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

  ‘We are pursuing all lines of enquiry and will continue to do so, Jacqui,’ he said, trying to reassure me. It wasn’t working. Far from it.

  He continued, ‘We will never give up looking for the man who did this to your daughter, however long it takes.’ He turned his gaze from mine to a picture of Colette.

  I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe what he was telling me, but, every time I turned on the TV, the news told me that all available officers were policing the miners and the ever-growing strike.

  The phone stopped ringing and the journalists stopped knocking at the door for quotes. It appeared most of them, like the police, were tied up one way or another with the same strike.

  In the meantime, my family and I sat and waited.

  ‘I wish they’d catch the bastard,’ I sobbed to Mum one evening. I was exasperated. ‘How long is this going to take?’

  But Mum had no answers. Nobody did.

  My father had died before Colette’s killer had been brought to justice; then when my stepfather Ron passed away, I thought how another life had been lost without knowing who had been responsible for taking Colette away from us. There was so much pain.

  Things were not good with my job back at the salon, either. It’s never a good idea to work with family, especially when your family is going through an ordeal as horrific as murder. My emotions were running far too high. My aunt had bought the salon for Colette and me, but my precious daughter never even got the chance to work alongside me. The dream had evaporated and died the same day her broken and battered body had been found in that field.

  The salon had been named Jacqui’s – after me – but the constant reminder that this had all been for Colette was too much to bear. My beloved aunt and I eventually had an argument about the way the salon was being run and I left that same day. We didn’t speak for a year, which broke my heart as we’d always been so close. They sold the salon to another member of staff, so I decided to return to my old job at Guerlain.

  My aunt and I eventually made up. She died just over a decade later, followed just two years on by my lovely uncle Ken. Like the others before them, they had died not knowing who had killed our lovely Colette.

  As time went on, I became more and more frustrated.

  ‘I wish I knew where to find the bastard,’ I’d rage to friends and anyone else who would listen. ‘I wish I could get my hands on him, I’d lay out my own justice on him…’

  Pent-up anger, hurt and frustration boiled inside me like lava in a volcano. It changed me as a person; I suspected everyone and became suspicious of close friends and particularly men in general.

  But looking for her killer was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Where could I start? If the police had no new leads, how would I, an untrained mum-of-two, know where to start looking?

  The only solid thing I had to go on was a photofit of Colette’s killer. It had been posted in the local paper at the beginning of the manhunt and showed two faces – one bearded, one with just a moustache. Statements taken from independent witnesses had convinced the police that they were one and the same man and detectives were certain that the beard was false.

  I held the image of that photofit in my head and, whenever I was out shopping or working behind the counter, I’d scan the crowds of people passing through. The man was described as aged 30 to 35 years old, 5ft 7ins to 5ft 10ins tall, with dark bubble-curled hair, as was the fashion at that time.

  I’d dream of the call from the police saying that they had caught him. I’d sit and wait for the telephone to ring but the call never came. I constantly dreamed of my day in court with me facing him – my daughter’s depraved killer. I imagined him getting the maximum life sentence for his crime and the judge telling him how he’d never see daylight again.

  In my heart – and against some public opinion – I wanted him to hang. I wanted to watch the life drain from him just as he’d done with Colette. He’d cut off the life inside her the night he strangled her; he’d squeezed until she fought for her last breath. Her final memory of this life would be the vicious face of her killer kneeling angry and demented as he hovered over her. I wanted him to suffer too.

  But I also worried. What if they caught the wrong man? The last thing I wanted was for an innocent life to be affected by his vile crime.

  I vowed to myself that, if they caught him and he didn’t get a long sentence, I’d be there in my car, waiting for him to come through those prison doors. I’d wait to mete out my own justice on behalf of Colette. I dreamed of it often: the engine running, my foot on the accelerator, pressing down, revving the engine, watching and waiting to see the fear in his eyes; the same fear my daughter would have had. Watching him flee, scared for his life as I hunt him down like the animal he is.

