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partner?
    JC: No partner currently.
    FM: Family or friends then?
    JC: My mum lives in Exeter; I don’t see her much. My sister too. My friends in Bristol are mostly colleagues so we don’t talk about stuff outside work.
    FM: I see from your notes that your father passed away a little before the Benedict Finch case started.
    JC: That’s correct. About a month before.
    FM: And he was a detective too?
    JC: He was Deputy Chief Super in Devon and Cornwall.
    FM: Was he the reason you joined the force?
    JC: A big part of it, yeah.
    FM: And you started your career in Devon and Cornwall?
    JC: I did.
    FM: Was that hard? Did you feel you had a lot to live up to, in your dad?
    JC: Of course, because I did.
    FM: Did that feel like pressure?
    JC: I’m not afraid of pressure.
    FM: When you were with Devon and Cornwall was it well known that you were your father’s son?
    JC: When I started I was known as “Mick Clemo’s boy,” but it’s the same for anyone who’s got a relative in the force.
    FM: And when you moved to Bristol, to the Avon and Somerset force, did that change?
    JC: It changed completely. Only one or two of the older guys in Bristol knew my dad personally.
    FM: So it was a chance for a fresh start?
    JC: It was a promotion is what it was.
    FM: Has policing been the right career choice for you, do you think?
    JC: It’s what I always wanted to do. There was never another way for me. Like I said, it’s in the blood. It has to be in the blood.
    FM: Why “has to be”?
    JC: Because you see it all. You see the dirtiest, blackest side of life. You see what people inflict on each other, and it can be brutal.
    His gaze is steady now, focused entirely on me. I feel that he’s challenging me to contradict what he’s said, or diminish it. I remember that I’m not the only person in the room trained to read the behavior of others. I decide to move on.
    FM: Your record states that you took an English degree before joining the force.
    JC: It’s expected to join the force with a degree nowadays. Not like it used to be when you went in straight from school.
    FM: Did you enjoy your degree?
    JC: I did.
    FM: What did you study? Was there anything you especially enjoyed?
    JC: Yeats. I enjoyed Yeats.
    FM: I know a Yeats poem: “Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer…” Do you know it? I think it’s by Yeats anyway. I forget the title.
    JC can’t help himself, he carries on the poem.
    JC: “. . . Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…”
    FM: “. . . The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere…”
    JC: “. . . The ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
    FM: There’s more.
    JC: I can’t remember it exactly.
    FM: He’s a wonderful poet.
    JC: He’s a truthful poet.
    FM: Do you still read poetry?
    JC: No. I don’t have time for that sort of thing now.
    FM: You work long hours?
    JC: You have to if you want to get on.
    FM: And do you? Want to get on?
    JC: Of course.
    FM: Can I ask you once again: is there anything specific that triggers your panic attacks?
    JC covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, and massages his temples. I begin to think he isn’t going to reply, that I’ve pushed him too far too fast, but eventually he seems to come to some kind of decision and looks me directly in the eye.
    JC: I can’t sleep. It makes me confused sometimes. It makes me doubt my judgment.
    FM: You suffer from insomnia?
    JC: Yes.
    FM: How long has this been going on?
    He studies me before he answers.
    JC: Since the case.
    FM: Do you struggle to get to sleep, or do you wake up in the middle of the night?
    JC: I can’t fall asleep.
    FM: How many hours do you think you sleep a night?
    JC: I don’t know. Sometimes as little as three or four.
    FM: That’s a very small amount, which could certainly have a profound effect on your state of mind during the day.
    JC: It’s fine.
    He’s being stoic suddenly, as if he regrets confiding in