I thought celebrity osteopath was my friend… then I found out he was a twisted pervert

He was the man with the magic hands, a gifted reliever of pain and suffering who changed countless lives, including mine.

I met the acclaimed osteopath Torben Hersborg in early 2021 after a fall down stairs at home that left me in such agony, I could barely walk. My fellow writer and friend Mark Edmonds, who tragically died last year, recommended him to me.

Torben had “fixed him”, Mark assured me. “He can fix anybody.”

I must state from the outset that I am not the kind to be swayed by quackery or lofty claims of miracle cures. I had always steered clear of holistic therapy and alternative ­practices, investing my faith firmly in traditional medicine and surgery.

I had heard alarming tales from friends and family members whose pain had been exacerbated by careless chiropractors and

boisterous physios. I knew little of osteopathy beyond its ­somewhat sinister reputation for bone-cracking.

I dragged my ailing carcass, nevertheless, to Hoxton: a pocket of cool on the City of London’s fringes, where Hersborg helmed his scruffy, no-nonsense practice, the Central London Osteopathy and Sports Clinic.

There, on a precariously narrow blue bench before a wall of one-way mirrors, allowing us to look out on to the street but no onlooker to see inside, Torben bent, doubled, cricked, cracked and cured me.

At my first consultation, when he asked me to bend over and touch my toes, I failed to reach my fingers below my knees.

By the fourth bi-weekly session, he had me placing my hands flat on the floor beside each foot. I left the surgery with a spring in my step that I couldn’t remember feeling since my twenties.

I have been seeing him ever since, and was last in his practice on December 20. Torben and I became friends. We bonded over our showbiz connections. I as a long-standing reporter on entertainment and biographer of A-list rock musicians, he as a health practitioner to the stars. His patient list brimmed with household names: Olympians, Wimbledon champions, national ­football teams, actors, Strictly ­contestants, broadcasters and rock stars – one who remains a close friend of mine.

He promoted my books, displaying copies of my biographies of Freddie Mercury, the Rolling Stones and Paul McCartney on a prominent shelf in his treatment room, recommending them to his celebrity clients and posing for photographs to endorse them.

The rock star who had him on speed dial jetted Torben around the world when they were recording and touring. He was therefore sometimes unavailable on weekdays when I wanted to book in for treatment.

Knowing that I am always in the City on Sundays, on duty at St Bride’s, the journalists’ church, in my capacity as churchwarden, he started offering me Sunday appointments.

Just him and me. No receptionist on the premises, no other specialist nor client, only the two of us in that quiet building. Nothing about that seemed strange at the time. What on earth did I have to worry about? Fear never even crossed my mind. I trusted him.

As far as I was concerned, he was a genius. Besides, we were friends. Imagine my horror, then, when my phone pinged this week with a message from my daughter, containing a link to a report that Torben had been arrested by police.

The 63-year-old, accused of making 60 videos of women at a student halls of residence in Islington, north London, filming and recording them over four years, pleaded guilty at Highbury Magistrates’ Court just before Christmas to three charges of spying on women. He was remanded in custody, and will be sentenced today. When he was arrested, he was in possession of a telescope and a ­camera. He was wearing black gloves.

The rear seat of his car had been covered with black bin liners.

His ­recognisable vehicle had been seen lingering in the neighbourhood, and was reported to police.

Remanding him in custody before Christmas, Deputy District Judge Rhys Rosser warned that he was likely to face a “sentence of immediate ­custody”. He said the incidents of voyeurism this month are believed to be “not just isolated incidents”, with evidence of illicit activity “over the last four years”.

Detectives, meanwhile, have been investigating electronic devices found in his home in Wapping, east London, suspecting that what they have ­uncovered so far might be merely the “tip of an iceberg”.

Danish-born Torben, a married father of two who is said to be a childhood friend of actor Mads Mikkelsen, moved to the UK in 1984 and has lived in London for more than 30 years. A lithe, lively character with a wry sense of humour and simmering energy, his calm manner and expert touch put me at ease. The relationship between an ­osteopath and his patient is intimate.

Putting oneself in the hands of a ­practitioner who will manipulate, massage, stretch and jerk parts of your body, at times lying directly on top of you and, precariously, pulling hard at your neck and head, requires total trust and relaxation.

The osteopath works on the ­principle that the body’s ability to function depends on its bones, muscles, ligaments and connective tissues.

By realigning and restoring its ­normal structure, the expert enables the body to heal itself. Millions of people swear by ­osteopathy, for help with everything from headaches to pregnancy pain.

It is even now available on the NHS, for some, depending on their circumstances. Some aspects of the ­treatment can be painful. Others are a distinct shock to the system. There were times when I left a session with Torben quivering and bruised.

But never once did I doubt his ability. I felt safe in his hands. Nor did I have misgivings that the treatment wasn’t doing me good. I trusted him totally. Not a nervous type, I am now sleepless with worry. Had there been hidden cameras in the practice toilets, in the treatment room, in the space where I changed my clothes?

What footage might this man, in whose hands I willingly placed my body, have of me? What did he plan to do with it?

What might he have done with it already? The deep web is a cesspit of illicitly filmed material, demand for which is insatiable. I am no lightweight. After 30+ years in this business, I have uncovered ­conspiracies, exposed criminals, and have been involved in the private lives of those with more reasons than most to ­protect their privacy.

I have worked all over the world, have been kidnapped and ­incarcerated, and have talked my way out of a string of sticky situations.

In other words, I know life’s ropes. I have, until now, prided myself on a profound understanding of the human condition, the void that drives ­damaged individuals to create, and the weaknesses that cause good ­people to fall off the side.

But now it seems I placed ­responsibility for my most personal possession, my body, in an ­inspirational professional who turns out to have been a pervert.

I don’t think it’s merely a question of the advancing years causing me to lose my touch.

It is obvious that such people hide in plain sight, convincing us of their authority, their brilliance, their trustworthiness. In some cases, making us dependent on them.

I trusted Torben Hersborg with my very life. But the life he himself was living turns out to have been the darkest double kind.

What makes a middle-aged man at the top of his game, with everything to live for, with a loving wife, a loyal family and a global reputation for his ability and achievements, sabotage everything in the name of sexual thrills?

Had you asked me this last week, I could probably have given you a coherent answer.

As things stand, and terrified by the thought of what this monster may have done with footage of me, I am lost for words.