  I convinced myself that, if he was caught, he would be out of prison within ten years. I had seen it time and time again on the news. The grieving families forgotten, banished to a memory – a flashback image of grief-stricken people weeping on the court steps, while, back in the studio, the newsreader announces that the killer has been released after serving a paltry sentence. I didn’t want to be like those families.

  Instead, I told everyone about my plan with the car, even the police. I’d given myself away but I didn’t care – I would have taken his life, just as he had taken my daughter’s life and my reason for living away from me. I would have killed him; I would have done it for Colette.

  I remember when Eric Morecambe died, and a friend became quite upset upon hearing the news. ‘Don’t you think it’s sad that he’s died?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s very sad,’ I replied, a little sharply. ‘But you know what? At least he had a good and full life. At least he died from natural causes, which is more than we can say for my daughter.’

  The woman looked up at me and then quickly away as if she wanted to hook her words on to a fishing line and reel them right back in again. I felt embarrassed too by my outburst. It wasn’t her fault. But what had I become? This wasn’t me, this wasn’t the fun-loving Jacqui that everyone knew and loved. I had become an angry and bitter parody of that woman. That Jacqui had long gone and been replaced by someone frightened of her own shadow; sad, lonely, angry and carrying the deepest wound in her heart. My wound was invisible but I knew it was there, I lived with it every day – a huge gaping hole in my heart, wider than a canyon and deeper than a well.

  I had become damaged goods.

  My friends were a great source of support throughout this time as we waited for something, anything, to come from the police working on the murder inquiry. They knew the real me, not the bitter one. They protected and cared for me. Many would just drop by for a cuppa and a chat; others would call and insist on taking me out. At one point, a few of them got together to plan a birthday treat for me at one of my favourite places – The Victoria Club, a members-only club where you could lunch or have dinner. The place was smart, with a Victorian theme from the clothes of the waiting staff to the décor. We were all members there and with good reason.

  The club was plush inside and boasted its own chauffeurs who would take our keys and park our cars around the back. I liked this because it made me feel safe. I’d spent years feeling so vulnerable, but going out on evenings like this was like having a warm comfort blanket wrapped around me – further protection from the nagging feeling that I was constantly being watched.

  Many times, especially when I was still in Keyworth, I would have to force myself to go outside, even if it was just to the local shop for a pint of milk or loaf of bread. I’d often see women, old friends of mine, approaching, who, upon spotting me, would quickly glance down towards the pavement, not looking up. I knew why they did it – a fear of not knowing what to say or do, a fear that I might start crying. I knew why they avoided me, but never understood it. Just a good morning or a ‘hello, Jacqui’ would have sufficed, anything to stop me feeling so isolated within my own grief. But they put their own feelings in front of mine and I could
never forgive them for that. Just when I needed support, I was cast aside like some kind of social leper.

  When I moved to my Georgian townhouse in a new area, no one knew me as they had at the old house. I was free to come and go as I pleased. This was my new life; this is what would give me independence. I didn’t tell my neighbours who I was but they must have guessed. My face had been all over the local press in the years following Colette’s murder; surely one of them would perhaps recall seeing it in this context? If they did, they certainly never spoke to me about it, which made me feel better. It was as if I was somehow protected by a cloak of anonymity.

  The only exceptions were my immediate neighbours – a barrister and a man who lived directly opposite me. Somewhat ironically he was called Tony. He had had a girlfriend in my old village of Keyworth. They’d been going out for quite some time but had recently split. Tony and I became good friends and, because we were both on our own, we started to socialise together. The relationship was strictly platonic but it didn’t stop the tongues from wagging. If I was going for a night out with friends, Tony would come along; likewise, if he was cooking a nice meal for tea, I would get a call and an invite over to his.

