, and whether the curriculum was meeting their needs. ‘You need to know where they’re at before you plan how best to move forward.’

They were all scribbling vigorously as he talked, and, for a moment, Max felt like the roles had been reversed and he was the teacher giving dictation to the pupils. Repeating the buzzwords he thought they wanted to hear, like ‘individual learning styles’, and next he would say ‘pace, challenge and engagement’—like reading an OFSTED shopping list, because it was how they were judged outstanding—until they had asked all the questions on their list.

Rodrica stood and opened the door for him, and Max gave a brief wave to the others as he left the room; that’s how much Max wanted them to like him.

Outside the room, Rodrica held her hand out and gave him a very professional handshake. Max didn’t know what he expected, or why he was concerned it seemed so formal and unfriendly. What did he expect, a kiss on the cheek? Desperate for reassurance, or any sign, like a good schoolboy.

Tonight, England lost 2-1 against Croatia and all Max’s dreams of winning the World Cup were gone. It wasn’t a good omen.

But, at least they’d made it to the semi-ﬁnals, many teams didn’t even get that far.

Saturday 14th July 2018 - Angelique Kerber beats Serena Williams to win Wimbledon

Today Max watched Kerber win the Wimbledon Women’s Final and ran into two of the people who would save his life.

Firstly, Max couldn’t help admiring Angelique on the court for all the wrong reasons; he tended to admire women’s posteriors like a footballer, goal posts.

Secondly, after watching the tennis, Max and Citra took Tristan to the park over the road. Max lifted the heavy black iron lock of Saltdean Park gate with one hand, holding Tristan’s tiny little hand in the other, ‘they didn’t say when, just that they’d let me know.’

Tristan ran ahead, turning back and laughing at Max, as if Max was chasing him in a game over the grass, when a huge Alsatian dog ran past Max, over the height of Tristan.

Max sprinted, grabbed Tristan and lifted him up in the air. The dog suddenly stopped and tilted its head as if not understanding why Max was scared, and Tristan kicked in Max’s arms to be put down.

‘It’s alright,’ Citra said, ﬁnally reaching them, ‘he loves Hope.’

Max put him down. Tristan stroked its long Chewbaccan mane and it licked his face. ‘Hope?’ Max said.

‘You’d better believe it.’ A strong bass voice like a giant said over his shoulder but when Max turned round, he looked down on a small thin old crinkled black man with a scraggly beard and big Rastafarian rainbow-colored woolly hat in a Parka coat.

‘Hello Zumi,’ Citra smiled at him like a madwoman, Max thought, and asked how he was. Didn’t she know who this guy was?

‘Can’t complain,’ Zumi ruffled Hope’s fur, ‘which is more than you can say for this guy, I bet.’ He jerked his black thumb back at Max. ‘How’s the boy?’ He touched his son, patting him on the back. Tristan smiled back at Zumi. ‘He’s got something, you know—you can see it in his eyes—he’s very special.’

‘Yes, he is.’ Max lifted Tristan up in his arms and the dog barked at him as if he was a threat to his own son.

‘Stay,’ Zumi whispered and the dog immediately stopped.

‘Well, you all be having a happy care-free day, I’m meeting an old friend,’ and then looked at Max directly, ‘your father was a bastard.’

And without waiting for a response, ‘Come on Hope,’ slowly hobbled oﬀ as if in fear of nothing or nobody.

What did he just say? Max’s face was flushed.

‘Is it because he’s black?’ Citra asked.

Max let Tristan into the playground area with the soft black tarmac, slide and swings. ‘Yeah, right, I’m a racist —that’s why I married a Malay!’

Citra sat on the bench while Max shadowed Tristan on the slide. ‘Just because he’s our neighbour, doesn’t mean you know him.’ Who really knows their neighbour, Max thought.

‘Was your dad a bastard?’

‘How can you ask me that question?’

‘Why would he say it?’

Zumi passed the playground with a wave at Citra, or Tristan—it certainly wasn’t him, Max thought—walking arm-in-arm slowly with a woman. This woman he was with was the second person who would save Max. She had crow’s feet around the eyes, a blonde ponytail, a long camel coat and pink wellington boots. Hope was sniffing ahead.

‘How does he get it up at his age?’ Max said.

‘Why do you think everything is about sex,’ Citra said, ‘maybe they’re just friends.’

Max watched them walk to the gate and stop. Zumi pulled his hand out of his pocket and put it in her jacket pocket. It could have been a love letter. But before Max could tell Citra, he was running after Tristan as he made for the playground gate towards Emily, a pretty little girl he always played with. Her mother let her in, and Max saw the lady Zumi was with leave the park. He watched Zumi continue his slow walk of the circuit while Hope ran ahead.

Tristan immediately tapped Emily on the arm to play tag, and Max rolled his eyes at her mother, Lydia, they knew her from the church, and she smiled back at Max. They chatted while the children played and then Max and Citra invited Lydia and Emily, back for lunch.

Tristan brought his blue police car and large red toy ﬁre engine from his bedroom into the living room where Max and Lydia sat and gave the latter to Emily, and Tristan told her she was the thief and he was the police, and began chasing Emily around the Persian carpet.

Citra brought in a tray with coﬀee and biscuits, careful to avoid stepping on the children. When Lydia started complaining to Citra how late her husband came back from work, Max got on the floor and started playing with the children, and it was his turn to be the thief; which beat explaining his life on Universal Credit, especially to someone from their church. But, at least, he was there to play with the children.

Friday, 27th July 2018 – Lunar eclipse of the sun

Max heard the letterbox rattle and his heart sank like a conditioned response.

There were four letters on the porch floor: One had Max’s bank’s logo; one his Student Loans’ logo; one his credit card company’s logo; and one Brighton College’s logo. He couldn’t open any of them sober.

He carried them into the study in his slippers to avoid interrogation from Citra, poured himself a large whisky at his pentagonal IKEA desk, and swivelled in the leather chair looking at the park through the window.

He opened the bank letter ﬁrst, informing Max he had twelve months’ mortgage payments in arrears, and if he didn’t make payment immediately, they would take legal action to repossess the house.

He opened the student loans letter next, requiring ﬁnal payment immediately or they were going to take him to court.

He opened the letter from the credit card company to learn they had appointed bailiﬀs, so he took immediate action and unwired the front-door bell.

But he still couldn’t open the letter from Brighton College.

He checked his emails and there was a notiﬁcation from Kindle Direct Publishing that they had made a payment. Hoping beyond all hope that he had suddenly hit the bestseller list, he clicked the link to the payments page, and there was one payment for May for £0.32, and one for June, for £0.25. He just didn’t get why nobody got his genius; perhaps that was the problem.

Max felt like pulling his hair out in ﬁstfuls if he had had any, and clawing away his skin with his nails, but he still couldn’t work himself up into enough hate for himself to open the letter from the college.

Max ﬁnally banged his ﬁst so hard into his leg he had to stifle the curse that emanated with the pain. He stuﬀed the sealed letter in his back pocket and limped to the lounge. ‘Citra, CITRA?’

Citra ran in holding up her yellow rubber gloves as if there’d been an accident. She still looked amazing, he thought, deep sensitive brown eyes, svelte ﬁgure, and with her medical-training concern asked, ‘What’s wrong, honey, are you OK?’

Max limped to the antique ﬁre-place and leaned on the mantlepiece, possibly over-egging the disability for sympathy.

‘What have you done? Sit down. Is it your right leg?’ Citra tried to take his elbow but he pulled away.

‘Leave me alone—I’m a bloody ﬁrst-aider—I’m ﬁne.’

‘You don’t look ﬁne? Have you been drinking? I can smell it on your breath! You promised …’

‘It’s not that, listen to me, please?’

Citra stepped forward and they hugged.

‘I love you,’ Max said, kissing her on the forehead.

‘I love you, too. Just say it, Max.’ She pulled apart, ‘whatever happens, we’ll always be together, right?’

‘Of course. Whatever happens, right? You said it.’

‘Tell me now!’

‘I heard back from Brighton College.’

‘Oh no! How are we gonna live?’ She dropped into the sofa, ‘I’ll ask my mother if she can help.’

‘You know she can’t help,’ he paced the floor in front of the ﬁreplace like a caged tiger, ‘it’s a third-world country for Christ’s sake. She can’t aﬀord our debt … Unless she’s as corrupt as your President!’

‘Calm down, papa, just calm down.’ It suddenly seemed to dawn on her, like a delayed reaction or after-shock, ‘not the house?’ And she looked out the window with tired eyes.

‘I’ll never ﬁnd another job by September.’

‘Did they say why?’ She met his eye.

‘I don’t know.’ He looked away.

‘You don’t know, because you don’t know, or you don’t know, because you haven’t opened it?’

She knew him too well, he thought, and shook his head. He was backed into the corner now and there was no way out. He pulled out the crumpled unopened letter and held it there like a white flag of surrender.

She immediately jumped up, ripped oﬀ her rubber gloves, snatched it out of his grip and scrambled to rip it open with her nails like a cat with a mouse between its claws. He averted his eyes, ‘I’m so sorry, Citra.’

‘You should be … You got it!’ He was too shocked to speak.

‘Come here.’ She held his face in her hands, letting the letter fall to the ground, and looked him in the eyes to avoid any doubt, ‘You … got … the … job. I love you, Mr Maxwell Winshire, do you know that?’

‘I got the job?’ He started to smile, ‘I got the job,’ as if to process the information, ‘I really, really, really got the job.’

‘You got the job.’

Max paused, and then smiled, ‘I knew I’d get it.’

Citra pulled him by the hands into the bedroom. ‘You can bring your porn. Let’s have a threesome!’

Max returned with his laptop, and power pack, because the battery didn’t work, plugged it in and tore oﬀ his T-shirt. He opened the chrome browser, clicked on the bookmarks folder and there … was … the … threesome! As if they had never been apart.

They lay on the bed and watched together as two muscle-bound hunks sandwiched the lady in bisexual combinations of every sexual variety while Citra sucked on his nipples, fellated and ﬁnally encompassed him. And he had her like every man and every woman he had ever dreamed of.

Afterwards, Citra lay with one palm resting on his chest, like he was some great hero returned from battle. He liked that. He liked feeling like he had nothing to prove and they were on some otherworldly Mount Olympus in some parallel universe.

That feeling of being more than loved, like each other’s essence depended on the others’, and they were ﬁnally at peace.

Max looked at the upturned laptop on the bedroom floor like the silent wreckage of battle. ‘I think we screwed the laptop,’ he leaned over to pick it up, and examined the broken power socket. He plugged the lead back in but the little green power light didn’t come on. Normally this would have freaked him out, but it didn’t seem to matter at the time; it was just a material thing.

‘I love you,’ she said, pulling him back, and then as if he was something special, ‘Mister-the-Business Lecturer!’ And kissed him on the nose.

‘I love you.’ He meant it, almost spiritually, caressing her shoulder, and looking out over their beautiful garden. ‘You know, I never wanted to be a teacher. It was my mum’s idea. I always wanted to be a writer, but I think I’ll do stand-up.’

‘That’s funny! You can’t write to save your life!’ She laughed.

She told him she remembered his last attempt before they got married, and teased, ‘how many stars did it get on Amazon, one or two?’

‘Three twos … but one three!’

‘Exactly.’

Max smiled but that really killed him; that she thought his writing was a joke. Perhaps it was. Five years of his life wasted before they met. He wondered if she was the reason why he’d stopped writing or whether he was only writing because he was lonely. Either way, it was still a heavy landing after intimacy, but he had to stop overthinking, he told himself, it was a dangerous habit and only led to the dark place.

Citra frowned, ‘You’ve got beautiful eyes. I love you. I just don’t know why …’

‘What?’ He gave her the look which meant he was serious.

‘I just don’t know why …’ She shrugged her bare shoulder, ‘you don’t love yourself?’

Max rolled his eyes. But it was true; nobody could beat him up more than he beat himself up. Max put on conﬁdence like armour he’d learnt from watching movies as a lonely bullied kid; He was Adam West in Batman; Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise; Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future and Christopher Reeves in Superman. His whole personality was a superhero costume he put on in the morning to protect a marshmallow timid centre. He got hurt too easily because he was oversensitive. He couldn’t express his feelings because he tried to pretend he didn’t have any.

Citra waited for him to speak but he didn’t say anything while thinking all this. No way could he admit self-doubt or vulnerability.

‘I’ve got to collect Tristan from reception.’ Citra climbed out of bed and he admired her lithe slim naked body and pert bottom until they were but a memory behind the soft cotton layers of the duvet, which he snuggled back up in like a contented cat.

Tonight, at around 9.30pm in the clear black star-spangled sky a foreboding full moon glowed a deep blood red outside their bedroom window as Citra lay in his arms. It could be seen as far away as East Africa, India and the Middle East like a warning beacon to the world to mend humanity’s cruel ways, or else.

Saturday, 1st September 2018 – First ever case of Monkeypox reported in the UK

Bad news. As if to make the foreboding moon come true, Max read online, Monkeypox is among us. But how did it get from the monkey to the human? Did the human eat the monkey, or something more intimate. It was a Ricky Gervais joke years later, Max loved his stand-up, ‘Weigh it up. No, I deﬁnitely ate the monkey.’

