Justice for Colette: My daughter was murdered - I never gave up hope of her killer being found. He was finally caught after 26 years

by Kirby, Jacqui

  Tony and I had been dating for just over a year. One Saturday afternoon, we were walking past a jeweller’s shop when I felt a tug against my arm. Tony grabbed my hand in his and led me towards the large shop window.

  ‘Here, Jacqui,’ he said, ‘I want to show you something.’

  My eyes darted across the rows and rows of gold rings. Jewels of every size and description glinted in the bright sunlight. Tony pointed through the glass towards a modern-style ring with a huge solitaire diamond set on a square base. The precious stone was nestled on a raised golden shoulder studded with little diamond chippings. It looked expensive.

  ‘Do you like that one?’ asked Tony.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said, not quite catching the tone of his voice or realising what he was inferring.

  ‘Let’s go in and try it on,’ he suggested.

  My heart beat in my chest as Tony led me inside. I’d never been in a jeweller’s shop as posh as this one and I was worried that my nerves would reveal my inexperience and tender age. But, as soon as I slipped the ring on my finger, everything felt perfect.

  ‘You really like it?’ Tony asked me.

  ‘I love it,’ I smiled.

  ‘Well, I’m going to buy that ring for you and then perhaps we could get married.’

  With that, he took out the wallet from his inside jacket pocket and began to pay.

  I stood there dumbfounded. Was that a marriage proposal?

  As I watched Tony count out more than a month’s salary on to the counter in front of me, I knew that it certainly was.

  The male shop assistant smiled knowingly as Tony told him to put it in a box. It would be packed away for later until he could summon up enough courage to tell his mother. All the way home from town in his car, Tony fretted about what to say. How would he tell Iris that he was about to leave home and become a married man? Meanwhile, I was worried how she would react towards me.

  When we arrived back at Tony’s, Iris was sitting in her usual chair by the fireplace. We began to make small talk about the weather, then suddenly Tony stood up and cleared his throat. I watched as he nervously took the ring box out of his jacket pocket and then I noticed that his hands were shaking slightly.

  ‘I’ve got something to show you, Mum,’ he said, turning towards her with the open box in the palm of his hand. ‘I’ve asked Jacqui to be my wife.’

  The room fell into a deep silence. No one spoke as the words hung in the air between the three of us. His mother’s face was a picture – she was struck dumb by the news. But there was very little she could do about it other than smile. After all, she had guessed that her son had already spent a month’s wages on my ring.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ she said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. She cast her beady eyes over the expensive ring, which was still perched in its box.

  ‘Mind you,’ she said, turning her attentions to me, ‘you can’t have it yet because it wouldn’t be proper, not until you’ve formally announced your engagement.’

  So we did. We became officially engaged on 16 May – it was the day of my 17th birthday and the day that I got to wear my ring for the very first time.

  Eventually, Iris warmed to the idea of having me as a daughter-in-law and gave us her blessing. The wedding date was set for 27 April 1963. My dream had finally come true.

  It was a beautiful crisp spring day when I walked into St Mary’s parish church, in Bulwell, Nottingham, to become Tony’s wife. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

  As my parents were divorced and I hardly ever saw my father, it was decided that my grandfather George would give me away. Proudly, he guided me down the aisle towards my husband. Even though my mother was a single parent, she gave me the best wedding day a bride could wish for. She had bought my wedding dress from a designer she worked with. It was white brocade with a double skirt leading to a long train. It had long white sleeves that led to a neat little point over the back of my hands. They fastened around the wrist with tiny looped brocade-covered buttons. The same buttons ran down the length of the dress at the back. It was simply beautiful.

  It was all I’d ever wanted – to be married, go on to have a family of my own and be a good mother to my children. But Iris couldn’t help herself – she had to get in just one more dig.

  As we left the wedding reception full of excitement and about to embark on our new life together, I heard a lone voice start up at the back. It was Iris – she was singing. Everyone turned to look in astonishment as her voice carried loud and clear across the function room.