  I worked in town but didn’t want to take my car in every day because of the extortionate cost of city-centre parking, so I’d catch the bus. One day, Tony saw me walking to the bus stop. ‘Here, Jacqui,’ he called as he pulled the car up alongside me. ‘Hop in; I’ll give you a lift.’

  Tony’s car was a black Porsche. It was pretty flash. Tony had his own parking facility in the city centre so after that he started giving me a lift to work. The girls at Debenhams had convinced themselves that Tony was my new rich boyfriend – my toy boy! But he was just a kind neighbour and one of the few men that I trusted.

  ‘We’re just friends,’ I tried to explain one morning at work, much to the amusement of my colleagues.

  ‘Yeah, sure, Jacqui,’ one winked back at me, grinning.

  Try as I might, there was no convincing them otherwise.

  On Sundays, I would go and visit my friend Gina for lunch. Sometimes she would come to me; it was an unspoken agreement – something to keep me company on the long weekends as I waited for the call that never came.

  My friend Val had a lifelong friend who lived out in America. Her friend had bought a cottage in a village called Woolsthorpe where the counties of Lincolnshire, Leicestershire and Nottinghamshire meet amid rolling green hills in a picture-postcard setting. It was a truly beautiful area. The cottage was called Rosy Row and it was as pretty as its name suggested. It had once been part of the tithe cottages belonging to the Duke of Rutland, and Val was the cottage caretaker. This meant we got to enjoy many sunny and happy weekends there. I’d load my car up with food and wine and we’d set off. We enjoyed long walks along the edge of the Belvoir Castle Estate, mounted high upon a hilltop in rural Leicestershire.

  There was a little pub opposite the cottage where we’d go for a drink on the Saturday night before nipping back home to cook our evening meal. Despite Colette’s death, I still enjoyed cooking; it kept me sane on the many long evenings that I spent on my own.

  When I was busy with friends, I wouldn’t have time to think about my situation – how my life was on hold waiting for a development or breakthrough in the case. It was only once I was alone with my thoughts that reality would kick back in like a solid right hook to the side of my head. It would leave me reeling. I was alone and lonely. I mourned my old, familiar life. I just wanted my husband and children to surround me once more. I didn’t choose this new, cold, independent life. I wanted things to be as they were before, but how could they ever be like that again?

  The police continued to visit, but due to a lack of new information these visits slowly petered out.

  ‘That’s it. He’s got away with it,’ I told friends.

  They tried to reassure me but what could anyone say? Four years had passed and nothing.

  I felt totally helpless, so I decided to do something positive, something to help others and stop my grief and frustration from swamping me entirely. I became a voluntary worker for Victim Support. It was my way of helping other people who had suffered as I was suffering myself. I was given my own ID card with a picture of me smiling out from it. The smile was false, of course. I had nothing to smile about, but at least now, for the first time in years, I had a purpose to my life. I decided to grab it with both hands.

  Soon, I spent all my free time on this fulfilling and rewarding work. I would be given the details of the person I needed to visit and I always telephoned beforehand to arrange a meeting. I loved giving support to those who needed it. It was something that had not been available to us back in 1983 – the year of Colette’s murder. Victim Support was a new scheme and it was working, really making a difference to those who needed it. I felt like I was giving something back to society. I was able to help others by sharing some of my own grief and, in turn, that compassion for other human beings began to heal me. The thought that I’d made even the slightest difference to someone’s life helped me enormously. Slowly at first – but surely – I was beginning to heal.

  I stayed in my little Georgian townhouse for two years before I was offered the chance of seasonal work abroad in Greece in 1988.

  I’d been on holiday the previous year and really enjoyed myself. Then I was offered a job as a holiday rep for the following summer with a Cypriot-based company called Grecian Holidays.

  I was torn about what to do for the best. Would I be running away? I supposed I would be, but at least out there I would not be Colette Aram, the murdered girl’s mum. I could be me – nobody knew who I was and no one would ever have to know anything about my past. I could be Jacqui Aram or Jacqui whoever. I could be whatever I wanted to be. This could be my fresh start, if I wanted it to be.

