‘I’m calling her Zara,’ he told us.
Colette adored Zara and was always making a fuss of the dog. She still had the hated hairstyle but I was working slowly to convince her to dye it back to its natural state.
A few days later, Colette was playing with Zara when Mark picked up the camera from the side unit. ‘Here, let’s get a photograph,’ he said.
Colette momentarily looked up; Mark pressed the button and the shutter snapped shut. There she was happy and smiling, frozen in time, frozen in that moment forever and ever. Little did I know then that this was to be the last ever photograph taken of my beautiful daughter and one that I would treasure during the long torturous years that followed. How I have wanted to pluck Colette from it and pull her back into my arms. I have held it to my heart countless times. It is my most treasured possession.
At 16, Colette was a child in a growing woman’s body. She held the innocence and untarnished optimism of a child. She’d spent her entire life surrounded by love and she in turn loved those who surrounded her. She’d never been exposed to violence or horror and therefore trusted others – she thought everyone was as lovely and pure as she was. She loved life and, in turn, it loved her back.
We’d protected her all her life: she was her father’s little princess, Mark’s wonderful younger sister and my angel – an extension of me – she held my heart and soul in her hands. Colette brought a bright, warm and wonderful light into our lives. Unbeknown to us, that vibrant light was about to be extinguished forever.
CHAPTER 2
THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS
It was the day before Halloween – 30 October 1983. I pulled open the curtains and squinted in the unexpected sunlight. The day was bright and full of hope. I looked at the trees outside. The golden light of early morning filtered through the branches into my bedroom. It was a glorious crisp Sunday morning, unusual for the time of year.
I heard Mark and Colette stirring, so I pulled on my slippers and dressing gown and headed down for breakfast. Tony had a lie-in, while I busied myself making a cooked breakfast for me and the children.
It was a typical weekend; everyone had plans for the day ahead. Mark was going to see a friend, while Tony and I were due to visit nearby relatives. Colette had arranged to see her boyfriend later that evening.
‘Do you want to come with me and Dad?’ I asked Colette as she picked at her poached egg on toast.
‘No, Mum, I’ll just stay here. I want to bake a cake, so I’ll do that instead. You can have it for your tea,’ she smiled.
That afternoon, Tony and I left home around 2.30pm and drove the short distance to see May and Ken. It was an afternoon of small talk but we also spent time discussing Ken’s elderly mother’s deteriorating health.
By the time we returned, it was 5pm, just in time for tea. Colette was busy clearing up in the kitchen. As soon as I walked in the front door, I smelled the delicious aroma of home cooking. I gasped when I saw it taking pride of place on the kitchen worktop – a beautiful Victoria sponge cake oozing with fresh cream and jam. It was cookbook picture perfect.
‘Wow, that looks delicious!’ I exclaimed.
Colette’s face lit up. ‘Thanks, Mum!’ she beamed. She looked so proud.
I held my hands out and Colette walked towards me, wrapped her arms around me and enveloped me in a hug. It always felt so good to hug my precious, beautiful girl.
Colette was a great cook. She took pride in her work and insisted on cleaning up the kitchen before getting ready for her date with her boyfriend Russell Godfrey.
Russell and Colette had been dating for about eight months. Russell was 17 – a year older than Colette – but he was a kind and gentle boy, the type every mother would want for their daughter.
Russell would usually drive over and pick Colette up in his silver Vauxhall. He was one of the few boys his age to have already passed his test and have his own car. Then again, his parents did run the local driving school. The family had a fleet of cars, but they were all at the garage that night. As a result, Russell had no transport.
At 7.45pm, Colette came downstairs and grabbed her coat. She’d spent time blow-drying her hair – it was dark and glossy and styled in a neat cropped cut. Colette was trying out different looks as teenage girls do. She had such a pretty little face that, whatever she did, she always looked lovely.
While Colette was still fussing over her make-up – she wanted to look her best for Russell – she told me that they planned to watch a video together and maybe go into the village later to meet up with friends.
