After retiring as a player, Dave Jones took a job at Clarence House, a special school in Formby, Merseyside, for children with behavioural problems, in the late 1980s. It helped him to pay his bills while he coached in non-League football and waited for a full-time role, which he secured with Stockport County in 1990.

In the summer of 1999, with Jones managing Southampton in the Premier League, he was asked to answer questions in relation to Operation Care, a police investigation into child abuse in Merseyside care homes.

DC Thomas sat me down and informed me of the allegations that had been made against me. The accusations, he said, in what felt to me an almost triumphant tone, involved sexual and physical abuse, which, if proven, could lead to imprisonment. In fact, I was under arrest pending a full investigation.

That’s when my head began to whirl crazily.

Next they told me the name of the person who had accused me. This lad was a young adult by now and said I had sexually abused him while at Clarence House. I did not recognise his name and had no recollection of who he was. I could not create a mental picture of him, no matter how hard I tried. Something was very wrong. Here I was, thinking that the police just wanted to question me briefly, establish what a load of lies they had been told, and that would be the end of it. Now I stood accused of the most abominable crime I could imagine.

All that whirred around in my head was one unanswerable question: “How am I supposed to explain all this to my wife, my three elder children and my little four-year-old, to my mum and dad, brother and sister? What words do I use? How will people in the football world react?” I realised that this would be big news. In fact, if it got out the press would tear me to shreds.

I tried to blank that out of my mind, but the question kept on nagging away at me. Surely no one would actually believe all this? Could they? What chance would I have if people believed these lies? My thoughts were on a loop, going round and round. I could not escape them. It was mental torture. The nightmare had begun.

I was shaken out of those depressing thoughts by the door opening and the solicitor walking in. The first thing he said to me was: “Hiya Dave, I’m a red nose.” Meaning, of course, that he was a Liverpool fan. That touch of humour lightened the atmosphere a bit, but the two police officers didn’t appreciate it at all. I felt their attitude was sarcastic and belittling.

When they began the questioning again and I protested that I had children of my own, one of them turned to me and said, with a horrible smirk on his face: “That doesn’t mean you haven’t done anything. We’ve just sent someone down who said exactly the same thing and we’ve put him away for seven years.”

I sat in stunned disbelief, unable to contemplate that anyone could possibly imagine I was a criminal, especially when my alleged crime involved such sickening offences. In so many ways it was the worst allegation they could have thrown at me. The accusation that I had physically abused a child was bad enough, but being accused of sexually abusing children to me is the most awful crime imaginable, the most evil crime anyone could commit. I felt humiliated and angry.

None of it made sense. They had caught me at a low emotional ebb and even to this day I remember at one point thinking: “I would prefer to be falsely accused of murder.” I half- wondered whether Jeremy Beadle was going to jump out as part of one of those TV stitch-ups. “Is this some sort of joke?” I blurted out. Their response, if I recall correctly, was merely to write down what I said as evidence.

I knew that I needed to get out of this horrendous place and back to Ann. Instead, the police’s questions came thick and fast. Despite my anger, I answered everything, knowing that lack of co-operation could count against me.

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