  It felt like it might be a lifeline.

  In the end, it was Mark who helped make the decision for me. ‘Mum,’ he sighed one day, ‘it’s time for you to take the bull by the horns and go and live your life. You’ve spent so long being unhappy and looking over your shoulder all the time. Maybe you should just do this and see where it takes you. If it doesn’t work out, you can always come home. If it does work out, then all the better.’

  I knew he was right. I needed to take a chance on life. With Colette and my marriage gone, what did I have to lose? I listened to what Mark had to say, and I also knew that, wherever she was, this is what Colette would have wanted – for me to be happy.

  This was a potential new chapter of my life, and it was there for the taking.

  I decided to take it.

  CHAPTER 7

  A NEW LIFE IN GREECE

  The crank phone calls and the feeling I was being watched continued right up until the day I left for Greece. I’d moved into my new home in 1985, and my divorce from Tony had finally come through at the end of that same year. Three years later, after trying to move on with my life in Nottingham, I finally admitted defeat. I couldn’t escape my fears and grief; I needed a fresh start so I decided to go for it and moved to Greece to work during the spring of 1988.

  Still, I wasn’t sure whether to sell my house or rent it out. A friend suggested that I sell; I didn’t need the stress of being a landlord and not knowing if the rent would be paid on time, he reasoned.

  I considered this. My friend had a point. But, at the same time, I worried that selling my home would mean that I was cutting my ties with England and with my daughter. In the end, I decided to sell and be done with it – Colette would always be in my heart, no matter where I lived.

  I never doubted for a second that I would be happy living in Greece. It was such a beautiful country. I’d absolutely loved it when I’d been on holiday there the year before. A friend had wanted to go back and work there, so we had both applied to be holiday reps for Grecian Holidays. Unfortunately, I got a job and she didn’t, even though it was at her suggestion. I felt terribly guilty, almost as if I’d stolen it from her. But I had a
sales background and so it helped secure the job for me. However, my friend never really spoke to me again after that, apart from a brisk ‘hello’. It hurt me no end. We’d been through such a lot together but this was another friendship lost.

  Soon I was jetting off to a new life on Zakynthos, one of the Ionian islands. The temperature and way of life was so different to working in a department store back in cold and rainy Nottingham. At first I felt a bit lost, but within a few weeks I relished my new role working as a holiday rep and making other people happy. I stayed for six months and absolutely loved it. I wasn’t ‘the murdered girl’s mum’; I was just Jacqui and I could be happy once more.

  Once the summer season had finished, I packed my bags and came back home to Nottingham where I settled at Mum’s house for the winter months. Then I went back to Greece again. In the beginning, I’d come back at the summer season’s end. But I found that the English cold and October – Halloween month – carried with it too many bad memories. After that, I decided that I would only return to England before Christmas when the ghouls of October had long since passed.

  During my time at home, I’d secure Christmas work, then sales and promotions work until the new holiday season began in Greece. It was the perfect arrangement.

  When the police stopped calling, my brother Michael – a police officer himself – contacted Nottinghamshire force headquarters to tell them to get in touch with him if there were any new developments. It was vital that I didn’t miss anything just because I was living and working in another country. Michael even gave the detectives his unique police badge number so that he could always be traced. But the call never came.

  By this time, I had made lots of friends in Greece and I needed to decide what I was going to do. I could either make my home there or return to the UK. In the end, Greece won. I rented a house and bought new furniture to make my life as comfortable as possible. It was an older-style property in a little village called Ambelokipi. It had two bedrooms, a lounge, a kitchen and a bathroom. It was small inside but, when I went to view it, I saw something which changed my mind and made me fall in love with the place. The property boasted its very own beautiful long balcony, which caught the rays of the sun at all times of the day. It also had a very large garden. This needed a bit of work as the grass was yellow, wispy and overgrown. I promised myself I would make a start on it as soon as I was settled in.