We spent most of that summer together. I was due to fly home to the UK in the autumn. I’d already made my mind up that I would go home and get a job back in the UK. I loved Greece and my life out there had lasted for almost ten years. But now I felt it was time to return, as if something was pulling me back.
But when I arrived home, Peter called me. ‘When are you coming back to Greece, Jacqui?’ he said. ‘I miss you. This was a mistake. You shouldn’t have gone home. I love you, Jacqui.’
I felt torn. I loved Peter and maybe that love had scared me. It had been years since I’d been close to anyone. Now that I was, I couldn’t stop my feelings. Soon, I decided to return to Greece.
In my absence, Peter and a friend of mine had spent weeks decorating my Greek flat with new curtains and new carpets throughout. It was beautiful.
‘You’ve done all this for me?’ I asked, tears welling in my eyes, my voice cracking with emotion.
‘Yes,’ he said.
I was truly moved. It had been so long since anyone had shown me such kindness; Peter’s actions somehow restored my faith in human nature.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘don’t stay here tonight because it’ll be cold. Why don’t you come and stay at my house?’
That night I went to stay. The following day, Peter stopped me as I got up to leave and asked me to stay again. So I did. In the end, I stayed for a week. At the end of that week, Peter had an idea.
‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘We both know what’s going to happen so why don’t you just give up your flat and move in here with me?’
I looked at him in astonishment. ‘Live here with you?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
It was simple, really. Peter wanted me to live with him, and I felt the same. So I moved in. For the first time in my life since Colette’s death, I took a leap of faith. We moved in together in January 1996, and by December of that year – the day after Boxing Day – we were married in Zakynthos town hall. We had a civil ceremony but, at that time, an English priest happened to have come to the Island to take a Christmas carol service. He heard that we were getting married so, on the Friday before our wedding, he did a special blessing for us straight after the carol service. To say thank you, we invited him to our wedding where he carried out a second blessing after the civil ceremony.
As part of the Greek ceremony, the wife doesn’t have to take her husband’s name but she has to agree that any children born into that marriage will be brought up in his name. When this was mentioned at the ceremony, Peter and I laughed and so did a lot of our friends who were attending. We were both far too old and long in the tooth to be thinking about another family! I thought of Peter’s three grown-up children and Mark back home, living with his own children. I could just imagine having to tell Mark and Peter’s kids that they were going to have a new brother or sister!
I was happy but deep down I still carried this terrible guilt that I was somehow moving on, leaving Colette behind. How could I feel this happy with my daughter in her grave? What kind of woman was I? How could I ever feel happy again? It was just awful but I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to drag anyone else down on such a happy occasion.
Our wedding day was marred by the fact that none of my family could come. My mum couldn’t make it because Ron, my stepfather, had had a series of strokes. My son Mark couldn’t come either as he’d recently split from his wife and was now looking after his own family. The only person who could be there was Peter’s eldest son. So, as a result, we hardly had any family on the day, only friends. It felt odd that no one from my family was there to celebrate with us. When I thought of Mark, I immediately thought of Colette. Colette should have been there too. My heart, which had been smashed into a thousand pieces, was broken just a little bit more that day.
The guilt that my children weren’t there plagued me for the entire day. Not that we were alone – around 100 friends were there to help us celebrate. I was surrounded by joyous, familiar faces, but I still felt so very alone.
There had been no big marriage proposal, no fanfare; Peter and I had just decided that it was something we both wanted to do. I needed and wanted to start a new life with him and, as daft as it sounds, I also wanted to get rid of the name Aram. So much had happened when I’d carried that name, but now I had a new beginning – a new chapter of my life with Peter Kirkby. Looking back, I was trying to distance myself from all the misery and hurt of the past. Not that Colette was ever far from my thoughts.
In Greece, when people used to ask if I had any children, I would tell them I had a son. I’d curse myself afterwards. I’d feel dreadful – the guilt over Colette would wash over me and choke in my throat. It felt as if I was denying my daughter ever existed. But it wasn’t that – I acted as I did for my own sanity. If I told the truth, I knew I’d have to explain all about Colette and the murder, and I didn’t feel I could do that time and time again. It was just too painful. The bastard who’d killed my daughter had even taken that joy away from me – the very essence of motherhood, being able to brag about your children and celebrate their successes. How could he go on living a lie, after what he’d done, and how could I ever relax knowing that he was out there living his life, while Colette had gone forever?