Monkeypox, Max read, was a contagious virus that doesn’t always show symptoms. Someone can look perfectly healthy and be a carrier, but he didn’t over worry. This was the year before the Covid pandemic proved that anyone could be susceptible to a virus.

Luckily, they locked the poor guy up in quarantine and that was the end of it. Best thing for all of us, he thought.

This was also the day, Max was trying to deal with his broken laptop socket, which set apace events which would unnecessarily ruin his life, and he would be the one locked up, as if he was the one with a virus.

Max carried his laptop into Dominus Meus, the computer repair shop in Sundown Road, oﬀ the high street, and looked around the dark and gloomy room at the myriad of computer lights randomly flashing on and oﬀ on racks. There seemed to be nobody there until a scrawny short and measly man, with a goatee and strings of unkempt hair hanging oﬀ his head, suddenly appeared as if from another time and place.

‘What?’ Alan Snyder barked abruptly, top button fastened on a short-sleeve white shirt, with a blue biro and tiny screwdriver in the breast pocket and ink blue jeans, like the pen had leaked.

‘Do you repair laptops?’

‘Depends,’ Snyder held his unblinking gaze.

‘OK,’ Max tried to reassess the situation, ‘depends on what?’

‘What’s wrong with it, obviously.’

‘The power socket’s bust.’

‘How do you know? Are you a certiﬁed computer hardware engineer with how many years of experience?’ Snyder spread his hands flat on the counter, a tattoo of a dove on the right one, and looked Max up and down. Max had thought doves were meant to be peaceful.

‘Sorry.' Max rolled his eyes, 'is it the power socket?’

‘How would I know without even looking at it?’

‘Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t want to waste your time. I’m sure you must be very busy.’ Max turned to go.

‘Fifty pounds.’

‘How much?’ It isn’t often a salesman’s patter starts with the catch, he thought, ‘it’s just a power socket that needs replacing?’

‘Parts and labour. Dell sockets aren’t cheap and labour—look,’ Snyder said, like he was explaining to a kid, ‘how many years do you think it takes to become a certiﬁed computer hardware engineer? Do you think that’s a walk in the park? Come here, come here,’ Snyder beckoned him behind the counter towards the door behind.

Max politely declined holding up his hands, ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘I said, come here. Come here, come on.’

Max reluctantly stepped around the counter, through the door and saw a cartoon of a pony-tailed girl with disproportionately big eyes and breasts bursting out of a tiny tank top with a hard grotesque penis attacking boys from every graphic angle. in cut-out pages of a manga comic strip.

Max turned to the centre of the room and beheld a huge phantasmagorical behemoth of hardware, like some giant electriﬁed live-wired Christmas turkey standing on the bench looking back at him with pulsating red eyes. In the realm of wildebeests, this monstrosity was the alpha male of computing power.

‘See?’ Snyder squinted as if the power was too all-consuming to look at him otherwise.

Max was a little scared and too bat-freaked crazy by this hardware, or rather more, by its Frankenstein creator to immediately answer. What was Snyder looking for, affirmation?

He was pathetic, almost laughingly ridiculous, if only he didn’t take it so blood-thirsty seriously.

‘Nice,’ Max ﬁnally said, which was apparently the absolutely worst thing he could have said.

‘Nice? You think this is nice?’

No. He felt like getting the hell out of close proximity of Snyder and running for his life. But rationally, that seemed overdramatic.

‘This,’ Snyder said, and proceeded to explain in mind-bendingly enormous and tremendous detail, was basically more powerful than God. Meta this and Giga that, per second. He must be lonely, Max thought. To be fair, it was probably cool but who needed that much power? Someone who clearly had none. When Snyder had ﬁnished, he said, ‘Now? do I look like a fool, to you?’

Max nodded, ‘No,’ as if one half of him didn’t know what the other half was doing, side-stepping to the safety of the shop.

‘Are you trying to be clever?’ Snyder said like a paranoid schizophrenic.

‘Look, I’m sorry. I just came in here to see if you could ﬁx the socket on my laptop. Fifty pounds still seems a lot.’ This was Max’s idea of haggling because he was scared to suggest a lower price, ‘Is there anywhere else around here?’

‘Computer Doctor. Queen’s Road. They’ll charge the same price.’

Max left and stopped outside the shop in two minds. He looked at his watch, and thought could he be bothered to search for the other shop, especially if the price would be the same?

At the same time, something in him was holding him back from returning, but it wasn’t rational; A gut feeling of unease; heart versus head. He returned, rationality winning.

‘Sorry,’ Max said.

Snyder didn’t blink. No smile. Just stared. ‘What?’

‘Please can you ﬁx the socket on my laptop?’

Snyder sighed as if he was doing him a favour, and moved to his keyboard and monitor, ‘I need to see I.D.’

‘What for?’

‘How am I supposed to identify you when you collect it?’

Max gave him his driving license and Snyder tapped in the details.

‘Password?’

‘What for?’

‘For the laptop, what did you think. Full service and security upgrade included for the price. But I need the password.’

‘No thanks. I just want you to change the power socket, please.’

‘It’s free. Why don’t you want it?’

Max thought why I am having to justify not giving him my password? Maybe I should just leave. That feeling again. ‘Look, I don’t have to explain anything. I just want the power socket changed, OK?’

Snyder nodded very slowly, mentally evaluating his motivations, holding his gaze like in a prison stand-oﬀ.

When Max ﬁnally looked down and was about to change his mind, Snyder said, ‘it’ll be ready in 7 days.’

Seven days? It was his own fault for leaving it till the last minute but he was starting on Thursday, so it obviously wouldn’t be ready in time for his ﬁrst day. Max was too exhausted to argue, and just nodded and said, ‘Bye.’

Snyder didn’t reply.

Max closed the shop door behind him, empty-handed, and felt a deep sense of foreboding. Could he really trust that guy not to hack into his laptop? But even if Snyder did, there was nothing bad on it, he told himself, he was just being paranoid and walked home, oblivious to the darkest, foulest seed of a storm he had left brewing behind him, which would all too soon explode. And threaten to destroy his family, career and life, as knew it, in an instant, still thinking he was lucky he would at least have his laptop ﬁxed.

Sunday, 2nd September 2018 – May and Corbyn face double coup

Max read the headline in the Sunday Times online today: ‘May and Corbyn face double coup.’

Both Theresa May and Jeremy Corbyn were apparently being plotted against by members of their own parties. Max couldn’t stand betrayal. He went to church and made the biggest faux pas imaginable in all his years of being a Sunday-school teacher.

Max genuflected in the aisle and crossed himself before taking a seat in his usual pew on the right, just behind the choir in Our Lady of Lourdes RC Church on Steyning Road, followed by Tristan and Citra. He knelt, bowed his head, closed his eyes, a little dizzily hungover, and prayed the Lord’s prayer— ‘forgive us our sins as we forgive those who trespass against us’—removing any bitterness in his heart for Snyder, the computer repairman.

And then Max prayed in gratitude for all the blessings God had given him: a new job, Citra, Tristan, even the church itself, because whatever happened in life, the church was his rock, and however large his debts, nobody could take that away from him.

When the priest paused the mass and asked for the children to come to the altar, Max was the only adult who stood and genuflected and made his way to the front walking as straight as possible with his hangover. He led them in a procession back down the aisle like the pied piper to deliver Sunday school in the church hall with a few parent helpers.

Max read a children’s version of the gospel standing in front of a little table with a cross and asked them questions about the story, and how they could apply being kind in their lives.

The little four to nine-year-olds all put their hands up, even if they didn’t know the answer, and he had to gently guide them.

It was so diﬀerent to teaching older kids, where you couldn’t get them to put their hands up with a gun! It made him think about switching to primary teaching again. He had once applied to a primary school and done a demonstration lesson, but it was in London and the travel wasn’t feasible on the salary.

After the reading it was time for the hymn of praise.

Max started to sing the Alleluia a cappella, and noticed nobody was joining in, not even the parent-helpers and they were looking at him strangely, as he sung, ‘Hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, halle-lui-ou-ou-lia,’ when he suddenly realised it was the Shrek version of the Alleluia.

‘Right,’ he said quickly, ‘crayoning time!’ Max handed out a page for them to colour before they returned to join the Eucharistic procession in the church behind the bread and wine.

Max proceeded behind the altar to receive Holy communion and Holy wine before taking his place on the left of the priest, in front of the altar, to give Christ’s blood to the congregation.

Outside, he shook Father Kevin’s hand and shared the joke about singing the Shrek version of the Alleluia—thinking he should use that for his stand-up one day—which Father Kevin was slow to register, before Max started singing it to him. He obviously hadn’t seen the movie yet.

They briefly discussed the church committee and repair-the-spire fund. Max high-ﬁved the little kids as they passed, parents smiling at him, and feeling lighter and happier for God’s love and forgiveness. They met Lydia and Emily and walked up Steyning Road to see the horses roaming free in the ﬁeld at the top.

The storm looked like it would never come and his life was as safe as the foundations of St. Peter’s Basilica, rather than getting ready to meet St. Peter at his gate.

The horses looked like they didn’t have a care in the world, and watching them, it was almost contagious.

Thursday, 6th September 2018 – India supreme court strikes down gay ban

This morning Max read that India, the world’s biggest democracy, with the greatest variety of faiths, decriminalized homosexual sex.

‘Respect for individual choice is the essence of liberty,’ The Week quoted Dipak Misra, India’s chief justice.

Even though Max was catholic, and the church was against it, he totally agreed with the decision.

He clicked another link to The Week, and read, ‘The statute, known as section 377, made certain ‘unnatural oﬀenses,’ like ‘carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman, or animal,’ punishable by up to 10 years in jail.’

It is hard to imagine that before today, Max thought, normal gay men and women in India could be locked up because of what they did with their own bodies, hurting nobody else, like arresting someone for masturbating.

‘We are no longer criminals!’ Saha was quoted by Reuters.

Although they didn’t decriminalise bestiality, Max was sure; neither article actually referred to bestiality, but like commandments from the mount, he thought, we can only assume these things happen by the laws against them.

In Thai prisons, Max remembered, according to Darren Fellows who spent eleven years in one, prisoners frowned on homosexuality, but had no problem with buying prostituting pigs at three packets of cigarettes for a male and ﬁve packets for a female, and you can take your pick of the prettiest one!

Max had thought that was so funny, he should steal it for his stand-up.

***

The principal gave a start-of-term welcome speech to all the staﬀ in the Grand Hall of Brighton College. When she called his name out, Max stood up and all the staﬀ clapped.

After the principal had ﬁnished, a tall man looking not dissimilar to the TV presenter Louis Theroux approached Max and shook his hand. ‘Welcome, I’m Tim, the new head of humanities—so I’m new, too!’

‘Congratulations!’

‘Congratulations to you, too!’

Tim invited Max to follow him out of the Grand Hall, down a corridor, over a grass conclave, through a door in the side of a wall, and into an overcrowded and messy office with desks against three walls, carriage desks back-to-back in the middle, his bigger desk in the corner; the only one with a ﬁxed phone.

‘It’s pretty much up to you what you do, I think,’ Tim said, ‘I just started.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I don’t want to lie,’ Tim adjusted his glasses, ‘I have never done this job before, so I don’t know what it takes, but I will do my best, OK?’

Max was disarmed by Tim’s honesty, ‘I’m sure you’ll be great.’

It felt like another world where being yourself was actually good enough, Max thought. He had never felt that before.

‘Your timetable,’ Tim handed Max a grid on a sheet of paper.

Max quickly tallied the hours with a worrying frown, ‘Twenty-ﬁve?’ He folder it into quarters and placed it in his inside jacket pocket with his phone.

Tim explained that they’d been quite kind, because it should be twenty-eight, but Max had lost two for his subject responsibility, and they’d taken one more oﬀ, as he was new.

'But this may only be for the ﬁrst term, play it by ear,’ Tim said. ‘They’ve also told me to ask you for Schemes of Work and Lesson Plans for your teaching groups, and there are templates on the shared Humanities drive. If you get your laptop, I can show you where it is. Have you got your laptop?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Max shifted in his seat and after an uncomfortable pause said, ‘it’s in the repair shop.’

‘Didn’t the college give you one?’

‘You mean a school laptop?’

‘Let me give them a quick call.’

Tim picked up the phone—a symbol of status, Max noted enviously—and explained who Max was and what he needed.

‘They’ll be down with one this afternoon, they need to wipe the drive clean from the last user but it shouldn’t take more than a few hours. Safeguarding or GDPR, whatever!’

‘Where can I get class lists?’ Max said, ‘and it would be really useful to have the prior-attainment data of all the students in GCSE’s, particularly Literacy and Maths, plus any internal assessments?’

‘It should all be on the shared drive. Let me look into that, though, and get back to you.’ Tim took a deep sigh and checked his watch. ‘To be honest, last year we had a part-time teacher, and, like I said, I was teaching Economics, too. We covered it, but it’s been a hard position to recruit for.’

‘Were there many applicants for the position?’

‘I don’t think so, but I don’t know. Let’s put it this way, we’re very happy to have you!’

