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Tears have begun to fall down JC’s face.
FM: No. You’re not. It’s just a symptom. Take some time. We’ll come back to this.
He takes a tissue from the box by his chair, wipes his face roughly; tries to compose himself. I
make a few notes, to give him some time, and after a minute or two he engages with me.
JC: What are you writing?
FM: I take a few handwritten notes with every patient. It helps me to remember our sessions
afterwards. Would you like to see what I’ve written?
JC shakes his head.
FM: I’d like to ask you what kind of support network you might have around you. A 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?