‘For as others celebrate, the Aram family will be remembering the tragedy which destroyed their lives – the brutal murder of 16-year-old Colette.’
I wept as I read. But we had made the front page and hopefully it would make an impact on those filling their shopping trolleys in supermarkets with food and presents for Christmas. We needed that vital call – the breakthrough to help catch this monster. Someone out there must know who he is, I thought. Someone must suspect a brother, a son, a husband? I needed to get the public on side to catch her killer. I didn’t want my daughter to be forgotten.
Days later it was Christmas. Needless to say, there were no celebrations of any kind. We were still deep in mourning for our daughter and trying to come to terms with what had happened to her.
I took my frustration out on the police.
‘Why haven’t you caught him?’ I yelled down the phone at one of the detectives, angry tears filling my eyes. ‘You won’t catch him, will you? He’s too clever for you. You will never catch him and I will never get any justice for my lovely Colette.’
I was lashing out verbally but the police officers were gentle. I felt like a woman possessed. I was frustrated by their lack of progress and how slowly the case was moving. The killer must have been revelling in our frustration too. He’d even written to the police mocking them from afar. He was cocky and vicious. He knew the more time that passed, the more chance he had of quite literally getting away with murder – my little girl’s murder. He was cruel and heartless but he was also smart and cunning.
‘Jacqui,’ the detective insisted gently, ‘you need to have more confidence in us. We will catch him and we won’t rest until we do. This case will never be closed until that moment.’
But how was I supposed to believe them? The killer had sent a letter saying they’d never catch him. How was I meant to believe that they would?
Still, my remarks about capital punishment in my first newspaper interview caused quite a stir and soon I was front-page news again, this time in a New Year campaign to bring back hanging. My hatred for the killer knew no bounds and I wanted him caught so he could face the death penalty for imposing the same on my daughter, who had been on the brink of adulthood and the rest of her life.
The local paper ran an article headlined: Let the killer hang. Underneath I was pictured holding a photograph of my precious Colette.
‘I believe that there is only one punishment fit for premeditated murder,’ I told the newspaper, ‘and that is death.
‘Obviously, there are some categories of murder – crimes of passion – which do not carry the same degree of premeditation. But the monster that did this to my Colette does not come into that category.
‘When he is caught, the best we can expect is that he will be sent to prison for a life sentence. But what does that mean? He could be out again in a matter of years and he could do the same thing to someone else.
‘All the time he is in prison my husband will have to work and pay taxes to keep him there.
‘I was pro-capital punishment before this happened, but obviously I am even more so now. The problem is we feel so helpless. But we are sure many more people feel like us and would be prepared to support our campaign.’
I asked people who wanted to support the campaign to write to us, adding, ‘I want to do something positive to try and bring back capital punishment. We feel it is the only penalty that people like this creature that destroyed Colette deserve.’
We had hundreds of pages of A4 paper printed up and asked people to back our campaign and sign up in support. Many sent letters to us asking for copies so that they could rally around friends and neighbours and take the campaign further afield.
I expected a trickle of letters to follow the article, but what I hadn’t anticipated was that they would arrive at our home in their hundreds. It was unbelievable. I received bundles of letters every day. Soon, we had thousands and thousands of signatures and addresses of the general public who identified with us and our campaign. These people were of the same mind, especially when it involved the cold-blooded killing of an innocent child. Colette had been my child but she could have been anyone’s daughter. We needed a strong deterrent to stop these sexual deviants from killing our children.
Many of the letters were supportive with offers of help to collect signatures on our behalf and bring about a change in the law; a few others were less supportive.
Just after Christmas, a letter handwritten on a small piece of blue paper arrived at our home, it had been written by an older lady.
It read:
‘Dear Mr and Mrs Aram, although I do not know you personally, I still feel deeply for you in your grief. However, I must also state that I think it is wrong for you to campaign for the reintroduction of the death penalty. There is no justification ever for anyone to take another’s life.
No doubt you will receive many supportive letters but it seems necessary to remind you that not all agree.
May I wish you and your family peace in your hearts.
Yours Sincerely’
I was so furious about the tone of the letter. How dare someone lecture me about compassion for others? How could I find it in my heart to forgive the man who so brutally violated my daughter? I didn’t give a damn about his human rights. I didn’t care about the wishy-washy rights or wrongs. As her mother, I wanted him to hang for what he had done to Colette. I immediately put pen to paper.
I wrote:
‘I fully agree with you that there is no justification for anyone to take another life, especially that of a 16-year-old girl who never did anyone any harm, and who was just beginning to flower into adulthood.
I am campaigning for a referendum for the return of capital punishment for premeditated murder. For a person to plan, kidnap and murder a young girl of 16, then I say this is premeditated and justifies the death penalty.
There will never be peace in my heart until the murderer is found, but, as I understand you, murderers and rapists should not pay the death penalty.
I really think you should also campaign for a nonpolice state. We could then save these taxes but put all to keeping this kind of person in comfort for a few years, so that they can come out and start again.