Tim took Max to a desk facing a wall, just in front, one step removed, and perpendicular to his own, a little too close.

There were smiling introductions around the room as people returned to their desks from the morning brieﬁng. There was a strong union presence, as a few hinted with obtuse questions about Max’s affiliation, which, maybe, kept things together. At least it convinced Max to join that same day. You never know when you might need a union, he thought presciently.

In the afternoon, the I.T. technician arrived with a new laptop and Max thought it was strange not seeing his usual home page and folders, but as soon as he logged into his google chrome browser, they were all back as if they’d never gone away, like a small miracle!

Max had his bookmarked folders back with links to all his teaching resources, ﬁnances, shopping, (even porn!), all backed up to Google drive.

He asked Tim to show him how to access the shared drive for schemes of work and lesson plans, and there was some data on the students, but it wasn’t comprehensively organised.

Max spent the rest of the afternoon planning and managed to complete one scheme of work for A1 Economics because he was meeting the class in the morning, before teachers began saying their farewells for the day, although the other new guy was still at it when he left the office with his new laptop.

Outside, the sun was shining and he admired his handsome reflection in his three-piece pin-striped suit in the tall college windows repeatedly advertising ‘Outstanding’—we both were, he thought. He had arrived, so to speak. He felt conﬁdent he knew what to do. But more than that, he felt like he ﬁnally belonged.

He walked back to St. Peter’s Church car park, with yew trees and a holme oak standing tall above the gravestones. Were they an omen of some kind, he thought, but how could anything destroy this moment in his life? He just had to get used to being happy. And continued walking to the car park at the end of the path.

Max’s car was an old two-seater silver convertible. He climbed in, slung his laptop on the passenger seat floor, hit the button to wind down the roof, and plugged his phone into the Blaupunkt stereo. He dialed in something suitable. As the roof departed, the sky appeared getting larger overhead, the fading sun ﬁlled the car and he slipped on his Aviator shades.

Suddenly the opening four-beat guitar riﬀ from ‘Eye of the Tiger’ surrounded him and with an adrenaline rush, he hit the accelerator and skidded on the gravel out of the car park, startling pupils making their walk home, and almost knocking one over.

Max decided to take the longer route home to clear his head and took the right at the roundabout, grinning from ear to ear like the getaway driver of a bank heist, as he speeded up and slowed to the second roundabout, and took the last exit onto the dual carriageway. He yanked up the stereo and childishly swerved between the lanes to overtake cars and buses, gloriously irresponsible.

Winding through the rising hill, ramblers turned to identify the source of Queen’s ‘I want to break free!’ now blasting at full volume, slowing toward the chicane, then bumpily over the cattle grates in the road, then gaining speed again, like a rock n’ roll rollercoaster.

Max joined the coastal road as the sun was setting and the tide was in reflecting the salmon pink dome in the sky in darkening layers to the ruby red horizon, reminding him of the eclipse of the moon with Citra. At that moment it felt like the sunset was just for him. A reward to close a perfect day and the harbinger of all good things to come.

Max ﬁnally pulled into his gravel drive, and the roof came back down over the stars. He climbed out, centrally-locked the car with the keypad in his hand, and tapped the roof like a reward for a pet.

‘Darling, I’m home!’ Max called ironically like in a sitcom.

Citra and Tristan both came running out of the lounge to greet him standing underneath the chandelier in the large hall in front of the snooker table. ‘Group hug!’ And they all hugged each other.

‘What’s your new school like, Papa?’ Citra asked.

‘Fantastic!’

‘Praise the Lord Jesus Christ.’ Citra crossed herself, in front of the cruciﬁx on the wall.

‘Amen,’ Max said.

‘What’s that? Have you got a new laptop?’ Tristan said.

‘Free! The college gave it to me. Can you believe that?’

Citra looked suitably impressed. ‘What are the people like?’

‘Amazing. Like me!’ He pulled his son into a hug around the shoulders.

‘Can I see it?’ Tristan said.

‘Let me get changed.’

‘And your boss?’ Citra said.

‘Brilliant. I couldn’t ask for a nicer guy.’

Citra sighed with relief. ‘I’m cooking your favourite.’

‘Nasi goreng!’ Tristan jumped up and down.

‘Really? Thank you so much, honey.’ Max hugged her. ‘Give me two minutes to get changed.’ He changed into a white T-shirt, black jeans and trainers and went into the kitchen.

‘You didn’t have to dress for dinner.’ Citra teased. Tristan was already sitting patiently at the table and hot air was rising from the rice dish and a clear lid over the pan with perfectly fried eggs.

‘It looks amazing, honey,’ he kissed her on the cheek, ‘thank you.’

‘Can it play games?’ Tristan said.

‘No, it’s a work laptop, for work.’ Max wrapped him in a bear hug before taking his seat at the head of the table. ‘Let the feast begin!’ He began serving the rice onto plates, ﬁrst, for Tristan, second for Citra, and last for himself, like he always did, before placing the fried eggs on top.

‘Let us pray,’ Max said. Citra, Tristan and he all bowed their heads. ‘Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.'

‘Now, where’s the music? We can’t have a party without some music! Alexa, play Imagine Dragons!’

‘Thank you, papa!’ It was Tristan’s favourite, and Citra rolled her eyes as the song they’d all heard a million times ﬁlled the room like ﬁreworks, and Max started making robot motions with his arms. Tristan laughed.

‘It’s not like that,’ Tristan said, ‘can I stand up?’

‘Sure.’

And Tristan began to dob, swinging his arms in a contrary motion behind and in front, opposite to his hips, dancing between the oven and the fridge.

Citra and Max clapped.

‘Now eat before it gets cold,’ Citra said. ‘and tell us about the school?’

‘I’ve told you. It’s perfect. Like going home to work. Do you want to come and see papa’s new school?’

‘Do they have a playground?’

‘Second thoughts …’ Max said glancing at the swing in the garden lit by the patio lights through the backdoor window, ‘I mean it’s not that type of school. But I’ve got my own desk.’

‘They’ve given you an office?’

‘Not my own office, obviously,’ he winked conﬁdently, ‘not yet!’

‘Whatever you do, you’ve got to promise me,’ she leaned over and rested her hand on his and whispered like the Grim Reaper, ‘you won’t lose it.’

‘How on earth am I going to lose it? They couldn’t ﬁnd anyone else. That’s probably why I got the job. But there is a six-month probation period, I told you that, but that’s the same with any school.’

‘Oh no.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s not going to be easy, but I know this job, I could do it with my eyes closed.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise, honey. No, I take that back. I never promise. I shouldn’t need to promise. I’m a man of my word.’

‘Promise!’

‘OK, if it makes you happy. I promise.’

‘Amen. Praise the Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Amen. Now relax, and let’s enjoy the meal.’

They all watched Britain’s Got Talent on Netflix after dinner and Max checked Tristan’s diaper and changed it while Citra cleaned up the kitchen, and put him to bed.

Max dimmed the lights, sat on the edge of Tristan’s bed and asked him to name the super power he most wanted to have, the location he most wanted to be, and the enemy he most wanted to defeat in tonight’s bedtime story. The same three questions every night before he made up a story where Tristan was the protagonist, all the action took place after his parents had said goodnight and Tristan saved the day. Tristan fell asleep before the climax, but Max still ﬁnished the story until ‘The End. And they all lived happily ever after’, kissed Tristan’s forehead goodnight and left the door slightly ajar after he went out.

Max lay outstretched on their white leather couch, with Citra in his arms, and they watched, ‘I, Daniel Blake’ –God bless him, Max thought, he had it hard—on their 42-inch widescreen TV in front of the log ﬁre.

It wouldn’t last long, but for tonight, it was the perfect end to a perfect day; his life really used to be that good.

Friday, 7th September 2018 - Tesla shares crash after Elon Musk smokes Joint

This morning Max read online that only a week after Musk claimed a man who helped rescue children from a cave in Thailand was a child rapist, and days after lying in a tweet that he had funding to take Tesla back into private ownership, Elon Musk was on the Joe Rogan show last night smoking weed.

Max couldn’t get over how smoking marijuana was legal and socially acceptable in some countries, as it should be everywhere, he thought, it did less harm than alcohol.

However, Tesla took a 6% drop in share price, he noted, so it clearly wasn’t very acceptable in the ﬁnancial markets.

In England, Max thought, you would be arrested for smoking marijuana, which he would never risk now, unlike his student days. Ironically, when former President Clinton was in England, he admitted he experimented with marijuana but didn’t inhale.

That’s like experimenting with masturbation, Max thought, and not ejaculating; it doesn’t mean you didn’t do it! But, he thought, nobody’s perfect, not even a President.

Today Max also met his new class for the ﬁrst time.

They were lined up outside the classroom and Max said ‘Morning,’ brightly, as he passed them down the corridor to the door, which was unlocked, and he entered. Good kids, he thought.

‘What’s your favourite Star Wars character, sir?’ One asked as he followed.

‘Han Solo,’ Max said without a second thought, ‘what’s yours?’

‘Rey.’

‘Ahh, The Force Awakens,’ Max smiled as he attached the lead for the overhead projector to his laptop, looked over his shoulder to check the home screen was projecting onto the whiteboard and clicked to open his folders where he’d bookmarked the teacher portal. It took him a split second to recognise the bookmarked folder labelled Porn—surely, not long enough for any pupils to notice—before he clicked the bookmarked link to log into the school registration system. He took the register and wrote the title, ‘Ice breaking Activity’ and three learning objectives in a column on the far right of the whiteboard.

Max’s ﬁrst economics lesson was never about economics, it was always about getting to know his future economists.

He sat down at the teacher’s desk, ready to begin, looked up expectantly and smiled waiting for their whispers to naturally stop with his eyes, and they did, without him having to say a word.

Saturday, 8th September 2018 – Hundreds of thousands attend Rise for Climate March

Max read online in the morning that over 250,000 people marched in 90 countries around the world today to raise awareness of climate change chanting ‘people before proﬁts’ warning about the climate disaster looming with ever worsening intensity. This is the day he should have seen coming, too.

Max returned to Dominus Meus, with Tristan, to collect his laptop because although he had a new college one, and didn’t have a spare ﬁfty-quid, he couldn’t just leave it there.

He opened the shop door and stepped into the dimness, holding Tristan’s hand more tightly, ‘Morning?’

Snyder was standing behind the counter like he hadn’t moved since he’d left, all his wares blinking around them like an amusement park reflected in Tristan’s widening pupils, as they walked to the counter.

‘What’s the code?’ Snyder barked.

Tristan began to wander to look more closely, and Max gently tugged his hand again, protectively. ‘What code?’ Max assumed he wanted the password again.

‘On the receipt.’

Max opened his brown crocodile leather wallet in a sudden panic, ‘Sorry, I don’t have the receipt.’

Snyder sighed like he was tired of dealing with fools, ‘Name, address, postcode,’ staring at the till.

Max gave them to him.

‘No. 268,’ Snyder said like a Prison number. He went away, came back and placed Max’s laptop on the counter—it was actually a relief for Max to see it—and turned it on.

It was very old and always slow to boot, so Max wasn’t preternaturally worried, but Snyder kept on glancing at Tristan out of the corner of his eye, which unsettled Max, especially considering the pictures in Snyder’s back room.

When the home screen came up, Max didn’t recognise it without the background image. All the folders were all over the place, with hieroglyphics for names.

‘What’s going on?’

‘You see this,’ Snyder pointed at the green light on the side of the laptop, with his chewed-up ﬁngernail. ‘Do you agree that the laptop is on?’

‘Obviously it’s on, but …’

‘You only asked me to ﬁx the power socket. That’s working,’

Snyder withdrew his claw like a careful satisﬁed wizard.

‘Are you joking?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking,’ Snyder leant forward, inches away from Max’s face, his unkempt stubble in too close relief for Max’s liking, and Snyder’s breath stinking of foul cigarettes.

Max stepped back. This guy was hardcore. Max didn’t know where or what Snyder had been through in life, but it was obviously a million miles from where he had been, and he was scared.

‘All the folders are corrupted. You must have … did you …’ Max wanted to cover Tristan’s ears but said it anyway, ‘break into my laptop because I didn’t give you my password?’

‘You can reset all the folders in the main directory, it’s quite simple.’

‘I can? You expect me to reset all the folders in the main directory because you hacked my laptop without permission? I think I’m going to call the Police.’

‘Be my guest. But I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Snyder looked at Tristan like a threat.

It wasn’t the words but the chilling tone in which he said it. Max didn’t ask him to explain and this time just followed his instinct and handed him the ﬁfty quid like he was being robbed—Snyder gave him a receipt—and Max got the hell out of there, with Tristan, as fast Tristan could walk, which was too slowly.

When Max got home, he tried to open the folders. None of them would open. Whatever buttons he pressed, all the menus and ﬁle names were in meaningless random hieroglyphics.

In desperation, Max called the shop, ‘Please, I can’t open any of the ﬁles? Everything’s corrupt.’

‘Full service and security optimisation package was free,’ he heard Snyder say, ‘but you chose against this …’

Max pictured Snyder sitting among his tits and dicks in the back room, like a big dick himself!