I was married and happy for the first time in years, but there was one thing that didn’t change: I had to find Colette’s killer and I wouldn’t rest until I had.
CHAPTER 8
THE CRIMEWATCH YEARS
I don’t know whether it’s a record or not, but Colette’s murder appeal was broadcast three times on the BBC’s Crimewatch. I appeared on the show twice. If it is a record, then it’s a grim one.
The first appeal was broadcast on BBC One on 7 June 1984, eight months after she was killed. Her case was the first item on the new show and was used as the main appeal that evening. This new style of police show was groundbreaking at the time; British TV had never seen anything like it. All of a sudden, the brutal reality of real murders, rapes and attacks was beamed into British homes for the very first time. Up until then, police shows were limited to the likes of The Sweeney, with the dashing John Thaw, or the sleepy, bobby-on-the-beat kinds of shows like Dixon of Dock Green.
Crimewatch was based on a highly successful German TV show called Aktenzeichen XY … ungelost (which translates as File XY … Unsolved).
Colette’s appeal went out to millions of homes, and I lived in hope that Crimewatch might help catch my only daughter’s killer.
The police received tip-offs – 400 in total – and were able to eliminate countless people from their enquiries as a result. But there were still no vital new clues, nothing to lead detectives to the door of Colette’s killer.
Instead, there were timewasters and fantasists with nothing better to do than to waste police time, precious man-hours that could have been spent searching for the murderer. Despite the vast national appeal transmitted into millions of homes across the country, the police were no closer to catching him than they were on the day Colette had been murdered. This situation remained the same for many years.
In 2004 – almost 21 years after Colette’s murder and on the 20th anniversary of Crimewatch – it was suggested that a new appeal for Colette could be worthwhile. The police officer leading the investigation was a man called Chris Barnfather. He was keen to do a re-appeal, and he called me.
‘But I thought that the case had gone cold?’ I said, a little surprised.
‘The case has never gone cold,’ he insisted. He also wanted to know if I would appear on the show.
‘If it will help, then yes, I will.’
I had my doubts that it would help, but I had to believe that it would. I had to cling on to that hope – it was all I had now.
So, 21 years after my daughter’s murder, Detective Superintendent Barnfather and I travelled to the Crimewatch studios in London, to record an interview with Nick Ross, the main presenter.
I’d come back from Greece for this appeal but I would hav
e walked to the ends of the earth if I thought it would help the police catch my daughter’s killer.
It sounds ridiculous but I wondered what to wear. I wanted to look as if I meant business but I also didn’t want to go on national TV all dolled up to the nines – it was a difficult call. My hair was dark auburn and cropped into a neat bob. In the end, I decided on a bright lime-green linen jacket; I hoped that the vibrant colour would burn into people’s memories. It was important for me to create the right impression – I wanted to be taken seriously. I didn’t want anyone to judge me or think me frivolous and stupid. This was about Colette and it meant the world to me that I got justice for her. However, I was starting to lose a bit of heart. I didn’t tell anyone that at the time, but I felt that, after 21 years, it was never going to happen.
Still, I was nervous and apprehensive. I’d been emotional before the show where I couldn’t stop crying, but, as they started to film, I somehow managed to hold it together. A kind of calm enveloped me – I knew that, despite my fears, I had to do this for Colette.
I was taken into make-up and someone had asked if I was OK.
‘I’m fine,’ I replied, before taking a few deep breaths to control my emotions and keep them in check.
A chill suddenly ran down my spine as I sat in my studio chair and had a few thoughts. What if Colette’s killer was sitting at home, possibly with a family of his own, watching me beg for information? What if he was sitting there, hanging on to my every word? What if he knew that, even after 21 years, I was still out there looking for him, hoping that one day the police would get their man? Two decades had passed with him evading capture – he must have felt safe by now, untouchable. At the very least, I hoped that this programme would rattle him a bit, put him on his guard, maybe even make him panic and do something stupid. Maybe a relative, his girlfriend or wife would call in tonight with his name? I had to do this even if there was the slightest chance of an arrest.
