Four generations. One case file. No conviction.

At seven years old, I was arrested.

Interrogated under a flashlight. Photographed with my hair smoothed back off my forehead, the way it was done before family photographs.

By a homicide detective.

My father.

The Mugshot

I found that photograph forty-nine years later, on the floor of a garden shed in London — three months after my clinic was liquidated and one month after I was made bankrupt.

One document survives

In 1967 my father wrote a poem to my mother from a prison cell.

In 1982 I founded in the attic, read it once , and learn it by heart - because I understood I would not be allowed to keep it.

The original is gone. The only surviving copy is in my handwritting.

Read it