‘Hacked my computer!’

‘… To conﬁrm the hard drive was fully operational before …’

‘Corrupting all my ﬁles?’

‘Let me speak.’ Snyder said, ‘any inadvertent damage was necessary because you refused to provide a password.’

‘Change the power socket.’

‘Don’t ever, Maxwell … Winshire,’ Snyder said his name slowly, and in full, as if emphasising it for some reason, ‘speak to me like that again. I’m warning you.’

‘Just asked you to change the power socket … Doesn’t even ﬁt properly. You said you had to buy a specialist part from Dell?’

‘OK. I lied. It cost 50p. Do you want to continue this conversation in …?’

‘NOT even a specialist part from Dell?’

Snyder paused and Max thought he had won, ‘No.’

‘You … idiot!’ Max pressed the button to hung up and noticed his phone screen shaking in his hand.

Max opened his college laptop, plugged it into the wall, and it started up perfectly. He unplugged his old laptop, slammed the lid shut, took it outside and dumped it in the wheely bin.

Now there are times in life when people make mistakes with your property, Max rationalised, and do idiotic things, and calling them names, even idiot—although he was thinking of a lot worse—is never the right thing to do, never mind a sensible strategy. One might even call it idiotic, itself. The guy obviously didn’t do it on purpose, he just made a mistake, and he felt guilty about overreacting.

But there is no way Max could have expected what would happen: a nuclear response.

And the apocalypse that someone else, not a million miles away, would conspire with them, in plotting his downfall:

Detective Chief Inspector Aria Dedrick.

Max didn’t know it at the time, there was no way he could have, but wheels were about to start turning behind his back.

Please be warned, we’re changing up a gear in chapter two, and what follows is not for the faint-hearted and contains graphic and sexually explicit descriptions; all Max’s worst nightmares that haunt him to this day, and he has never recovered from.

But hopefully there is some beneﬁt to be gained from shedding light on all the darkness that was, and is, there, and if nobody did, or does, anything, maybe would, or will, always be there.

Sometimes everything's conditional.

Chapter 2

Another one bites the dust

Introduces Detective Dedrick and why she became interested in the case. Gives raid briefing, and how it failed dismally.

10/9/2018 – Day 1. Investigation into Maxwell Winshire—Witness Statement

Aria Dedrick comes from a wee law-abiding fishing town 15 miles north of Aberdeenshire, if you ever wondered about her accent, called Fraserburgh—infamous birthplace of serial killer Dennis Nielsen—at the head of Aberdeenshire, in the North of the UK, and this account is based on her personal recollections of the investigation of Maxwell Winshire, during her tenure as Detective Chief Inspector for Sussex Police in the heal of the left foot, so to speak, of Brighton and Hove coastal district, in the South.

Brian Masters wrote about Nielsen: a murderer commits murder to prevent something worse from happening—the disintegration of self.

When Snyder’s statement arrived in Aria’s inbox this morning, she had the same feeling, if she’s honest; another wee piece of her was about to disintegrate tackling this bawbag.

Aria was not prone to exaggeration. It doesn’t help her career to admit feelings in the rank and file—where one is supposed to be neutral and objective—but sometimes one can’t help it.

Aria would defy anyone with an ounce of christian blood in their bones, not to despise Maxwell Winshire, after they’d read Alan Snyder’s statement.

It was an extremely hard effort for Aria to maintain equanimity, but she re-read it for any obvious contradictions, or flaws, as dispassionately as possible, because she’d need a magistrate’s search warrant, and then there was no going back:

‘I bagged up his laptop and 2 days later I ordered the necessary part for the plug socket. On Monday 3rd September 2018, I opened up his laptop and removed the plug socket part that needed replacing as the new part had arrived accordingly.

This was the day where I proceeded to look at the hard drive that came from the laptop of WINSHIRE as I believed that his demeanour was very strange, particularly when I offered to clean his laptop of any viruses and give it a service.

‘I started breaking the laptop down and took the hard drive, to which I connected it to our back up computer in the workshop which is normally used to ensure there is no data lost when I am doing work on customers’ computers.

‘From there, I have clicked into the ‘User Folder’ which is located on the main ‘C’ drive and checked into various folders from within the user folder including downloads and pictures.’

Aria stopped there. Where was the backup drive then? She double checked the database and attachments. Nothing. Although that didn’t necessarily mean it didn’t exist.

‘Within the first folder, I have seen lots of photographs/pictures of transgender personnel of the Asian ethnicity to which I would describe as ‘Lady Boys’ of questionable age.

Aria immediately felt offended. The term ‘ladyboys’ was pejorative and offensive to her and usually, she thought, only used by people who had been to Thailand, Japan or South East Asia.

‘From my opinion I would say that these pictures would be of both males and females between the ages of 14 and 17 years old. Within these photographs there, I would say tens of dozens that would be of pornographic nature involving these children.'

Aria thought there were usually more than tens of hundreds, but continued.

‘There was one photograph that I properly remember that was on the hard drive where was a ‘lady boy’ lying down on her back.

‘The ‘lady boy’ had long hair, with both the breasts and penis visible in the photograph. The photograph itself looked like that it had been downloaded from a pornographic website as the photograph seemed staged with the ‘lady boy’ lying on the bed.’

In spite of her hatred of the term, Aria had to close her eyes at the thought of these vulnerable children, with a gender identity disorder, being photographed for Winshire’s perverted entertainment. Is that why the Super had given this case to her? It got worse.

‘There were also pictures of the customer Mr WINSHIRE himself on his drive where he was fully naked and showing his genitalia, both in a normal photograph and then also involved within a webcam set up where his genitalia were being shown to other people.’

Aria crossed her legs over her tucked-away penis, in her short tight suit skirt, almost offended by his arrogance, and stroked her long red hair over her ears with her fingers reassuringly. She looked through the glass walls of her office, at the clueless plods, behind their monitors, oblivious. She forced herself to finish the statement, stroking her red hair self-consciously:

‘Other photographs that were located on his laptop show Mr WINSHIRE stood behind a row of children. However, in these photographs he is fully clothed as are the children. The children in these photographs are of foreign ethnicity also.’

Aria wondered if Winshire was attracted to Asians or there was some Asian connection, where they called female gender transitioners ‘Ladyboys’, like Gary Glitter, or a sex tourist, visiting developing countries.

‘I believe that due to his profession where he is possibly in care of, or mentors, young persons that this was quite alarming, especially with the aforementioned photographs that I briefly saw beforehand. I would say that I was only looking at the photographs for approximately two minutes where I stopped and retracted the hard drive from the workshop computer.’

Aria checked the database and attachments again, but there was no photographic evidence attached in the database; Hendon basic training 101 incompetence, again: No law against taking fully clothed photographs. Was it really worth an investigation? At this point, Aria wasn’t sure, but she rapidly changed her opinion when she began to suspect a predator, which worried her more, as she continued reading:

‘I called Mr WINSHIRE to inform him his laptop had been repaired and he came to the store to collect it on 8th September 2018, paid in cash and left with the laptop. WINSHIRE was in company of a young male around 5 years old. I would describe the male as being very slim build, again of Asian ethnicity, dark hair.’

Why did Winshire have a child with him? Asian boy and Asian pornographic images; There was no such thing as a coincidence in an investigation. But she supposed it could be innocent enough, although it could equally be depraved.

‘I cannot recall what the child was wearing, but it was nice, well groomed.

‘They walked into the store where they both stood at the counter.

‘WINSHIRE asked me to prove to him that the connection from the laptop to the hard drive was not faulty. He then asked me if I had removed the hard drive to carry out the work to the plug socket to which I told him that this was the case or else the work couldn’t be completed.

‘I demonstrated the procedure to him, which he was happy about, before the laptop was powered up in front of him where he slammed the laptop lid down and left the store very quickly.

‘This was the last time I had any dealings with WINSHIRE in person.

‘However, I then received a phone call from him stating that he was unhappy with the service that had been provided by myself and that he wants me to get a proper part for the laptop as he believes that the one I had given him was not real.

‘The phone call I received was on the same day.’

‘I was doing an international project for Vantechs and had 3 projects regarding my business hence why it took a few days, or maybe a week, to report the fact that there were some shocking images on his laptop which offended me a lot because I was incredibly worried about the repercussions of me going onto his hard drive and finding what I did when he asked me not to look.

‘I am willing to attend court if necessary.

‘I have read the above statement and I am happy with the content and due to the inability to sign on PC BELL’s laptop I declare that the above is accurate.’

Aria stroked her hair from the centre-parting down slowly, and fought back the instinct from nerves to bite the nails she’d just had done. Cherry red. Very nice. Braw! As they say in Scotland. She scrolled back up and re-read the statement a third time. How would it look if she didn’t act on it, Aria thought. Frankly, more worried about her career, than the bawbag’s, because, of course, she would be left holding the pieces if it all fell through.

The problem was the Asian kid, and the naked webcam, of course—contact offences—but Winshire still had potentially tens of dozens of indecent images, Snyder had said. This is all she had to go on, but where’s there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Aria opened the search warrant form and typed, ‘Maxwell Winshire’, and her name, ‘DCI Aria Dedrick’ and her badge number to finalise the raid request.

Mr Winshire likes child ladyboys, Aria thought, well, let’s see how much the bawbag likes an adult one!

Aria assembled the best-of-the-worst team available to raid Winshire’s home before Max could delete anything.

She was still in two minds about the witness statement, but the truth would soon be known, Aria thought, either way, if the team she was leading didn’t mess up the raid, like last time.

Aria spent all night preparing her briefing. She was as ready as she would ever be, to give it, and face their prejudice head-on, when she received legal authorisation for the raid from the Magistrate the following morning.

11/09/2018. 11:00. Day 2. Investigation of Maxwell Winshire; Team Briefing

Aria walked into C07, on the third floor ‘C’ of Brighton Police Station, and the noise of officers swapping stories and plans for the weekend immediately ceased.

Aria knew their silence wasn’t due to her rank, it was because it was her; and for all the wrong reasons, but she had to make it seem like the success of the operation depended on them, rather than her leadership being judged.

The rank and file didn’t trust her, and the feeling was mutual.

Aria took off her black trench coat calmly, plugged her laptop into the overhead projector lead on the pedestal in front of the two rows of desks, found her power-point presentation in the silence and started it.

Aria looked over her shoulder to check the first slide was up with the title, ‘SEARCH OF PREMISES PROCEDURE, 18 Saltdean Park Road, Saltdean, Brighton BN2 8SN, DCI Aria Dedrick.’

‘Good morning, I’m DCI Aria Dedrick,’ she started bravely, ‘I know you’ve all got better things to do, so I’ll make this as quick as I can.' She took a deep breath. ‘This is a briefing for tonight’s raid on …’ She read out the address and tapped the arrow key, trying to hide her nerves by distraction. ‘We’ll cover the following …’ The contents displayed as she read: '1. Suspect; 2. Premises. 3. Legislation; 4. Procedures; 5. Success Criteria; 6. Q&A. If you’ve got any questions, save them till the end.’

Aria clicked the next slide and an enlarged photo of Maxwell Winshire, taken from his driving license appeared on the left, with a column on the right indicating name, sex, age, date of birth, race, occupation, suspected offence, criminal history, license registration, address. ‘Maxwell Winshire. Male. Forty. White / Caucasian, occupation unknown but possibly children’s social worker/mentor/group leader and suspected of downloading indecent images of children.’

‘Another fucking nonce!’ Guffawed George, a bald curmudgeonly officer nearing retirement, in the far right of the second row, and other officers nodded and grunted their disapproval.

Aria decided not to mention they were child transgender females for fear of them turning it on her. ‘Yes,’ she said affirmatively, ‘a fucking nonce.’

‘No prior convictions. Please note his registration number, MX 05 TAZ, because we’ll be looking out for a Silver Astra Bertone, it’s a small two-seat convertible with a black fabric roof to indicate he’s home.’

Aria clicked the next slide and a local map appeared, with the location starred. ‘We drive along Marine parade, and left into this block, towards Saltdean Park, and it’s number eight, Saltdean Park Road. Bernard will be driving Foxtrot-Whisky-Panda, carrying Taffy and George …’

‘God help us!’ George quipped and there were laughs around the room.

‘And Bill will be driving Alpha-Tango-Echo, carrying Don and Gerry.’

‘Hold on a second. That address rings a bell,’ George said, ‘isn’t there an old black rapist on the corner of Saltdean Park Road?’

‘Number eighteen. That is number thirty-three, George. Nothing to do with this search.’

‘Forgive me!’ George looked either side for support from colleagues, ‘Just saying, that’s all. I know the street. Go on Sherlock.’

There were titters around the room. George always had to say something in a briefing as if to prove his superiority any other way than by rank. Aria wanted to put him in his place with a few choice words but she was embarrassed to in front of the other plods and have them all against her. She needed this to work.

‘Park at the furthest remove,’ Aria continued calmly, ‘within line of sight of the bungalow, but not directly outside, we don’t want to warn Winshire of our arrival, and obviously no blues and twos, until he has entered the property.

‘Then wait.

