“Tam Paton would play all the latest Roller acetates and say, ‘Clap for the one you like the best.’ Same as Jonathan and Chris Denning. It helped them in their work.”

Deniz turns out the lights and gets out the Super 8 films he shot over the years at his club. Here’s the Hop in 1958. Billy Fury played there. The teenagers are all in suits, dancing the hokey pokey.

“Suits!” laughs Deniz, sadly. The years tumble by on the Super 8 films. Now it’s the mid-seventies. Here’s Jonathan at the turntables. He’s playing disco records, announcing the raffle winners, and grinning his lopsided grin into Deniz’s Super 8 camera. He’s wearing his famous multicolored Afro wig. Now, on the Super 8, two young girls are on stage at the Hop, miming to King’s song “Johnny Reggae.” “These were the days before karaoke,” explains Deniz.

For a while, we watch the girls on the stage mime to “Johnny Reggae.” It turns out that Jonathan wrote it about a boy called John he met at the Walton Hop who was locally famous for his reggae obsession. David Jeremy, the prosecutor at the Old Bailey, says that Jonathan’s “market research” was simply a ploy, his real motive being to engage the boys in conversations about sex. But I imagine that the two endeavors were, in Jonathan’s mind, indistinguishable. I picture Jonathan in the shadows, backstage at the Hop, taking all he could from the teenagers he scrutinized—consuming their ideas, their energy, their tastes, and then everything else.

The Super 8s continue in Deniz’s living room. Here’s Jonathan again, in 1983, backstage at the Hop. He’s put on weight. He doesn’t know the camera is on him. He’s holding court to a group of young boys and girls on a sofa. You can just make out little snippets of conversation over the noise of the disco. He chews on a toothpick, looks down at a piece of paper, turns to a boy and says, “Whose phone number is this?”

He spots the camera. “It’s Deniz Corday!” he yells. “Look who it is! Deniz Corday! Smile at the camera!” He lifts up his T-shirt and Deniz zooms in on his chest.

“In thirty-two years,” says Deniz, “we never had one complaint about Jonathan and young boys, and suddenly, after thirty-two years, all these old men—grandfathers, some of them—come forward and say they’ve been sexually abused and it’s been bothering them all their lives. I think there’s something deeply suspicious about it. Jonathan’s a really nice guy and definitely not a pedophile. Anyway, I think it should be reworded. I think a pedophile should be someone who goes with someone under thirteen.”

The clothes and hairstyles change as the decades roll past on the Super 8s, but the faces of the thirteen- to eighteen-year-olds remain the same. They are young and happy. Deniz says that, nowadays, we have an absurdly halcyon image of childhood. He says that the youngsters at the Walton Hop were not fragile little flowers. They were big and tough and they could look after themselves. He rifles through his drawer and produces some of the police evidence statements. He reads me some excerpts.

“‘There was a crate of Coca-Cola kept backstage, and it was people like Jonathan King and Corday who hung around there. If you were invited back there you would get a free Coke with a shot of whisky.’”

Deniz pauses. “Now, how ridiculous can you get? I’m going to give the kids of the Hop a shot of whisky with a Coke?”

There is a silence.

“Well,” he says quietly. “If I gave them a little bit of whisky once in a while, they’re not going to put me in jail for it. I used to call it ‘Coke with a kick.’ Anyway, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Jonathan. Have you heard of any charges against me?”

“No,” I say.

“Exactly,” says Deniz. “This is about Jonathan. Not about me.”

Deniz continues to read. The victim making the statement describes life at the Walton Hop and how Jonathan once went out of his way to talk to him.

“‘I was obviously excited to be talking to Jonathan King. He offered to give me a lift home, which I accepted. This was the first of many lifts King gave me, and I recall that he always drove me home in a white convertible Rolls-Royce. It was an automatic car and the number plate was JK9000. We talked about music, and he often told me that he needed a young person’s point of view. King drove me home on a couple of occasions before he eventually assaulted me. The first assault occurred at a car park, which was situated on the left-hand side of the Old Woking Road. Next to the car park was a field and a wooded area. King seemed familiar with the location. I believe he had been there before. I was sat in the front passenger seat and King was in the driver seat. I noticed that King had started shaking, and I presumed that he needed the toilet.’”

Deniz laughs.

“Well, you can laugh occasionally,” he says.

He continues to read. “‘He then leaned over to where I was sat. To my horror he started pulling at my trousers. He wrenched my trousers open and he just went for it.’”

Deniz reads the statement with mock, burlesque horror.

“‘He had his face in my lap and he was performing oral sex on me by putting his mouth around my penis. I was so shocked.’”

Deniz looks up. “He doesn’t say if he had an erection!” he laughs.

“‘After a while he stopped performing oral sex on me, and although my penis was erect I did not ejaculate. I then noticed that King had his trousers undone with his penis exposed and he started masturbating himself. I remember looking out of the window and contemplating walking home. I did not because I just hoped that once he was done he would drop me home. King eventually came and he then drove me home. I didn’t want Jonathan to tell Deniz what had happened, because I thought he’d want to do the same thing.’”

“No thanks, mate,” says Deniz, before carrying on with the statement.

“‘I felt sick and ashamed about what he had done to me, and I remember looking in the mirror the next day and wondering if you could see what had happened in my face. The second assault on me by King took place near the car park which had been previously described. This time he buggered me. . . . Once at the location, we got out of the car and he then led me about fifteen yards to a dip in a wooded area. King led me by placing one hand on the back of my neck and the other on my arm. King was shaking. King then took my trousers and underwear down. He then forced his penis inside my anus and penetrated me. I would describe King as frantic at the time. He was totally uncaring. I honestly believe if I had said no, he would have forced me. King had his underwear and trousers down by his ankles and he used no lubrication. I can also say that he did not have a huge penis.’”

Deniz laughs. “I’m glad to hear that, mate!” he says.

“‘Although he was rough, it was not painful. I was in a state of shock. King eventually came inside of me and it was all very quick. Not only did I wash that night, but I constantly washed myself that week. I hated what he had done to me and I felt dirty. It may be that King grabbed some of my hair, because for about a week I washed my hair every day, which was most unlike me. I even remember my dad making some comment about me using so much shampoo. The third time King assaulted me was . . .’”

Deniz looks up angrily. “How many times do you have to go back before you decide that you don’t like being fucked? Does it take three sexual experiences for you to realize it was bothering you? ‘The third time King assaulted me was, again, following a lift home from the Hop. This time it did hurt and I told him that, but he did not stop. I even asked him if he used Vaseline, and he replied, “Oh no, you’ll do with spit.” It all happened very fast, and he was very surgical and physical. I would also like to add that King never kissed me or showed me any affection. Many years later I attended the Brit Awards, and while I was there I saw Jonathan King. On seeing me, he gave me a long stare and then walked away. I believe he is dangerous and I want to stop it happening to other children.’”