Disgustedly,
Jacqueline Aram (Mrs).’
Soon, tears were rolling down my face. How could I feel so much anger? Why hadn’t the police caught the man that had murdered my child?
Another letter arrived, it was typed in black and red ink, didn’t have an address and remained unsigned, a few days later.
It read:
‘Dear Mr and Mrs Aram,
Allow me to convey to your entire family my honest and sincere sympathy in your horrific and tragic loss, words are inadequate.
But, Mrs Aram, I beg of you, do not allow your grief and loss to commit you to the restoration of hanging. There must never be another Evans or Bentley, they too like your beautiful daughter cannot be restored to life, but think what their last hours on earth were like, as they waited to be murdered for a crime they did not commit.
Regarding the efforts of the police, it is due to the enormous distrust the British people have of them (and rightly so) that so many criminals are never caught. Their record (for catching murderers) in Nottingham is abysmal. There is more I would like to say, regarding the letter in the local newspaper (Evening Post), but as all letters you receive will be subject to police scrutiny, I will not.’
I was furious about this one too. What sort of person would think it appropriate to send such a thing to a grieving mother? This was scrutinised by the police and put into files along with many other strangers’ letters, including those who wrote to say they supported the campaign. I think they were hoping that, after his initial letter, the perpetrator might be stupid enough to write to me direct. However, this line of enquiry didn’t lead anywhere.
Instead, I was contacted by a man called Derek Kennedy, who offered to help me take my campaign to our local MP, who was then Ke
nneth Clarke. Mr Clarke had one Saturday put aside every month where his constituents could go along and see him.
In January, along with Derek Kennedy, I did just that.
I’d voted for this man at the earlier elections but I soon lived to regret it.
We hadn’t been there long when Kenneth Clarke asked me why we were there. I told him that I lived in Keyworth and that my daughter had been murdered there in October.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘I remember the case.’ Then he proceeded to tell me about a completely different murder.
I was astounded and shook my head in disbelief. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, ‘but you clearly have no idea about Colette’s murder.’ I went on to explain that he was referring to a different person.
He was a little flustered, but then said, ‘Oh, yes, well, my wife has more chance of being mugged and murdered in a multi-storey car park than your daughter.’
I was absolutely horrified. How dare he? I could barely believe what I was hearing, so I got up to leave. I’d listened to quite enough.
‘But thankfully your wife is alive and well, unlike my daughter who is cold and dead.’
It was as though Colette’s murder was just another government statistic. I left that day completely deflated. I’d gone to have a reasonable discussion, to get his views on capital punishment; instead, I left there feeling sickened and disgusted.
In May 1984, it was suggested to me that it would be useful if I went along to see Doris Stokes, a world-famous medium.
To be honest, I had always thought this kind of thing was a load of mumbo-jumbo, but the police informed me that sometimes the results could be quite surprising.
‘These mediums can throw up all kinds of things into the equation,’ an officer tried to explain. ‘Mediums like this have helped the police in the past.’
‘You mean that she might shed some light on what happened that night?’
He nodded. I could see that he felt awkward admitting that they used this type of ‘technology’ alongside the usual hard facts and scientific research. But, if he didn’t think it was a load of rubbish, then neither would I. Anything was worth a shot, so I agreed.
Doris was appearing at Nottingham’s Theatre Royal but she was staying at the plush Albany Hotel in the heart of the city.
A police officer had made the appointment in advance but had told Doris nothing about me or Colette. As far as she was concerned, I was a woman off the street arriving with a gentleman, possibly my husband, for the requested sitting.
At noon on Tuesday, 8 May, a family liaison police officer called Pete Pickering and I knocked on the door of Doris’s hotel suite. An elderly lady opened the door; she was short and a little plump, with greying blonde hair. The room was bright and spacious with cream walls and green velour chairs.
Doris, who was dressed in a pale-blue skirt and blouse, pulled a little jacket around her shoulders as she spoke. ‘I don’t know who you are or why you are here, but it’s obviously very important because I’m sure that the man with you is a police officer,’ she began.
Her words momentarily took Pete’s breath away. She’d been told nothing about us and had no idea about me or my daughter.
‘I believe you are a police officer,’ she said, looking Pete directly in the eye, waiting for confirmation.
Pete gave none at that time. We wanted her to tell us things.
Doris gestured for us to sit down on two chairs, which had been placed opposite her. I stole a glance at Pete. Her initial comments had thrown us both completely. Doris sat back in her chair and looked at me. Little did I know she was already connecting to something that no one else, other than her, could see or hear.
‘I get the feeling of a young person – a girl – and the age 19 years comes into it,’ she said.
I thought for a moment. Mark had just celebrated his 19th birthday, although celebrations had been somewhat muted as there was little to be joyful about. But, just as I was lost in my thoughts, Doris broke the silence.
‘Who’s Colette?’ she asked, quite out of the blue.
My heart stopped for a moment. Again I was breathless. Was there more to this than just mumbo-jumbo?