‘We’re targeting entry at nineteen hundred hours,’ Aria looked out the window, ‘let’s hope the rain lets up. Then drive in, block his car in the drive and turn on lights flashing to warn other road users.

‘Cars will be leaving here at seventeen hundred hours—to be on the safe side in case of traffic—for an ETA of eighteen hundred hours, so I need you assembled at the front desk at sixteen-thirty hundred hours. Estimated exit time is twenty-two hundred hours. Which is three hours and with a team our size should give us plenty of time.

‘If we finish earlier, and I think we’ve got everything we need, I’ll still credit overtime. Any questions so far? Good.’

Aria clicked the next slide and a photo of the house appeared.

‘Front right access from the pebbled drive to a panelled glass front door,’ Aria clicked the next slide, ‘and this is a layout of the bungalow.

An isometric view of the floorplan of the bungalow with alphabetical letters marked A to I in round circles within rooms appeared on the screen.

‘We access through (A) the front door, here, and there’s a small porch, and second door, to a long (B) eighteen-foot by six-foot hall.

‘Leading off from the hall there’s a (C) six-by-twelve bedroom on the immediate left; (D) a second twelve-by-twelve room on the left, probably a study, both facing the front drive and overlooking the park; and on the right (E) a twelve-by-twelve with French doors to the garden, possible the master bedroom, and (F) another long sixteen-by-twelve lounge, leading to a small corridor with a (G) six-by-six bathroom and (H) twelve by eight kitchen at the rear overlooking the garden with access to the garden by (I) a side door.

‘You all start at (A) with Taffy taking the lead.

‘Ring the bell politely. We don’t want to give Winshire any notice that it’s anything other than a routine call, or provoke any unnecessary hostile response, because then it’s our fault, right? And it’s all on cam, of course, isn’t it?

‘Next, we confirm the identity of Winshire, if it’s him who answers, or ask for him if it’s not. Show warrant. Make arrest and cuffs. This is important. Winshire must be immobilised at the earliest opportunity possible. Before anyone begins the search, to stop him disposing of any evidence. He can’t get out the front, but Bernard you cover the rear at (I).’

‘Bernie’s good at covering the rear.’ George said and there were titters before Bernie replied, ‘Fuck off!’

Aria was nervous by their interchange but pretended to ignore it.

‘George, you’re with Taffy for support, in case he freezes up or forgets anything. But please, let him do it. We all know what it’s like the first time.’

George shrugged as if he had to give her that one.

‘Don takes (B), (C), and (D), Gerry (E) and (F), and Bill (G), (H) and (I). And when Winshire is apprehended, Bill, let Bernard know because he’s driving the suspect back.’

‘Sorry, what room did you say George was taking, ma’am?’ Bernard asked. George shot him a stare.

‘I didn’t.’ Aria said firmly. ‘I told you George and Taffy will be making the arrest and accompanying him to the station in the back of the marked car which you will drive. All clear? Good.’

Aria clicked the link to /legislation.gov.uk, 'We have obtained a warrant to search Winshire’s premises from the Justice of the Peace under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, Section 15, that needs to be executed within three months and note subsection five, I quote, "A warrant shall authorise an entry on one occasion only [unless it specifies that it authorises multiple entries].” Therefore, we only have this one chance to get this right. Do you all understand that? This has to be by the book, please?’

‘Hound of the Baskervilles?’ George asked, nudging the plod beside him, and it seemed like they all laughed.

Aria knew George was trying to undermine her, but she just smiled, without giving a reply he didn’t deserve, and clicked to Section 16.

‘Execution of warrants. This is crucial. Subsection one. I know you know this, George. But I want to emphasise this for newcomers, “A warrant to enter and search premises may be executed by any constable.”

‘That means,’ Aria carefully explained in spite of their outward confidence, she knew they’d be nervous at the time, ‘you all have the lawful right to conduct this search. You are doing your job. You don’t need any permission from the owner. As far as we’re concerned, it’s your place as much as his. You own it. That’s what the law says.’

Aria clicked the next slide, ‘And less you forget why you’re doing this, this is about justice for the victims. Imagine if she was your own daughter being photographed naked and her picture being sold all over the internet …’

‘Hang the fucking bastard,’ George said, and there were murmurs of consent.

‘No, George, we’re here to search the bastard’s home, in order to fucking hang him.’

There were appreciative laughs from the plods, which made Aria feel better.

‘But please, pay attention to subsection five, especially you Taffy, and George.’

George sighed as if it was taking too long. Aria read out the next slide:

‘"Where the occupier of premises which are to be entered and searched is present at the time when a constable seeks to execute a warrant to enter and search them, the constable—(a)shall identify himself to the occupier … (b)shall produce the warrant to him; and (c)shall supply him with a copy of it." Taffy, you will take the lead, and produce the warrant but we’ll come to that in procedures. And if Winshire is not home, please note subsection seven, "If there is no person who appears to the constable to be in charge of the premises, he shall leave a copy of the warrant in a prominent place on the premises." But that won’t happen, will it? Because we’re only going in if we see a silver Astra Bertone, what was the registration?’

Taffy paused taking notes to flick a page in his notebook, ‘MX 05 TAZ, ma’am.’

‘Well Done.’ Aria clicked the next slide. ‘Oh, it is procedures next. Like I said, Taffy, I’m giving you the lead to gain experience, and because we’re not expecting any surprises with this one,’ Aria took a sip of water from her bottle on the podium. Briefings were the part of the job she hated most, because everyone was judging her. She continued as confidently as she could.

‘I want you all in body armour for your own protection, just in case, and don’t forget to turn on your body cameras, particularly you Taffy, because you’ll be doing The Knock. Here is the warrant.’

Aria handed Taffy a signed copy, to preserve the original in case it accidentally got lost, believe it or not these things happen.

‘And pay attention to subsection eight. She highlighted the text on the slide with her pen.

‘“A search under a warrant may only be a search to the extent required for the purpose for which the warrant was issued.’ What does that mean, to the extent required for the purpose?’

‘It’s our bloody property.’

‘Yes and no, George. No, if you mean we can take anything we want. Yes, if it’s any conceivable device that could store indecent images. Like what, please… Taffy?’

‘Computer, laptop, thumb drive, external hard drive … memory stick, ma’am.’

‘A memory stick is a thumb drive,’ George mocked his eagerness, crossing his arms

‘Yes. But you’re right, Taffy,’ Aria added quickly, ‘mobile phone, tablet, and if it is a computer, we don’t need the monitor or keyboard, because they don’t store any images, do they? Right.’

Aria had to spell it out because in the past they’d literally taken the whole thing, including printers, and even TVs!

‘Next,’ Aria said, ‘we’re almost finished, what is the procedure for recording the evidence. Subsection nine, gentlemen, she read: “A constable executing a warrant shall make an endorsement on it stating— (a)whether the articles or persons sought were found; and (b)whether any articles were seized, other than articles which were sought.’ You see this evidence bag,’ Aria held up a clear plastic evidence bag with white embossed on the front, ‘what is the most important thing about it?’

‘It contains evidence,’ George said dryly looking at his watch.

‘No, George,’ Aria said and George waved his arms up and slapped them down on his thighs.

‘I’m serious, George,’ Aria suddenly couldn’t contain herself, ‘if you want to lead the investigation, come up here and do my job, or shut the fuck up.’

Aria held her stare, daring him to respond, until George lowered his head in a sulk, and she handed six evidence bags to Taffy.

‘Pass them round, please … Good. Every single item you confiscate needs its own bag and the most important thing is completing the information on it, as soon as you seal the bag. Not later at the station because you won’t remember the details. Let’s look at those details, because if one of them is wrong—it’s your badge on it, and this is my investigation. And trust me, I hold no prisoners.’ Aria looked each of them in the eye, before continuing.

‘But I’ll show you the quickest way to do it. First, “Authority”, don’t need that, we know we’re Brighton and Hove Constabulary, and that will be labelled with a bar code and exhibit reference later.

‘Second, “Identifying mark”, “Court-Exhibit Number” leave them blank. “R-V” will obviously be the suspect, just write Winshire. “Property Reference Number”, leave it blank. “Description”, write down what it is, copy whatever product name and code is on the item. “Time/Date Seized/Produced”, this is important, time nineteen hundred hours and date, eleven-oh nine-twenty-eighteen, “Where seized/Produced” this is important again, for example, filing box on top of wardrobe in office, or wherever you found it. “Seized/Produced By”, important, badge number and surname, and “signed” just initial it.

‘It’s not rocket science, but God help you, if I can’t use a piece of evidence because I can’t trace it—it might be the only evidence we have—and he gets off scot-free.’

‘What about “Incident Crime Number”, “Major Exhibit Number”, and “Laboratory Ref”, just below that, ma’am?’

‘Leave them blank, Taffy,’ Aria clicked the penultimate slide.

‘“Success Criteria”. How will we know if we’ve conducted this raid successfully?’

‘One. Suspect. Suspect identified and timely arrest. Two. Premises. No damage to the premises and respect for all persons. Three. Legislation. Search warrant issued and P.A.C.E fully complied with. Four. Procedures. All relevant evidence collected and labelled correctly. Five. Three keywords: Calm, Orderly and Professional.

‘We don’t run in there like bulls in a China shop. This is not, I repeat, not a violent offender. And if there are children in there, it is even more important that we keep calm for their sake.’

Aria clicked the last slide, ‘any questions?’

‘Just one,’ George said twirling his pen, ‘can you put up that section sixteen again please, ma’am? Yeah, that’s it. Scroll down to subsection four …’

Aria read out, “Entry and search under a warrant must be at a reasonable hour unless it appears to the constable executing it that the purpose of a search may be frustrated on an entry at a reasonable hour.’ Yes. You’re right.

‘We don’t need a reasonable hour, because he’s at work now—if that’s what you mean—and if we wait, he might destroy the evidence, which would frustrate the search. Is that OK with you George?’

George nodded as if he’d lost the point, and pretended to write something in his notebook.

Aria clicked the next slide, ‘Any questions? No? Good. Reassemble at the duty sergeant’s desk at seventeen hundred thirty sharp with everything you need. Thank you.’

‘Ma’am, ma’am! Sorry, I’ve got one more question, ma’am?’

‘Yes, George?’ Aria asked like a patient mother having to explain the instruction for the umpteenth time, and expecting a jibe.

‘Will we have the pleasure of your company on this one, ma’am?’

‘You will indeed have that pleasure, George. Thank you for asking.’

George groaned with every other officer in the room, with the possible exception of Taffy, as they got up to leave the room, and Aria smiled with relief that the briefing was over, packing away her laptop. She didn't know why but she had a nagging feeling she'd forgotten something, but put it down to nerves and the pressure from the superintendent. Either way, she would soon find out if her briefing had been worth it.

11/09/2018. 18:07. Day 2. Investigation of Maxwell Winshire; The Raid

To say the raid didn’t exactly go to plan is an understatement, Aria thought. It was a disaster. This is what really happened.

The rain was pelting the roof of her unmarked car like ball bearings and Aria needed the windscreen wipers on full, making a wheezing slapping sound, to maintain visibility, when she finally saw headlights on full beam approaching and the silver Astra turn into the drive of the bungalow.

‘Mike-X-ray-Zero-Five-Tango-Alpha-Zulu identified and outside property,’ Bill called in on the radio.

Aria checked the clock on the dashboard: seven minutes past six. She saw a man in a suit climb out of the car and use his briefcase to shield his run to the front door, but she couldn’t see his face.

‘Suspect identified entering property,’ George radioed in overexcitedly. There was no way, Aria thought, he could have known if it was him or not, but she held her peace.

Twelve minutes later, the lights came on in room (C), and it was raining hard but with police-issue Porro-prism binoculars Aria identified Winshire in a white T-shirt sitting at a laptop through the open curtains yawning and a bottle of whiskey on the table.

Aria scanned the room, shelving, a metal filing cabinet, but there were no children present.

He was probably watching them on his laptop, Aria thought, recalling Snyder’s statement, and felt nauseous. She was tempted to go in now and catch him in flagrante, but after twenty minutes he got up and left the room and the light went out. There was still plenty of time and hopefully the storm would pass.

‘Suspect spotted us, making getaway,’ George panicked, getting it wrong again, but then as if to compound injury with insult she heard him cry, ‘all units go in.’

Two marked cars with lights flashing skidded to a halt blocking the driveway and she watched them all climb out, and rush to the door, with George leading the way, cowering from the heavy rain as if they were under fire from the lightening and the roll of thunder was bombs booming in the distance.

She saw Bernard quickly skip through puddles down the side of the house, around the wheelie bin, to the rear door.

Aria was directly opposite, on the other side of the road, and she could clearly see George at the front door didn’t even wait for the bell to be answered. She could hear him banging on the front door, even though she was inside the car, ‘POLICE! OPEN UP OR WE’RE COMING IN!’

George nodded to Bill, carrying the big red key (The enforcer) and Aria was sure he was going to ram the front-door when it suddenly opened.

And there he was.

Maxwell Winshire standing nostrils aflame, and fists clenched like he was the last line of defence against the castle and ready to take on five officers in boots and body armour in his T-shirt and trainers with his bare fists.

Aria could almost have laughed. He had balls, she had to give him that.