  ‘Oh! Oh! Antonio,

  ‘He’s gone away,

  ‘Left me alone-ee-o,

  ‘All on my own-ee-o.’

  She wailed the chorus again and again in her loudest voice. My mother was mortified and later gave her a piece of her mind. Meanwhile, I wondered what my new life had in store for me.

  Tony’s dad Bernard was the manager of a chain of mini-market shops. He had heard through the grapevine that a flat above one of the shops was coming up to let. It was small and cramped, with only one bedroom, but it was perfect for a newlywed couple looking for a starter home.

  A few months later, we were thrilled to discover I was pregnant with our first child. I sailed through the pregnancy and, as if to perfect the dream, on our first wedding anniversary our beautiful son was born. We named him Mark Anthony Aram.

  He was two weeks over his due date but he was long and thin, weighing in at 6lbs 5oz. Back then, this was considered to be just over premature-baby weight. But, at 22 inches long, our son was destined to be as tall as his father.

  The birth had been horrendous. The nurses had approached me earlier with a glass and insisted that I drink a foul concoction of orange juice and cod liver oil to bring on the labour. I held my nose as the oily acidic mixture slid down my throat. I don’t know how I kept it down – I had to stop myself from gagging as I swallowed. But, as soon as I held my baby boy in my arms, all of that was forgotten.

  Tony was desperately waiting for news back home. In those days, men were not allowed to be at the birth of their children. Instead, they were sent for once everything was over and the baby had been cleaned up and was ready to be presented to its father.

  I was 18 years old when I had Mark – in many ways still a child – but now I was beginning a new chapter in my life as a mother.

  The three of us soon became a happy family unit. I had already decided when I was pregnant that I would give up my work as a hairdresser and concentrate on being the best mum that I could possibly be.

  I adored being a mother and everything that went with it. I breastfed Mark, even though it was fashionable back then to put your baby on the bottle. I’d also sing lullabies to him until he drifted off to sleep. Sometimes I’d just sit quietly, holding him in my arms, watching him sleep. I’d stare at him for hours, drinking in each and every one of his perfect little features. I could hardly believe that he was mine to keep. Motherhood had exceeded my expectations so much so that I decided that we should have another child as soon as possible. I wanted my children to be close so we started trying for another baby.

  We didn’t have to wait long. When Mark was a couple of years old, I discovered I was expecting again. I was careful that Mark wouldn’t get jealous or feel pushed out in anyway, so I involved him at every opportunity. As my body began to swell with the new life growing inside it, I would take Mark’s tiny hand in mine and place it flat against my stomach. At first, the baby’s kicks would make Mark jump back in astonishment but soon he loved to ‘feel’ the baby.

  ‘Is that my baby brother or sister in there?’ he asked, wide-eyed with wonder.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, it is.’

  After that, every time the baby kicked or moved, Mark would be at my side.

  ‘Is the baby saying hello?’ he asked one afternoon.

  ‘It is,’ I replied.

  ‘Is it today that we are having our new baby, Mummy?’

  ‘No, not today, Mark, but ver
y soon.’

  By this time, we’d moved into a smart little bungalow. Months of dragging Mark’s heavy pushchair had put an end to our days in the little flat above the shop.

  In February, I went out shopping with a friend. I’d felt a little odd all day as we walked around browsing at clothes on rails, and, by the afternoon, I felt even odder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told my friend, ‘but I think I’m going to have to go home now.’

  I started to walk home with Mark in his pushchair. The walk into the small town had been downhill all the way, so, of course, getting home was a different matter – all uphill. I had to keep stopping as I puffed and panted for breath, and I was relieved when we finally made it through the front door.

  As the evening progressed, I began to feel pain. There was a tightening across my stomach and contractions. By the early hours of the morning, the pain was so excruciating that I called the midwife, who came to check on me.

  ‘Jacqui, I can’t believe you’ve been out shopping – you’re in labour!’ the midwife exclaimed.