‘I’m off to Russell’s now,’ she announced suddenly, and gave her mouth one last slick of lipgloss.
I glanced through the window at the inky black sky outside. A silvery hue from an eerie full moon was the only source of light now. The beautiful day had given way to a frosty autumn evening.
‘I’ll take you in the car,’ I said.
‘No, Mum, I’d rather walk,’ she replied, sliding her arms into her cropped red jacket. She was wearing black corduroy trousers and a white silky blouse underneath. As I glanced at her, I thought how stunning she looked, just like a model.
I glanced anxiously out the window again. It was cold and dark out there and I didn’t like the idea of my 16-year-old daughter walking alone.
‘Well, if you won’t let me take you, let your dad,’ I insisted.
But Colette was adamant. ‘It’s a nice night. I’d rather walk. But, if Russell calls, tell him that I’m going to walk up Nicker Hill.’
Nicker Hill was the main hill leading through the village. It had a fairly steep incline but it was well lit on one side with fields on the other side of the road. I knew that Colette would keep to the well-lit path, as Russell’s home was in Willow Brook, which joined that side of the road.
I can’t explain it, but I had a knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I simply didn’t want her walking the 10 minutes to Russell’s house. But what could I do? Colette was an independent 16-year-old; she knew her own mind and didn’t want her mother fussing.
Before she left, Colette walked over and said, ‘Love you lots and lots.’ Then she gave me a kiss.
‘Love you too,’ I called back as she walked out of the house and closed the front door behind her.
It was 7.50pm when she left.
Russell rang five minutes later. I told him what Colette had said and he set off on his bike to meet her. At 8.10pm, the phone rang again. It was Russell. His voice was breathless and he sounded a little confused.
‘Jacqui, I thought you said that Colette had walked up Nicker Hill?’
‘I did, Russell – that’s what Colette told me.’
‘Well,’ he said, trying to catch his breath, ‘I’ve cycled all the way around the village and I can’t see her anywhere.’
Suddenly, I felt very sick. The knot of anxiety in my stomach had risen through my body and was now lodged as a lump in my throat. On hearing Russell’s words, my throat went bone dry and was constricted with panic. I knew in an instant that something was very wrong. Colette was the kind of girl who hated others to worry about her. If she’d stopped off anywhere, she would have phoned to tell us. She knew how worried her father and I would have been.
Colette had left just over ten minutes before but I knew instinctively that she was missing. I put the phone down, took a deep breath, picked the receiver back up and dialled 999.
The police officer on the other end of the line didn’t share my concern. ‘How can you say a 16-year-old girl is missing at 8pm on a Sunday night?’ he scoffed, more than a hint of disbelief in his voice.
‘Easy,’ I told him, ‘because she’s my daughter. It’s just not like her to vanish like this. I know her.’
Colette had been brought up to respect others. She was a caring girl who wouldn’t want to upset or annoy people. She always operated within certain boundaries and would never just decide to take off without telling anyone.
‘What time is she usually home at night?’ as
ked the officer. His voice had softened a little. I guess he thought he was dealing with an over-protective mother.
‘Around 9.30pm, or just after, but never much later. She knows how much I’d worry.’
The officer thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, I’ll tell you what, if she’s not home for 10.30pm, just give us another call.’
With that, he hung up.
I was dumbstruck. Instinct told me that something was very wrong, but how could I get the police to take my fears seriously? I knew something had happened to my daughter. I picked the receiver back up and began dialling frantically around all our friends and family to see if they’d seen or heard from Colette. No one had.
I called all the hospitals in the area. Had they admitted a teenage girl? Had Colette been caught up in some dreadful accident? But I got the same answer from every A&E switchboard – there had been no reported accident concerning a girl in or around Keyworth.
By this point, I was crying. Huge teardrops streamed down my face and pooled into my hands.
Tony stood by me, ashen-white. He felt as helpless as I did but tried his best to reassure me. ‘Come on, Jacqui. You always think the worst. Everything will be OK,’ he soothed.