Aria saw George nudge Taffy and Taffy stepped forward but she couldn’t hear what Taffy was saying, or the suspect’s response, just Winshire defiantly shaking his head and arguing with them until George pushed passed him, turned him round and Taffy handcuffed him from the rear.

And then they all rushed in to the property.

No warrant had been shown.

According to George, later, the reason they didn’t show the warrant was because the suspect implicitly invited them in so it wasn’t necessary, but it certainly didn’t look like that to Aria, even on the bodycam video.

George later complained, that if he hadn’t gone in when he did, without Aria’s order, the suspect would have escaped or destroyed evidence, and was adamant that the suspect, Winshire, had seen them.

Aria made a dash for the front door, holding up the collar of her trench coat with both hands against the onslaught of rain. She skipped over the gully by the kerb, across the gravel driveway, crunching under her paces, and finally inside into the comfort of the bright chandelier lit hall.

George and Taffy were standing beside the suspect. Aria took a moment to take in the surroundings and orient herself, rather than rushing about like the plods who seemed to have abandoned the three most important keywords: calm, organised and professional, and trashing the place instead, but she didn’t have time to stop them.

She knew the laptop was in (C), because she had observed him using it in there, but she was interested in whether Winshire would try to hide the fact, and after courteously introducing herself, asked him where it was.

Winshire immediately indicated the same room she suspected, before she followed his gaze to presumably his wife and child, and she saw the little boy was carrying a tablet, which may have the evidence on it, so she confiscated it quickly.

The boy’s tearful reaction didn’t bother her in the slightest, with the thought of what he might have found on it, but Aria felt for the mother and tried to prepare her for the worst.

Aria told Don, who was searching around the snooker table, she’d take (C) and took off her coat, and sat at Winshire’s desk in front of the laptop.

The plods were making such a ruckus, Aria knew it was inimical to cooperation and tried to maintain a lighter tone with the suspect, and apply a little levity, but it seemed to go over his head; Winshire didn’t get her jokes.

If you can’t enjoy a raid, Aria thought, what can you enjoy! It is the ultimate feeling of power, she’d forgotten that, it had been so long. This was the perfect time for her to tease, like a cat with a mouse backed into the corner. Who could resist?

Except Winshire was naïve and arrogant enough not to realise it yet; he didn’t seem to notice that Aria was playing with him, which dampened Aria’s fun a bit.

Winshire was like Jerry holding up a stop sign to Tom, ‘I’ve got a lawyer.’ It is hard to believe the audacity of nonces sometimes, Aria thought, but equally a shame to spoil it too soon, especially when she knew she held all the cards.

However, when Aria found Winshire’s stash of hard drives, with just a glance of his eyes at the lower drawer, she was bored of playing with him and asked Taffy to take him away. Let Winshire find out for himself, she thought, what power really meant when he’s locked up in a cell.

Other than: incorrectly assessing the suspect’s intention; raid beginning under the instruction of a subordinate thirty minutes before schedule; intimidation of the suspect at the front door with uncivil behaviour; failure to produce a warrant; disrespecting and unnecessary damage to property not subject to the terms of the warrant; and a subordinate filing a complaint for improper leadership of the raid, she thought, it couldn’t have gone better!

But that was not for lack of planning, Aria later claimed in her defence, which in the final verdict, thankfully counted for more than the execution; fortunately, she thought, Brighton and Hove look after their own, even from the enemy within.

Jolly George took early retirement which is how failure is rewarded in the force.

The warning that Aria got from the Super, only increased her resolve to nail Winshire.

Aria wondered what more surprises lurked in Winshire’s laptop, tablet, mobile, USBs and over a dozen external hard drives.

The raid, as always, was only the start.

Part II UNDER INVESTIGATION

Containing the events in the pursuit of evidence against Maxwell Winshire and his thwarted efforts to mitigate them.

Chapter 3

The night of the long knives

What goes through your head in jail when you're innocent; Whys, blame and stand-up routine. Roll on Papillion.

Tuesday, 11th September 2018—No news

The tall barred security gate opened at the side of Brighton Police station, the car drove in, and parked around the back. Max was frog-marched in wearing cuffs, with officers either side—but it wasn’t him walking, it couldn’t be—to a door where they requested entry via an intercom.

Max was led to the front desk and the handcuffs were removed.

Max was asked to remove his trainers and take the laces out.

‘Name?’

‘Do I have to answer that officer?’

‘We know who you are.’, The desk sergeant said from his raised platform behind the bench.

‘Maxwell Winshire,’ he said, suddenly feeling like he was cementing his identity in the circumstance.

‘Address.’ Max gave it. ‘Date of birth?’ Max gave it.

But Max found out found out later, he needn’t have answered any questions at the station, or during arrest—not even his name, date of birth or address.

‘Have you taken any alcohol,’ the duty sergeant asked tiredly, ‘or are you on any prescription medication?’

‘No,’ Max lied.

‘Do you have any drugs or weapons in your possession?’

‘No,’ Max answered honestly.

‘Hold your arms out.’ He was frisked by the officer beside him who took his wallet from his back pocket and emptied its contents on the desk. He called out each item to the Sergeant writing it down, who placed them into a clear plastic bag.

All their attention made Max feel important, like he was the star suspect in some TV crime drama. It didn’t seem real. It felt absurd, surreal, even ridiculous. They couldn’t be serious. Me? Max thought, I’m a teacher, for God’s sake.

‘Where’s a copy of the …’ The Desk Sergeant mumbled to one of the officers, but Max didn’t catch what it was, although he saw the young arresting officer look worried. ‘Did you leave it at the property. You know we should have it.’

‘Does that mean I can go?’ Max asked naively, clutching at straws, unaware of the size of the operation to arrest him.

‘No.’ There was more talk and then, ‘Mr. Maxwell Winshire we are arresting you on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government because we have reasonable suspicion to believe that you have downloaded indecent images of children. Anything you do say may be written down and used in evidence against you. Do you understand your Miranda rights?’

‘Yes, can I speak to a lawyer?’

‘What’s your solicitor’s name?’

Max gave him the only one he could think of, who had been a neighbour when he was a child. He didn’t know the number, though, and they said they would find that out. ‘Follow this officer and do exactly what he tells you to do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Max was led into a side room, and a very nice officer—I suppose, Max thought, it makes sense for him to be very nice to get the suspect to cooperate, whatever it takes— took his mug shot, fingerprints in ink of every finger on both hands, and a DNA swab from his mouth. He was the system now.

But it wasn’t any ordeal at all, like it looked in the movies, Max thought, because he hadn’t done anything wrong.

When Max was asked to follow the officer, it felt incongruously weird pottering in his socks around the high circular custody desk towards double doors, which were unlocked remotely, and led through another set of double doors, then left into a corridor, with one jail cell door open.

Max looked around the heavy iron door, and saw the cell inside.

It was about two meters by three meters, with a thin green plastic mattress running the length of the wall on the right, on a concrete plinth, with a folded green blanket at the foot.

There was a metal toilet, without a toilet seat, and a sink embedded into the wall above, but no hand towel or toilet paper, on the left, but at least it was spotless.

Max looked up at the high ceiling, it must have been four metres high, with a camera in the top left corner, and a harsh rectangular fluorescent light making the white walls seem even whiter, like purgatory.

He was innocent, he told himself, in spite of the bleakness of his surroundings, he had to remember that.

The door swung shut with a loud dull thud and Max heard keys jangling in the lock to secure it. And then steps walking away.

Max sat on the bed, not quite believing he was sitting there, desperately trying to think what he should do next?

But what could he do?

There must have been some mistake. He hadn’t downloaded any indecent images. He wasn’t a paedophile.

Sure, he liked porn. Who didn’t? Porn was everywhere, inescapable. You turned on the internet and there it was. You couldn’t NOT find porn. It’s what grew the internet in the first place. It’s why he had written a book about it, three books about it, for God’s sake.

Max sat crouched on the bed, over his knees and looked at the locked door.

There’s no escaping the fact that all of a sudden, his choices had been reduced to zero. This was the State telling him that whatever you think, whatever reason you have to believe differently, suddenly doesn’t matter anymore. You can argue with the door as much as you want, but it was right. What are you going to do about it? Nothing.

This took a while for it to sink in for Max in reality, but he hadn’t any other choice.

It is that removal of choice, which made him feel utterly helpless, like an infant. Anybody who tells you any different, he thought— and the one thing he’d read, ironically, was every prison book which omits this most salient fact in favour of emphasising heroism—is lying, however brave their efforts to survive the system.

Nobody talks about the powerlessness of incarceration, he thought, maybe because it’s so blinking obvious, but it wasn’t to him, sitting there.

All of a sudden, his liberty, the thing he took for granted every time he walked down the street, was gone, and he didn’t realise how good it was until he didn’t have it. It was as invisible as a parallel universe. You can’t value something you don’t even know you have. However bad things get in life, look around, he thought, and if you’re free, he thought, trust me, you have everything.

Max looked at the door, tapping his heals on the floor. He thought about Citra and Tristan, and his heart sank, but his instinct told him he had to keep it together. He couldn’t think about home. He had to fight this.

What indecent images were there? Max tried to think. It was impossible because he had no sexual interest in children. Nada. None. Nothing. But then he thought, where is the line? Eighteen. How do you really know if she’s over eighteen in a video? What if he had downloaded a video, he thought, and she was actually seventeen? Are they saying that’s his fault?

Max looked up at the camera? They must be watching me, he thought. He choked back a laugh, now they’re watching me, because of what I apparently watched. He shook his head, this was insane. He clasped his hands and looked at the cold harsh steel door.

What evidence did they have to do this to me? Max remembered that weasel, Alan Snyder, in Dominus Meus. He must have made a malicious complaint.

What? Over a fifty quid power socket, he thought, for wrecking his computer.

The ironies were piling on top of each other faster than Max could think of them.

Snyder, he calculated, must have broken into the computer, which is why all the folders were mucked up. Had Snyder put something on his laptop? Max had told him to just fix the power socket. He knew he was repeating himself, but that was because he couldn’t understand it.

Why would anybody do that to someone else? It was evil. He didn’t believe in hell, he thought punishment comes in this life, but it was evil; Max hadn’t done anything to him; Was this fair?

Max closed his eyes and pictured himself going into the store, Snyder’s beady black eyes and his crooked nose, crunching under the weight of his fist, collapsing, pounding and pounding his bloody head against the floor … And opened his eyes.

Max looked around at the cell walls, the seat-less stainless-steel toilet, and thought, do I really want to spend the rest of my life here for murder? Bitterness only hurts the bearer, his father had always said when they weren’t speaking, but he still hadn’t forgiven his father.

Max clasped his hands, like he did in church, closed his eyes, bowed his head, crossed himself and said the Lord’s prayer, ‘forgive those who trespass against us,’ picturing Snyder, and afterwards he felt calm enough, rather than panic, to think.

He told himself he had to think logically. No emotion. Where’s the evidence? This was not some developing country like Malaysia, he thought, this is England and there are laws of the land. You can’t be incarcerated without any evidence and tried to convince himself that what was happening, wasn’t happening.

But then it hit him, he didn’t even have the laptop.

Did that mean there was no evidence?

A momentary wave of relief swept through him.

He figured, even if she was over-eighteen-looking, but under-eighteen, where is the proof that he downloaded that image, now? At the bottom of some dump—that’s where. There couldn’t be anything for him to worry about, so why was he so terrified?

Maybe Snyder had taken a copy of the hard drive. Max vaguely remembered hearing that as a normal procedure somewhere—maybe it was later in the trial—before repairing a laptop.

But if Snyder had, then why hadn’t he simply reinstalled his original drive, before he returned it to him? There would be no problem with any folders. It didn’t make sense. Maybe he was missing something.

Max tried to lie down on the rubber mattress but as soon as he did it, it felt like accepting his predicament, and he sat bolt upright again. He moved to the edge, chin in hands, elbows on knees. He had to figure this thing out.

If there was—just say, just say—an under-eighteen image, he thought, surely the jury would have to determine that fact? Twelve upstanding members of the community, even if it was a bit like a lottery. Voting: Yes; no; yes; no; ‘seems to me she could be’?

This is not what anybody is asking themselves when they are jerking off, he thought, to whatever porn they are watching.

Don’t get me wrong, he thought, I am not saying that there shouldn’t be an age limit. He wouldn’t have written three books about sexploitation if he thought that. But blaming the consumer for age verification is hardly fair, it’s like blaming the consumer for drinking a beer, and asking them to prove what A.B.V.% it is.

Max hadn’t produced any images: he wasn’t taking any photos with his camera; he never enticed anyone to make porn videos; he was an innocent consumer.

Even in the drugs war on marijuana, they don’t go after the consumer anymore—you are not jailed for possession—they go after the dealers, he thought. Why is it different for porn?

Maybe they couldn’t find the producers. If that’s the case, let’s lock everybody up instead, he thought, including the police, because he didn’t believe they never watched porn. And when they did, he bet they didn’t age verify every video.