‘She’s my daughter, Doris,’ I replied, trying to contain my emotions.
Doris threw back her head slightly and her eyes looked up to the right. She wasn’t looking at anything in particular, just off into the distance.
‘Colette, come in closer,’ she said, as if talking to her directly.
Doris seemed to be struggling, but she continued. ‘My breath’s been cut off, around my throat,’ she said, clutching her hand to her throat. ‘I can’t breathe.’
Colette had been strangled so Doris’s words cut straight through my heart.
‘Trees, water nearby. Happy birthday,’ she said, ‘Happy birthday 19 years.’
I was astonished. ‘That would be Mark, her brother. He’s just had his 19th birthday,’ I said, feeling a wave of hope.
But then, as quick as a heartbeat, she seemed to be making no sense.
‘I get the months November, September, December,’ she told us.
‘November and December were the two months after the murder. The other has no significance.’
I felt my heart sink a little. After a hopeful start, this was disappointing. But Doris wasn’t finished yet.
‘Come in, darling,’ she said again, as if speaking to Colette. ‘Come a bit closer. She said she needn’t have been there.’
Then, suddenly: ‘I get the name Tony.’
Not Anthony but Tony, which is all anyone who knew my husband ever called him.
‘That’s her father,’ I explained.
‘He doesn’t talk much about it,’ she said, looking at me sadly.
I felt the warm trickle of tears sting as they rolled down my cheeks. It was true; but no one outside the family knew that.
‘He doesn’t talk much about it. She was his little princess,’ she added, hitting the nail right on the head.
I rummaged in my bag for a tissue. The tears were coming thick and fast now, as if a dam had burst; the gate had been unlocked and opened for all the pent-up emotion to come flooding out.
Doris continued, ‘She works in a place where she’s serving.’
I thought of the salon where Colette had been training before her murder. She would help and serve anyone who came into the shop from the reception.
‘I get the name David. David’s been very good.’
I cleared my throat.
‘I can only think of my half-brother David.’ I also had a friend called David George.
Doris narrowed her eyes as if in deep concentration and looked away again into the distance.
‘She was assaulted. She fought hard. Someone brought me a red rose – take it back to Mum. Don’t worry about me, Mum.’
I dabbed at my tears, the tissue in my hand becoming a soggy papery mess on my fingertips.
‘She said she spoke to someone named Michael that day. I get the name Val, Victor or something with a V. Wait a minute, it’s Yvonne. She knew the person. I get the name Steven. It comes through very strongly.’
‘That would be Steven – he was her old boyfriend,’ I said, nodding at Pete, who was busy taking notes.
‘Why did you go off with him? I knew him,’ Doris said. ‘I get the feeling of a churchyard nearby.’
I was puzzled by this; there was no churchyard near where Colette’s body had been found. And who knew who? Some of what Doris said was very confusing.
Suddenly, Doris said, ‘She didn’t suffer very much. She was probably unconscious. She was moved from one place to another.’
Pete looked up at her.
‘She was scrambling to get out of the car,’ she continued. ‘She was just dumped in this place.’
I felt sick. Colette had been abducted by car and effectively dumped. But, I wondered, could Doris have read about this somehow in the newspapers?
‘Steven. Has he got a light-coloured car?’
‘He had a silver one. He was a boyfriend.’
‘Car and Steven. Salon…’
She stopped at the word salon. Colette had been training to become a hairdresser but, unless she’d read every local newspaper, there was no way she would have known this.
‘Gone back to work,’ continued Doris. ‘Coming home from work. Didn’t arrive home.’
That didn’t make any sense. Colette went missing on her way to her boyfriend’s house but it wasn’t Steven she was meeting; it was Russell. She certainly wasn’t on her way home.
‘She’d gone to meet her boyfriend,’ I said, correcting her. By now, I couldn’t help myself.
But Doris continued with the flow of information not pausing for breath. ‘She wouldn’t have got into the car with anybody,’ she insisted. ‘I get the name Robert. I get Alan.’
‘My cousin’s boy is named Alan.’
‘I get the name Susan.’
‘That’s his mother.’
Susan was the little girl I’d lived with when Mum and Dad divorced. She’d been a baby when I’d gone to live with her, my aunt and uncle; Susan was the sister that I’d never had.
‘She says she knew him,’ Doris gasped. ‘He went berserk. I didn’t deserve it,’ she said, taking on Colette’s voice.
And then: ‘Did she have auburn hair?’
‘No, dark,’ I replied. Yet I thought of her fringe, how she’d dyed the dark on top of the blonde – it had given off an auburn tinge.
‘She said auburn hair,’ Doris insisted. ‘I get the name Peter.’
‘That’s Peter there,’ I said, pointing to the police officer sitting by my side. ‘I don’t know any other Peters.’
‘I get the name Ann?’
‘She is a friend of mine,’ I replied, thinking of the wonderful woman who had been there for me throughout these horrific past months.
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 8