‘I’ve lied to you, but only because I love you and wanted to save your childhood,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to tell you the truth, because I want to save the rest of your lives. Lies are corrosive, and I’m being eaten up by them.’

Then she began a tearful tale of their loveless marriage, in which domestic violence seemed to take a central place. ‘He loved children, that’s what I’d always thought, even though I could see pretty soon that he didn’t love me.’

To him it all seemed a tragic tale, and he didn’t share his sister’s fury. ‘So when did he die?’ he had asked.

His mother faltered before speaking. ‘He’s not dead, pet. He’s in prison.’

It took a whole minute for this to sink in. ‘Because he hit you?’ he had eventually asked.

‘No, not for that reason,’ Susan interjected. She had been looking through the photographs and documents. She brandished one in her mother’s face. ‘He’s not even called Noel Rogers, is he? He’s called Neville Rollason. It’s written on the back of his photograph. You’ve lied to us in every way!’

Only then did he hear the horrible truth. While their mother, having locked herself in the bathroom, cried pitifully, Susan turned to him. In her pain, she revealed a spiteful side: ‘Our dad is that man who killed all those boys for fun. Boys about your age. What do you think of that?’

That was the beginning of a downward spiral. The void within him filled with a darkness that only Nietzsche could explain. The very next day his mother was found dead, having taken an overdose. He felt his life was over, and abandoned hopes of going to college. The next dozen years passed in a haze of misery, antidepressants, therapy and loneliness. Plastering, which he learned while doing casual jobs on construction sites, gradually became his saviour. Attending to surfaces allowed him to bury the depths. Eventually, he felt well enough to try for a qualification in philosophy at the Open University.

Now, coming to terms with the death of his father, having seen the body, Michael Jakes felt that he was finally purging himself of all the twisted lies and deceits on which his life had been constructed. There was nothing to fear any longer. As the detectives came back in, he felt ready to tell them his story.

Gillard and Hoskins sat opposite him.

‘You said the victim is your father.’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose we should offer you our condolences,’ Gillard said. ‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘No, I never visited him because I didn’t know he was my father until I was fifteen, and then I discovered exactly who he was.’ Jakes relayed the story.

‘Did he make any arrangements to visit you after he was released?’ Gillard asked.