Max rubbed his hands behind his head as if to soothe his mind beneath, as if he could locate the source of his pain, but he couldn’t escape the injustice. It was ridiculous. Farcical. Like Oscar Wilde being imprisoned for being homosexual. Different times, different rules. Although, admittedly, in that case there was no victim. And, of course, he thought, he accepted that if a girl was under eighteen, she was a victim, but that doesn’t automatically mean the consumer was, too, unless the consumer knew it, surely? I didn’t know it, he thought, I didn’t know it.

A scream followed by banging on the cell door so loud it felt like it was his. Shouting and swearing. Must be from the next cell, he thought. Madhouse. Day 1.

Wednesday, 12th September 2018 – Still no news

Madhouse Day 2. Just after midnight. No phone, still no news. Max got up and started pacing the cell, like he’d seen Paul Newman do in Papillion. How long was he fucking going to be kept here?

He had to force himself to stop thinking about it. He had to try and keep his head together, because he was losing it. Max, he thought, like thinking of himself in the third person, don’t crack up, please?

He measured steps from the corner underneath the camera, to the steel door, and practiced automatically rotating and returning to the opposite wall, and back again. Over and over.

He thought about how ludicrous it was and pictured himself on stage as a stand-up comedian, turn, step, step, step, turn, step, step, step …

‘Hands up who’s a registered Sex Offender in the room tonight?

‘You certainly look like one, sir.

‘Is he with you, madam?

‘Hands above the table, sir.

‘Does he use his keyboard with one hand?

‘Is it his non-dominant hand?

‘If you keep doing that, you know it will make you blind?

‘What’s that, you can’t see me?

‘Sorry, too late. I’m only joking.

‘Who knows what a registered Sex Offender looks like?

Max raised his hand, ‘Downloading indecent images. Yeah, it isn’t funny. It’s not the stage lights, I can’t see anyone.

‘I asked for a rum and coke, and the next thing I’m gagging on this black barman’s cock.

‘Yes, that’s how I knew he was black.

‘He definitely wasn’t Jewish … with that aftershave. Christ, why do men spray it down there?

‘And why do we always take a second whiff of something we already know stinks? Like after someone uses the bathroom. Sniff. Jesus Christ! Sniff, sniff, oh that’s foul. Why do we need to confirm it—get a second opinion? It’s not like it’s suddenly going to change into sweet smelling roses and lavender. Arrest that man!

‘But penises. Talk about cyclops, heads with only one eye are funny, aren’t they? Admit it.

‘They’re asking for it, if you ask me. They look like they’re permanently winking.

‘This has nothing to do with your member, sir, or member of parliament.

‘Same difference. Both are always standing to attention with a question they never get answered.

‘And then keep bouncing up again like a whack-a-mole.

‘You keep slapping them, stay down, stay down, until it starts feeling good to slowly stand up, and slowly sit down, and faster stand up, and faster sit down, until they’re all frothing at the mouths and screaming, ‘Oh, Margaret Thatcher!’ As Rees-Mogg might say!

‘Enough said. ‘Matron, matron’.

‘Five kids. That’s criminal.

‘Rees-Mogg should be on the Sex Offender’s Register for that.

‘No, let’s round up the law-abiding masturbators like me and place them on it.

‘You are convicted of repeatedly missing, son.

‘If you had better aim, there might be mitigating circumstances.'

Turn, step, step, step …

‘Your honour, may I humbly submit, this defendant has NO children! He’s tantamount to a squirting go-faster monkey in the back of a Ford Cortina!

‘The saddest fact of all, your honour, is he’s actually just old enough to drive but underage to appear in his own porn movie, compounded by the fact, he was openly consuming alcohol at the time of said fecking from the plaintiff’s arguably ample vagina.'

They must have been watching him pacing all this time, Max thought, lips mouthing words, occasionally stopping and smiling to himself, when the latch suddenly opened in the door.

‘Are you ok?’ The policewoman asked.

‘I’m fine.’

Max thought she was just being nice but later found out she was doing a Suicide Watch; a preventative step because so many in the same position had tried to commit suicide; that’s how bad it is to be here, he thought, when you’re accused of downloading indecent images of children; death is preferable.

‘We’ve tried to call your solicitor, but they don’t practice criminal law. Do you want us to try anyone else?’

Max had never needed a solicitor before except in a dispute he had had with a neighbour years ago and he gave them the name of the solicitor who he had dealt with.

She closed the latch.

A while later the intercom buzzed at the end of the bed, about four feet high, ‘Can you take a call from your solicitor?’

He ran to the corner, ‘Yes.’

‘This is different from a garden gate, Max,’ the solicitor said.

‘I know,’ Max pleaded, ‘I need to get out of here. I can’t stand it. I shouldn’t be here. I’m innocent. Can you come?’ His voice was cracking.

‘Don’t say another word before I get there. Do you understand? It’s going to cost you one thousand pounds for me to visit.’

‘Oh my god,’ Max sunk to the bed. He didn’t have that money; It was practically half a month’s wages, ‘fine.’

‘I’ll be there in a couple of hours.’

Max returned to his routine: Turn, step, step, step …

He couldn’t help thinking that justice was all about money. He had a job, but what about the people who couldn’t afford justice when five policemen gave them The Knock.

Max sat down on the flimsy mattress, and then at the head of the mattress, leaning against the wall, and wrapped the blanket around himself. There was obviously no heating, and dreamed about his log fire at home.

The intercom beeped.

‘Max?’ It was the solicitor again, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t make it. Remember what I said, don’t say anything until someone gets there. I’m sending an associate of mine.’

Max felt like screaming out, what do you mean, you can’t make it, but tried to control himself, ‘I really need to get out of here, I can’t stand it. Please can you come?’

‘That’s not possible right now. Someone will be there. Just remember what I said. They’re monitoring what you say on here.’

‘When?’ Max pleaded, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

‘As soon as possible.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

Max had never felt more alone or lonely as he did right then. He looked at his watch. It was 5.30am. He had to be at work in three hours. He tried to think of a plan.

At 7.30am, Max pressed the intercom buzzer, ‘I need to make a call.’

‘You have spoken to your solicitor. He’s sending someone.’

‘You don’t understand. I have just started a new job. They’re expecting me at work in an hour. I need to speak to them.’

‘What’s their number?’

Why it didn’t strike him, that calling Brighton College from a jail cell, with a Police Officer informing them of the fact, might be problematic, shows how naïve and desperate he was.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wait.’

To be fair to them, a police officer unlocked the cell and took him to a room with a phone.

The police officer asked him where he worked, Max told them, and they googled the number and handed the phone to him. Max thought they were doing him a massive favour, rather than him doing their job for them, as he had the night before by giving Dedrick his passwords. But when you’re thrown into a totally unfamiliar situation, Max later reflected, you quickly learn how dumb you really are. And here he was, about to prove it.

Max selected the option for the staff absence line on the switchboard and it would be, he thought, a bloody answering machine. He had two seconds to think of a message.

‘Hello, it’s Maxwell Winshire, I’m so sorry but I’m not feeling well today,’ he stared straight at the police officer watching him, ‘and will not be able to come in. Really sorry, many thanks.’

The police officer looked away after he hung up.

‘Thank you so much,’ Max said, as if to a friend.

‘Would you like some breakfast? We’ve got egg or ham sandwiches?’

‘No thank you. I’m fine. Thanks.’

The police officer escorted Max back to the cell, closed the heavy iron door, and locked it.

Max looked back at the door.

His plan had worked and Max let out an audible sigh of relief, at least his job was safe. And then up at the camera. Who was watching him, he thought, I hope the bastards are getting off on it, whoever they are.

Chapter 4

Crucial enquiries

Detective Dedrick and Charlie York, Social Services, pay Citra an unwelcome visit and suspect complicity.

12/9/2018 – Day 3 Investigation into Maxwell Winshire—Home and Work Visits

Aria stared in disgust at the plod on the table beside hers in the Police canteen, stabbing his toast into the two fried eggs and beans on his plate like it was revenge and stuffing it into his mouth before he had even swallowed whatever he’d been chewing, and sipped her Earl Grey tea.

Aria tore a tiny piece off her single slice of buttered toast and chewed it gently, and gazed out the window at the optimistic rising sun.

‘Aria? May I?’ She looked up and saw the Detective Superintendent looking down on her, with a cup and saucer on a tray, and then along the empty seats at the six-seater table, the only empty table in the packed canteen. Why was the Super risking being seen to socialise with her, she thought, it clearly wasn’t a social visit.

‘Of course, sir. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ This was non-routine, very non-routine.

The superintendent sat and pulled down the flaps of his jacket which had risen over his belly in the process.

‘It’s about last night’s raid. On the search warrant form, you stated that this Winshire fellow was suspected of kidnapping and child sex trafficking an Asian boy?’

‘Yes sir,’ Aria said respectfully, ‘that’s what the statement inferred,’ she opened her hands, ‘I needed the search asap, and Snyder, the Computer repairman, specifically said he had witnessed pornographic images of Asian boys on his laptop. Winshire attended the shop with an Asian boy. What else could I say?’

‘Didn’t you consider it might be his son?’

‘The statement said Winshire was Caucasian.’

‘Someone said they saw an Asian wife and child at the house?’

Aria knew exactly who had told him that and was trying to undermine her—George—but deflected. ‘I’m attending with Social Services at 10.00am, sir, and hopefully getting them out of the house to safety in case we have to release Winshire.’

Aria looked at the plods either side of them for fear of them overhearing and lowered her voice, ‘The statement’s very strong, dozens of hard drive devices were retrieved, and if forensics and the wife corroborate the evidence, he is a threat to the public, and hopefully we can get him on remand until trial. Then at least she wouldn’t have to leave the domestic home, sir. I think that might be the angle we have with her.’

‘But we’re not talking about kidnapping and child trafficking, are we?’ He said, like she was missing the point on purpose.

‘The arrest was for indecent images, to be on the safe side,’ Aria said, ‘but I didn’t want it delayed. The statement also says Winshire was naked on a webcam, sir. But I have already password unlocked his phone and laptop …’

‘… Gosh that’s fast.’

‘A wily Scottish woman’s intuition, sir. And I examined them last night before I sent them off to forensics. I couldn’t see anything on the laptop hard drive, which doesn’t make sense unless it was a malicious complaint. I want to search the house again; I think it’s the wrong laptop and we somehow missed it. But there were calls to a Primary school in his contacts.’

‘His son’s?’

‘Not Brighton, a London number.’

‘Yes, about the raid.’ The superintendent said, straightening his uniform, but we hadn’t been talking about that, so Aria thought that must have been why he was really here. ‘There’s been an official complaint.’

‘Don’t tell me. George.’

The Superintendent bummed his lips together and nodded, ‘Alleging poor leadership, indecision and failure to take the necessary action. There will need to be an Inquiry.’

‘Are you taking me off the Winshire case?’

‘How long has Winshire been in custody now?’

Aria looked at her watch, and looked away to do some mental arithmetic, ‘approximately, thirteen hours, sir.’

‘Any reports?’

‘Pacing the cell, sir, all night apparently—muttering and talking to himself—refusing food. Nobody would want to jump to conclusions but he’s certainly acting like the opposite of an innocent man, sir. If he had nothing to worry about, why would he behave like a caged animal, pacing all night? I heard a recording of him on the intercom telling his solicitor he couldn’t stand being locked up!’ Aria laughed, ‘so, I’ll let him stew a little while longer before I interview him. I need to visit his wife, and then I want to check in with his workplace.’

‘You found out where he works?’

Aria laughed, ‘Duty Serge gave me a funny look, but I authorised Winshire to call them this morning,’ she tapped her breast pocket, ‘name and number free!’

The Superintendent finished his coffee, ‘Good work, Aria. Very good. I can’t see that you’ve taken a step wrong. But after what happened at the Equalities Commission, and now the raid, you mustn’t just play it by the book, but be seen to be playing it by the book on this one—no more slipups. Do you understand? Please try not to ruffle any feathers, for my sake.’

‘I was just standing up for my rights, sir. This isn’t a personality contest.’

‘Failure isn’t an option. You need a result. But, between you and me, give him hell. And if it’s any consolation, we all hate a nonce,’ he winked and stood up, ‘and Aria … it’s nice to have you back.’

‘Thank you, sir. That means a lot. I will.’

***

Aria parked outside the Winshire residence and dialed the Social Worker’s number to say she’d arrived. A few moments later she saw a slim lady with her blonde hair in a bun and a black turtleneck sweater, not dissimilar to Elizabeth Holmes, striding to the house and got out to meet her.

‘Charlie York,’ she gave Aria a firm handshake for such a young woman.

‘The goal here is child protection,’ Aria said, ‘we have reason to believe the suspect, Maxwell Winshire is a serious risk to children, including his son, based on a signed witness report.’

‘Can I have a copy?’

Aria shook her head. “He’s being held in custody at Brighton Police Station, but, unfortunately, if we have to RUI, sorry—Release Under Investigation—then we need to mitigate the risk to his child.’

‘Relocate the wife and child?’

‘Ideally, yes. But if we can get him on remand, don’t worry, we will. If the wife cooperates in achieving this, then she can stay in the family home. Any questions?’

They walked to the door and rang the doorbell. They waited but there was no answer and Aria knocked.

The door finally opened on a security chain, and an attractive Asian lady’s head peaked through, ‘Hello?’

