be interviewed on video at Lockleaze. We always try to do this by agreement with parents, and we normally do get co-operation. Parents, innocent or guilty, generally realise that not allowing their children to be interviewed will almost certainly just make matters worse.
In accordance with Titmussâs instructions I continued to take an active role personally in the Jeffries case and it was Mellor and I who, a couple of days after talking to Claudia Smith, went around to the Jeffriesâ home in the Clifton area of Bristol. The house was an imposing Victorian villa with views across the city.
It was just before six thirty on a typically cold and wet November evening and already dark when Elizabeth Jeffries answered the door. We had chosen the time of our visit carefully â late enough to stand a good chance of catching both parents at home on a day when Dr Jeffries had no evening surgery and his wife was not at the hospital where she worked occasional shifts as a night nurse, and not so late as to be provocative â and we had got it right. Hearing strange voices, no doubt, Richard Jeffries quickly appeared in the hallway behind his wife, and as the couple stood at the door, almost silhouetted in the bright light from within the house, both seemed ill at ease â although perhaps not more than anyone would be when confronted unexpectedly with a brace of police officers.
They led us into an immaculate sitting room which was tastefully if unimaginatively decorated in cream and white and formally furnished with a smattering of what I guessed to be genuine antiques. The curtains were not drawn and through the French windows I could see an attractively lit landscaped garden which even in the late Autumn, when gardens invariably look at their worst, contrived to give the impression of being well-cared for.
Richard Jeffries was a pleasant-faced man with thinning sandy hair, gentle grey eyes, and an obvious tendency towards plumpness that appeared to be only just under control. He was about five feet nine inches tall, dressed in dark blue slacks and a comfortable-looking paler-blue pullover with a string of multi-coloured elephants striding around it. As he stood in the middle of his thick-pile fitted carpet gesturing to Mellor and I to sit, I thought that he looked the picture of middle-class niceness. I knew him to be aged forty-three, and that his wife was five years younger. Elizabeth Jeffries was about the same height as her husband but slimmer and darker. Her brown eyes were bright and intelligent and I somehow suspected at once that she might prove more difficult to deal with than the man we were investigating.
I told them both in matter-of-fact language that there was concern at Balfour House about their sonâs welfare, that one of the teachers felt the boy was showing telltale signs of sexual abuse.
âHave you any idea what may have happened to lead to this, Dr Jeffries?â I asked quietly.
At first Richard Jeffries just seemed stunned. He shook his head and glanced anxiously at his wife who sat in shocked silence. Or maybe she merely wasnât ready to speak. I wasnât sure of Elizabeth Jeffries yet.
âThereâs nobody, I canât believe it,â Dr Jeffries began falteringly, then his voice hardened. âIâd kill anyone who hurt that child,â he said.
âYou should know that Stephen has related some rather disturbing incidents to his teachers,â said Mellor in an expressionless voice.
Richard Jeffries seemed merely mildly perplexed. âBut heâs never said anything to us, has he, Liz?â
His wife murmured her agreement, and continued to sit quite still staring straight ahead. However, I reckoned I could see the beginning of hostility in those intelligent brown eyes. She was ahead of her husband, I was quite sure of it.
Ultimately a flush began to spread across Richard Jeffriesâ benign features as realisation dawned.
âYouâre
In accordance with Titmussâs instructions I continued to take an active role personally in the Jeffries case and it was Mellor and I who, a couple of days after talking to Claudia Smith, went around to the Jeffriesâ home in the Clifton area of Bristol. The house was an imposing Victorian villa with views across the city.
It was just before six thirty on a typically cold and wet November evening and already dark when Elizabeth Jeffries answered the door. We had chosen the time of our visit carefully â late enough to stand a good chance of catching both parents at home on a day when Dr Jeffries had no evening surgery and his wife was not at the hospital where she worked occasional shifts as a night nurse, and not so late as to be provocative â and we had got it right. Hearing strange voices, no doubt, Richard Jeffries quickly appeared in the hallway behind his wife, and as the couple stood at the door, almost silhouetted in the bright light from within the house, both seemed ill at ease â although perhaps not more than anyone would be when confronted unexpectedly with a brace of police officers.
They led us into an immaculate sitting room which was tastefully if unimaginatively decorated in cream and white and formally furnished with a smattering of what I guessed to be genuine antiques. The curtains were not drawn and through the French windows I could see an attractively lit landscaped garden which even in the late Autumn, when gardens invariably look at their worst, contrived to give the impression of being well-cared for.
Richard Jeffries was a pleasant-faced man with thinning sandy hair, gentle grey eyes, and an obvious tendency towards plumpness that appeared to be only just under control. He was about five feet nine inches tall, dressed in dark blue slacks and a comfortable-looking paler-blue pullover with a string of multi-coloured elephants striding around it. As he stood in the middle of his thick-pile fitted carpet gesturing to Mellor and I to sit, I thought that he looked the picture of middle-class niceness. I knew him to be aged forty-three, and that his wife was five years younger. Elizabeth Jeffries was about the same height as her husband but slimmer and darker. Her brown eyes were bright and intelligent and I somehow suspected at once that she might prove more difficult to deal with than the man we were investigating.
I told them both in matter-of-fact language that there was concern at Balfour House about their sonâs welfare, that one of the teachers felt the boy was showing telltale signs of sexual abuse.
âHave you any idea what may have happened to lead to this, Dr Jeffries?â I asked quietly.
At first Richard Jeffries just seemed stunned. He shook his head and glanced anxiously at his wife who sat in shocked silence. Or maybe she merely wasnât ready to speak. I wasnât sure of Elizabeth Jeffries yet.
âThereâs nobody, I canât believe it,â Dr Jeffries began falteringly, then his voice hardened. âIâd kill anyone who hurt that child,â he said.
âYou should know that Stephen has related some rather disturbing incidents to his teachers,â said Mellor in an expressionless voice.
Richard Jeffries seemed merely mildly perplexed. âBut heâs never said anything to us, has he, Liz?â
His wife murmured her agreement, and continued to sit quite still staring straight ahead. However, I reckoned I could see the beginning of hostility in those intelligent brown eyes. She was ahead of her husband, I was quite sure of it.
Ultimately a flush began to spread across Richard Jeffriesâ benign features as realisation dawned.
âYouâre
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