  Tony took Mark next door to keep him out of the way and, a few hours later, our beautiful daughter Colette was born. She weighed more than Mark – a healthy 7lbs 15oz, her skin was olive and she had a shock of black hair. She was just like a baby doll – perfect in every way.

  When Mark was brought home, as soon as he saw her, his face lit up with wonder. ‘Is that my baby, Mummy?’ he gasped, running over to the cot where his little sister was sleeping soundly.

  I smiled and nodded. ‘This is your sister Colette,’ I told him.

  ‘I finally got my baby today!’ he cheered, dancing around the room. ‘I love her so much, Mummy. I love her and I will always look after her.’

  It was a promise Mark would keep – from that moment on, the two of them were always as close as they had been in that special shared moment.

  Tony came back into the room. We smiled as Colette nestled peacefully in my arms. Her warm little body rested against my heart linked together forever by an invisible chain of love.

  Colette’s hair remained dark and glossy – just like her father’s – and her huge expressive eyes were the colour of dark almonds. She was as pretty as a picture and adored by everyone who saw her.

  As they grew, Mark and Colette remained as close as the day she was born. Mark was always very protective of his little sister. It was as though he saw it as his job to look after her – to keep her from harm. They would walk to the local primary school holding hands, Mark guiding Colette every step of the way.

  I refused to have a babysitter – they were my children and far too precious to be left with just anybody. Instead, we did everything together as a family. The school was only at the end of the road but, as an over-protective mother, I insisted on walking them. But, as they grew, I knew it was time to start loosening the apron strings, and they began demanding to walk there together. I gave in and allowed it, but I still stood watching from the front doorstep. Sometimes I had to pinch myself – how had I produced such wonderful, caring children?

  Of course, they weren’t perfect. Like any brother and sister, they would often argue and fall out with one another. If Mark was watching a boring programme on TV, Colette would giggle and tease him until he got fed up and left the room; that way, she could switch to a channel she wanted to watch. She was also a real practical joker and was always winding her brother up.

  Colette adored Mark and would often hang on his every word, but sometimes it was just comedy. One day, when Mark was eight years old, I was cooking in the kitchen and the children were eating at the table. Mark had obviously had a full day of learning at school and was bursting to share his newfound knowledge with his little sister.

  As they ate their tea, Mark decided to impart some of his wisdom. ‘Colette, you know the eggs that you eat for breakfast?’

  As usual, Colette stopped mid-mouthful to listen to him, and nodded attentively.

  ‘Well, they haven’t been fergalised…’ he explained.

  Colette, not wanting to appear less sophisticated than him at five years old, nodded wisely. ‘Yes,’ she said, all matter of fact, ‘I know.’

  She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about (neither did I for that matter. Later we worked out he meant ‘fertilised’), but I had to clasp my hand across my mouth to stop myself from crying with laughter.

  The children were quite a team when they put their heads together about something, and they constantly nagged me about getting a dog of their own. I wasn’t so sure but I relented when my mum bought them a gorgeous Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She’d taken them to the local breeding kennels in Stanton on the Wolds, and they picked out the pup that they’d loved the best.

  By the time they arrived home, Colette was fit to burst with excitement. ‘We’re calling him Brandy,’ she announced as they ran through the door to tell me the news.

  Mark was equally thrilled but Brandy was too young to leave his mother, so it was a few more weeks until we were able to go back to the kennels to collect him. Colette was so desperate to bring the dog home that she counted down every single day.

  At that time, we had a huge back garden. I’ve always had a passion for cooking and I use fresh ingredients wherever I can, so I’d insisted that we have our own vegetable patch to grow fresh produce. The garden had a long strip of grass outside the back door, separated by a trellis which gave way to my hallowed vegetable patch. The soil was dark and rich and harboured carrot and runner bean plants. I also had a series of fruit trees, including raspberries and blackcurrants, and nestled right in the middle were my beloved strawberry plants. I lovingly tended them, watering them religiously day and night. The children would look on but I wouldn’t let them taste the fruit until it was ready to pick.