I wanted to believe him – to think that there was a simple explanation, but there wasn’t. I knew my daughter too well. She was my twin – the double of me. Colette wouldn’t have just wandered off somewhere on her own at night.
We stood still for a few moments. Suddenly, I said, ‘We’ve got to find her, Tony. She’s lying in a hedge somewhere – I know she is.’
The survival instinct kicked into both of us. We jolted into action. As her parents, we could do something about this.
‘Let’s get the cars and go and look for her,’ said Tony.
Soon, we were ringing around asking others to join in the search for our daughter. If the police wouldn’t help us, then we’d do it ourselves.
Tony and I called our neighbour and friend Jan. She was also the acting manageress of the hairdressing salon where Colette worked. Jan and her husband Tony came over to help us look for Colette. My aunt May also drove over in her car. In the middle of all this commotion, Mark arrived home. He was bewildered by my tears and the building sense of panic at home.
‘Colette’s missing,’ I said, tears stinging in my eyes as I mouthed the words, which made it all too real. ‘We’re all going to look for her.’
‘I’ll help,’ Mark gasped, as he grabbed his car keys and ran back to his parked car on the drive outside.
We all drove towards different parts of the village – it felt good to be proactive – but we couldn’t find Colette anywhere. We travelled along the route that she would have taken and beyond, just in case, but there was still no sign of her. It was hopeless.
By 9.30pm, I was frantic and couldn’t wait much longer. I rang the police a second time. I was in a state of true panic. My heart thumped so loudly that I thought it would leap out of my chest. I spoke to another police officer who agreed to help me.
‘We’ll send someone out,’ he promised me.
At last, I thought, we’ll find her now. But the first officer who knocked at our door told me that he was here to search our loft. ‘Just in case,’ he reasoned.
‘Why on earth would she be in the loft?’ I asked, incredulous.
Despite my protests, he strode past me, climbed the stairs and opened up the loft hatch in the landing ceiling. The officer switched on his torch and climbed up awkwardly through it. I watched numbly in disbelief as the light darted around the darkened, empty loft space above.
‘Why would she be in the loft?’ I repeated, tears of frustration welling up inside me.
This was pointless. We were wasting precious time. Colette could be anywhere, I thought. She could be hurt, crying out for me.
‘She left home perfectly happy a few hours ago,’ I insisted. This loft ‘search’ was nonsense.
Moments later, the police officer was back on the landing, dusting himself down. ‘Nothing up there but storage boxes,’ he agreed, gesturing upwards with his finger.
I was exasperated. Each minute that ticked by was another minute without my daughter, another minute with her further from me and the safety of her family.
The officer radioed the information back to police headquarters, who agreed to send backup. It was midnight by the time four uniformed officers arrived at our home with two sniffer dogs. They planned to walk with the police dogs towards the bottom of Nicker Hill, which was five minutes’ walk from our home in Normanton Lane.
‘Wait,’ I said, grabbing the nearest coat, ‘I’m coming with you.’
I pulled on the coat, a thin, lime-green leather-look raincoat. It was my favourite coat but now it was associated with the horrors of searching for my daughter. I was frozen with both cold and fear as I followed the officers and searched nearby fields.
My mind was racing. I was panic-stricken. My throat was tight and dry and I felt sick as we walked along the darkened road. I kept repeating the same thing to myself over and over again: ‘She’s lying in a hedge bottom somewhere. She’s dead. I just know she is. Colette wouldn’t put us through this.’
My teeth chattered with fear as I spoke. My whole body began to shake uncontrollably.
‘We must find her. Please, God, help us find my baby,’ I kept repeating like a prayer.
I was freezing and crying, unable to get the thought out of my head that Colette was lying dead somewhere. I begged the officers to find her.
Although it was still a full moon, the light had faded hours before, making the search almost impossible.
‘We’re going to have to stop and continue with it tomorrow,’ a senior officer announced. He felt so uncomfortable with his own announcement that he was barely able to look me in the eye.