‘DCI Dedrick,’ Aria showed her badge, ‘and this is Charlie York from the Rapid Response Team at Social Services. We need to talk to you about your husband.’

Citra let them in nervously. Aria noticed her eyes were ashen like she hadn’t slept and thought she must have been tidying up late because they’d left the place like a bombsite and it was all in order. She noted the crucifix on the wall again.

‘Is Max alright? Is everything OK?’ Citra asked.

‘Can we discuss this inside.’ Aria said and Citra led them into the lounge.

Aria sat on the leather armchair and Citra took a seat on the sofa alongside Charlie, and took out her notebook. ‘Can I see some ID, please, passport or driving license?’ Citra fetched her passport and Aria asked her to confirm her full name, date of birth, birthplace and occupation. ‘Medical doctor? How long have you been married?’ All the usual procedural questions for the record; she had to be seen to be following the book. Children?’ One son. ‘Ethnicity?’ Mixed Asian. She gave Aria his full name and date of birth. ‘What would you say is Mr Winshire’s type?’

‘Like me. Asian,’ Citra stroked her hair, ‘long brown hair. Slim. Why?’

‘Just answer the questions please.’

Citra sat upright.

‘Citra,’ Charlie said, ‘the Police have had reports that Mr Winshire has been downloading indecent images on his laptop. Do you understand what that means?’

‘Naked images of underage Asian children,’ Aria said, ‘and you have an Asian child.’

‘He wouldn’t do anything to hurt Tristan, he loves him very much.’

‘Have you ever taken any photographs of Tristan naked?’

Citra shook her head clearly horrified.

‘Has Mr Winshire ever taken any photographs of him naked?’

‘Never. How dare you …’

It never ceased to amaze Aria how naïve wives were. ‘Mrs Winshire, if the reports are correct, he is a danger to your child. This is a serious criminal offence. Have you or Mr Winshire ever had other children in the house?’

‘Of course, Tristan loves having friends around, he’s very outgoing…’

‘Not anymore,’ Charlie said.

‘Who?’ Aria asked, pen at the ready.

‘Emily, they play in the park together.’

Aria asked for her mother’s full name and address but Citra said she only knew her as Lydia, and had met her in the church. Aria took the name of the church and a description of the girl, three years old, blonde hair and warned her that Max was dangerous and a threat to children’s safety, including his own.

‘But how can you say he’s dangerous? He loves Tristan.’

‘How would you describe your sex life?’ Aria asked.

‘What?’

‘How often do you have sex?’

‘What does that have to do with indecent images? That’s private.’

Citra looked to Charlie for support but Charlie winced and shrugged with a nod.

‘Once a month, once a week, once a year? Never?’ Aria insisted.

‘A few weeks ago, a month ago … When he got the job. He was unemployed, depressed, for a long time. I told you we’ve been married for five years. Are you married?’

‘Would you describe him as faithful or has he ever cheated on you with a man or a woman?’

‘With a man? Are you calling my husband gay?’ Citra laughed it seemed at the absurdity of the thought, ‘I can assure you he’s a full man in that respect. Are you?’

Aria didn’t rise to the bait, though it hurt; Citra had some fire in her; not as passive as she seemed. ‘Unfortunately, this is not about me. Mrs Winshire, don’t you care about protecting your only child?’

‘Are you calling me a bad mother?’

‘Do you have any family you can stay with in Brighton?’ Charlie asked, blowing the only negotiating point before Aria was ready.

‘No, Max’s family are in London.’

‘Did Tristan ever attend primary school in London?’ Aria asked.

‘No. We came straight here from Malaysia. Why?’

‘You realise Tristan can’t stay with Mr Winshire,’ Aria said.

‘Where is Tristan, now?’ Charlie said.

‘At school.’

Charlie shook her head and addressed Aria sotto voce, ‘We can’t disrupt his schooling. You’ll have to keep him on remand.’

‘Keep him?’ Mrs Winshire said.

‘Mrs Winshire, we cannot guarantee the safety of your son in this house if Mr Winshire is here. Do you have friends in Brighton you could stay with for a few days?’

‘No. Tristan is fine here. There’s never been any problem. Why are you saying this? Max has never downloaded any naked pictures of children. He isn’t like that. This is all a huge mistake.’

‘Let me make this easier for you, Mrs Winshire,’ Aria said calmly, ‘if you cooperate you can stay here with Tristan. It’s very simple. We all want the same thing. Your son to be safe. We’re here to help. Just tell the truth. Have you ever seen any images on your husband’s laptop that have concerned you?’

‘Never!’ But Citra said it too quickly, Aria thought, fixedly staring her in the eyes, Aria knew she was lying. It is a feeling she got in the job and she had to trust her instincts.

‘Come on!’ Aria snapped, she was losing this one, ‘you’re trying to tell me you have never seen your husband of five years watching porn? You must be the only wife alive who hasn’t!’

‘I didn’t say that. We have watched porn together …’

‘Together?’ Aria immediately wrote it down.

‘Yes. But it wasn’t child pornography.’

‘No problem. What kind of pornography?’

Mrs Winshire looked to Charlie for help, but like a good girl she knew when to withhold it. ‘I don’t know. Couples. A threesome.’

‘A threesome. What kind of threesome? MFM, sorry, Male-Female-Male? Female-Female-Male?’

‘I can’t remember.’ Citra looked distressed, Aria thought, she was lying.

‘Female-Female-Male, I think?’ Citra said, but the problem, Aria thought, is you don’t need to think whether there was one cock or two in porn; it’s pretty obvious.

‘Female-Male-Male?’ Aria asked.

‘I don’t know! Can we stop this please. We have done nothing wrong. They were adults NOT children. I remember that!’

Citra was breaking up, Aria thought, it was quite touching in a way. ‘No problem, and what did you watch this threesome on?’

‘His … laptop.’ Citra sighed deeply. Charlie raised her eyebrows at Aria.

Aria nodded. ‘No problem. Do you mind if I have a quick look around to confirm that you’re not hiding anything?’ The problem was Aria needed her consent for a second search.

‘What is going to happen to Max?’

Aria took that as an implicit yes, ‘Charlie, can you write a safety plan with Mrs Winshire in case we need it and I’ll need a witness statement from you and Mrs Winshire, while I have a look around.’

Charlie started writing in her loose-leaf notepad while Aria began a second search of the house, but in spite of looking everywhere: shelves; cabinets; wardrobes; under beds; on top of cupboards; everywhere she could think of, the place was clean. Aria knew Citra was complicit but there was no evidence except her testimony. And that was testimony that it was legal porn, which was practically worthless. Where else could he have kept a second laptop. In his car? Aria asked for his car keys—implicit consent by the fact she handed them to her—and searched that, but nothing. Where else? The only other place Aria could think of was work. She returned to the living-room.

‘The Safety Plan states that if Maxwell Winshire resides in the property,’ Charlie read, ‘you are responsible for ensuring, one, Maxwell Winshire will not be allowed unaccompanied access to Tristan at any time in the house. Two, Maxwell Winshire will not be permitted to share in any hygiene duties including bathing or toileting activities. Three, Maxwell Winshire will not take sole supervision duties outside the property at any time …’

‘Does that mean he can’t take him to the park?’ Mrs Winshire asked, ‘Tristan likes to play on the swings.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Aria said, ‘there may be other children present, and he is a risk to public safety.’

Citra held her head in her hands, and Aria felt a modicum of sympathy for her—not more—because she didn’t think Citra understood how common it was for nonces to maintain perfectly happy married lives while destroying childhoods, like hers had been. If anyone wants to cry, Aria thought, they should cry for the little buggered children, not the perpetrators. Aria felt her knuckles tighten, not very effeminately, and breathed deeply to maintain her composure.

‘We know this is not easy for you, Citra,’ Charlie said, ‘but it is for your own good. Sign here.’

‘This is my husband.’ Mrs Winshire said with eyes swelling. But she signed.

Aria drove to Brighton College hating her job to be honest, and feeling like a failure, replaying the conversation with Mrs Winshire over in her head for anything she had inadvertently missed; it was a habit of the job she had never completely gotten out of, however many years she had been doing it: overthinking. She could never really separate what she did, from life. The problem was there had to be a second laptop. If it was at the school, which was a long shot, because why would he leave it there with incriminating evidence on it, he was a naïve idiot, like all bawbags, but he couldn't be that stupid. But more than ever, she had the conviction he was guilty. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know why, but he was. That was the upsetting thing. And if she lost this case, then what? She’d had to think about that before the findings of the equalities commission—it didn’t go away—she thought she could start afresh, but it was a pipe dream. And she had suffered so much trying to do the right thing. She pictured herself like the Lone Ranger, saving the world, but she couldn’t even save herself. So, it was with a sense of hopelessness and despair at the ticking hours before she may be forced to release the bawbag, that she finally pulled into Brighton College car park.

She walked past the Church, and cemetery, with a sense of foreboding, as tall as her badge allowed on her pretty high heels, noticing her reflection against the ‘OFSTED Outstanding College’ sign which was hard to miss, repeated in every window.

She faced the principal across her desk and started bluntly, like a fact, after introducing herself and badge, to put the principal immediately on the back foot, ‘Maxwell Winshire is a danger to children. What made you hire him?’

‘Detective Dedrick, we wish to cooperate in every way with the Police, but you’ll forgive me, Maxwell Winshire has just started and this is the first we’ve heard. We conducted full safeguarding checks with the DBS and references—didn’t we Rodrica?’

Rodrica looked crossways at her nose, as if caught by the question, ‘Yes … I did …’

‘… Before we appointed. And he gave a faultless interview …’

‘But I thought he was a bit of a creep,’ Rodrica added.

‘Why?’

‘He stood very close to me when I was photocopying his documents, detective. Just creepy.’

Aria lied, ‘That’s very helpful. Did he arouse suspicion in any other way, with students?’

‘Tim?’ She batted the question to him. She seemed to be good at that.

‘No, I mean, I’ve just started. I haven’t observed him teach …’

‘I observed him teach,’ the principal said quickly, ‘before his interview. I believe it was on the Trade cycle in economics. The students weren’t very responsive or engaged, to be honest—like getting blood out of a stone—but it is a very hard position to fill, you have to understand. May I ask what he was arrested for?’

‘Indecent images of children.’ They all showed appropriate shock at the revelation shaking their heads; they clearly didn’t know or suspect anything. Another wasted line of enquiry, and Aria was getting tired at this point; it had been a long day.

‘But one of the students did say,’ Tim piped up, ‘that there was a brief flash of a pornographic bookmark on his browser, I seem to remember from somewhere, but I can’t remember what it was. They thought it was funny,’ he laughed. And then corrected his composure at the weight of the others’ brows, ‘but obviously it’s not.’

‘And what would that browser be?’ Aria asked.

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Tim shrugged.

‘Did he have an office?’

‘A desk,’ Tim said, ‘in our humanities office.’

Aria asked if he could show it to her and he agreed. When they got there, it was like Tim couldn’t tell everyone enough that she was, ‘DCI Dedrick, from the Police’, which is not the way she usually liked to investigate; loudly. But a quick check of the drawers and a rifle through his papers revealed nothing of interest.

‘I know he was new, but did anybody here spend any time with him?’

A man with grey hair sitting with his desk against the wall turned round. ‘We had lunch over the road once, detective.’

‘And your name is? What did he say?’

‘Graham Fisher. Not much. Complained about the timetable. Old school. Don’t think he really wanted to be here, to be honest. Went home early in the first week. How can you respect that? I didn’t like him.’

‘Thank you. Did he discuss kids?’ It was a long shot, she thought, but you never know.

‘He said he had a kid,’ he shrugged. ‘Can’t remember the name.’

‘Did he say anything about his feelings for his kid? How did he talk about him, I mean?’

‘Nothing really,’ he scratched his head, ‘it started to rain and … I left.’

‘Thank you, that’s really helpful.’ Aria lied again and turned to Tim. ‘Great! I have everything I need, and … you’ve all been very helpful.’

‘If there’s anything else we can do …’ Tim practically apologised.

Aria gave him her card. ‘If he tries to contact you, or anyone, can you give me a call? We’ll take care of the rest.’

‘Absolutely.’ He turned her card over in his hands, as if something might be written on the back. There wasn’t. ‘Will do. Thanks.’

‘Just one more thing. Did he ever leave a laptop anywhere?’ Aria clutched at straws, because the workplace was a dead end.

‘He always had his bag there,’ Tim said pointing under the desk, ‘oh yeah, I ordered a laptop for him because he said his other was being repaired or something.’

‘Was there anything unusual about the way he was describing his laptop being repaired?’

‘He was sort of shifty about it, to be honest, like there was something he didn’t want to tell.’

‘Perfect,’ Aria said resisting the urge to smile. A small victory, but getting closer to the elusive truth she had suspected all along.

On the drive back through the winding coastal road, she could almost imagine him coming home from work on the same roads, and she felt slightly proud that he was locked up behind bars, and invigorated by the thought that she was ready to interview the bawbag; it couldn’t happen soon enough, but didn't press any harder on the accelerator. Give him time, they always, always squealed with enough time.