  One day, all the ripened strawberries were missing when I went to pick them. It was a mystery. After that, it kept happening. When asked, Mark and Colette denied eating them, yet every time the plants were due to ripen, the berries would mysteriously disappear. I began to think that we had a poacher sneaking into the garden at nightfall. It was a complete mystery until one afternoon when the children caught the culprit red-handed – a shame-faced Brandy, tucking into the crop straight from the plants. The brown and white fur around his mouth was stained bright red with sweet, sticky strawberry juice!

  As the children became more independent, I decided that I would take a part-time job to make life easier and help pay towards a few luxuries such as school trips and holidays abroad. I also wanted to be a good mum and be there for them. So I planned my working day accordingly. I would work in a local hairdressing salon three days a week until 3.30pm, but I’d always be there when Mark and Colette came home from school at 4pm.

  With less of me around, Mark and Colette got their heads together again and hatched a plan to go horse riding. It wasn’t cheap but I was steamrollered into letting them go.

  ‘I’ll speak to Dad,’ I promised, but they already knew that they’d won me over.

  Tony agreed, and soon they were going for their first lesson. They took to it like ducks to water.

  ‘Look at them,’ I commented to Tony, as we stood proudly watching them. ‘You wouldn’t get me up there in a month of Sundays, but they look so comfortable – they’re naturals.’

  And it was true, they were. Soon the children looked forward to their Saturday-morning horse-riding lessons. I wanted to give them a perfect childhood filled with lots of happy memories, as far removed from my own as I could get.

  On the way home in the car, Mark and Colette would compare notes and chat about the lesson. Listening to their excited chatter and looking at the joy on their little faces made my heart swell with pride.

  Soon the children were experts at riding. At that time the stable owner, Bob Humphries, had decided to introduce jousting. The children were too young to take part but we would all go as a family to watch the instructors dressed in their heavy and cumbersome chain armour suits, a look of determination on
their faces as they tried to knock their opponents from the rival horse.

  We now seemed to be eating, sleeping and breathing horse riding. But, like all good things, it came to an end. One Saturday morning we took them along and we were told that they were ready to start competing at show jumping.

  ‘Soon, they’ll be able to compete in gymkhanas,’ the instructor enthused.

  I heard Mark sigh heavily behind me. He wasn’t keen. ‘I just want to ride, Mum,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to do any competitions.’

  He was worried that he would be forced to do something that he really didn’t want to do, and, by the end of the lesson, his mind was made up. Mark decided he didn’t want to go riding any more, and told me so in the car on the way home.

  I glanced over at Colette, who was unusually quiet. ‘And what do you want to do, love?’ I asked.

  ‘Er, I’ll try it and see how I get on,’ she said, but it was obvious that, without her big brother at her side, the magic had gone.

  Colette did return the following Saturday, but without Mark it wasn’t the same and she decided that she didn’t want to go back.

  When Mark was 12, the children’s beloved dog Brandy passed away. They missed him, especially Colette, who was broken-hearted. In the end, the following Christmas, we decided to buy her a little Yorkshire terrier, which she called Mitzy. Soon she and Mitzy were inseparable and went everywhere together.

  From the age of ten, Colette followed in my footsteps quite literally and took up ballroom dancing along with ballet and tap. Soon she was entering competitions in outfits made by my mother, who was such a talented dressmaker. Over the years, thanks to Mum’s dazzling outfits and her own talents, Colette won several medals and diplomas, all of which took pride of place on our mantelpiece at home.

  During the long, warm summer holidays, we would pack up the car, drive to the east coast with Mitzy in tow and stay in my mother’s bungalow in Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire. By this time, Mum had remarried, to a man called Ron Twells. It was good to see her happy once more. When Tony and I had to return to work, my mum and stepfather would look after the kids at the bungalow so they could enjoy the rest of their school break.