Then he asked me about Colette’s friends. How could I be certain that she hadn’t stopped off somewhere? They asked about Colette’s friend Sarah Newman, whose parents ran the Golden Fleece pub in Upper Broughton, outside the village.
‘Do you think that she might have strolled over there?’ the officer asked.
‘I am telling you, I know my daughter,’ I sobbed. ‘There is no way that she would have walked across fields and a motorway to get there. Why would she?’
The police told me to make the call anyway, so I did. It was the early hours of the morning when the phone rang at the Golden Fleece pub, but I remember that call as if it was yesterday. Sarah’s mother answered and went to wake her sleeping daughter. But Sarah hadn’t seen or heard from Colette that night – it appeared that no one had. It was as though my daughter had simply vanished off the face of the earth.
Instead, weary with both mental and emotional exhaustion, I returned home and hung my damp raincoat back on the cloakroom peg. I never wore my favourite coat again.
By this time, Colette’s boyfriend had arrived at our house. Russell was in a dreadful state and wanted to stay with us throughout the night in case we heard any news.
Tony, Mark, Russell and I stood in a daze; the stark kitchen light highlighted the growing fear and worry on our faces. In a matter of hours, we had been drawn into a living nightmare, a torturous waiting game that could not even begin to come to an end until first light.
We did wait. We waited for Colette to walk in the front door. We waited for a phone call that never came. Then, in those last few hours, we sat waiting for the sun to rise once more and cast light on Colette’s sudden disappearance.
I heard the sound of a van pull up outside. I dashed to the front door, hoping that it was the police bringing her home. But it was the milkman. It was 5am, and I startled him as I flung open the door to ask if he’d seen Colette.
‘She’s been missing all night,’ I explained, shaking and red-eyed from crying.
The milkman had known Colette since she was a little girl so he knew it was completely out of character for her to go missing. ‘That’s not like Colette,’ he replied, a little shocked. ‘But, i
f I see her, I’ll certainly let her know how worried you all are.’
I thanked him for his kindness, but by now I felt dead inside, like all hope had been lost.
I closed the front door wearily and returned to Tony. ‘I just know she’s dead in a hedge somewhere,’ I said, weeping.
Tony had reassured me earlier. But now, the more he thought about it, the more he knew something was very wrong. Eventually, he stopped talking altogether and we all just sat there in silence, numb and shell-shocked.
At 5.45am, I made the call I had been dreading. I called my mother Joyce to tell her that Colette was missing. I could barely get the words out for crying and Mum had to keep asking me to repeat what I was saying. She said she’d be over straight away with my stepfather.
When I saw her car pull up outside, I ran straight to her and, as she held me in her arms, I collapsed in a heap of tears. Everything seemed so surreal. Other people had arrived at our house too. My aunt and uncle, who we’d spent the day before with, turned up along with Russell’s parents. They felt dreadful and, like the rest of us, they blamed themselves.
‘If only the cars hadn’t been off the road,’ Russell had said time and time again throughout the night.
His parents stayed for an hour or so but no one knew what to say or think. My mum went into the kitchen to make everyone a cup of tea. I think it was her way of coping; something to occupy her mind, to stop her thinking the worst.
I appreciated everyone’s kindness, but I could barely speak to them. Instead, I just sat by the window, waiting for the light to come and bring me my daughter back home.
As soon as dawn broke, Mark and my stepfather Ron went out to continue the search. They were driving past a nearby field off Thurlby Lane, about a mile and a half from our home, when Mark spotted the striped blue tape of a police cordon at the side of a field. His car screeched to a halt. Mark jumped from the car and began running towards the cordoned-off field by the bottom of a hedgerow. As he approached, a police officer tried to hold him back, but it was too late. Mark glanced over the officer’s shoulder and saw a sight that will haunt him for the rest of his life.
Justice for Colette: My daughter was murdered - I never gave up hope of her killer being found. He was finally caught after 26 years Page 4