Detective Superintendent Barnfather began to talk the viewers through a reconstruction clip of Colette’s murder, how she was found naked and strangled in a field. Nick Ross then held the killer’s Ripper-style letter up to the camera.
‘Do you recognise this?’ he asked, pointing at the peculiar computer-style writing on the paper.
Then it was my turn.
Nick Ross turned to me. ‘Jacqui Kirkby,’ he said, by way of introduction, ‘21 years, but I don’t suppose it’s got any easier?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘it hasn’t. It’s 21 years but I remember it as if it was yesterday. I go out and I see girls that Colette was at school with and they’ve got young children. I could be a grandmother by now with the children that Colette might have had. It’s something you never, ever come to terms with.’
I went on to explain how the one person who has really suffered in all this was my son. I talked about how Mark saw Colette in that field, and recalled his awful, unforgettable words – ‘Mum, you didn’t see the way she was lying there. I did.’
‘You never get over it,’ I said, trying to find the right words to encompass our loss. ‘I’d never wish this on anyone.’
My voice trailed off to a whisper.
The camera panned back to Detective Superintendent Chris Barnfather, who explained how the police had received conflicting reports of the killer’s description. But he stressed that they all agreed on one thing – the suspect had dark curly hair. Still, he advised caution when looking at the e-fit of Colette’s killer. Also, he explained how police suspected the man had a fetish for stalking girls.
He also revealed for the first time how Colette had been found with a piece of clothing tied around her wrist and that her necklace had been taken, possibly as a trophy by her killer.
Then Nick Ross mentioned the Ripper-style letter again. ‘The taunting with the letter,’ he said. ‘One wonders whether he might ring you tonight?’
‘I would invite him to phone me tonight,’ the detective added. ‘Explain to me why this happened.’
Then Nick turned back towards me and I felt the camera zooming in. ‘Jacqui, having lived with this for 21 years, what would you say to somebody who’s not sure if it’s someone they know but they might have the faintest suspicion?’
I cleared my throat and spoke: ‘I would ask them to find it in their hearts to pick up the phone whether they have a slight suspicion or not. Maybe then we might get to know the reasons why and have the satisfaction that he’s behind bars and that he’s not going to be in a position to do this again.’
The heat of the studio lights burned into my skin. They were as hot as the Greek sunshine, but I hoped that my plea, straight from the heart to mothers, wives and daughters out there, might prick someone’s conscience and bring us the justice we so badly wanted.
Afterwards, I felt a bit deflated but, at the same time, I was hopeful. I did more press interviews with the local and regional media in the hope it might bring people forward all these years later. I hated doing the press interviews, but I felt that I had to. If I didn’t fight Colette’s corner, then who would? I felt frustrated that there wasn’t any more I could do. But I knew that I was helping in a small way by doing Crimewatch.
The calls inevitably flooded in – between 300 and 400 in total – but there were no new strong leads, nothing strong enough to lead police to her killer. I wondered where he was hiding. How had he kept this to himself for so many years? How had he let this poison fester inside his soul for so long?
When I was asked to reappear on the show four years later – in 2008 – I readily agreed. This appeal would be broadcast in October – the 25th anniversary of Colette’s murder. I couldn’t explain it but, somehow, I felt the net was beginning to close in on him.
By then, an officer called Detective Superintendent Kevin Flint was in charge of the investigation, and he’d already spoken to me about developments in new DNA testing.
DNA has always existed but it didn’t become available to the police as a forensic technique until the 1980s. Everyone’s DNA profile is unique, like a fingerprint, but the police were now looking at a new technique called familial DNA, which was in the early stages of development. Kevin explained how it was possible to use this new testing method to link close family members using their DNA profile. It had become available as a police forensic tool towards the end of 2002, but it was still in its infancy back then.
Over the years, the police had retained all the forensic samples connected to Colette’s case. A full DNA profile is 20 alleles. Back in 1997, when the case was reviewed, scientists were able to raise a profile of three alleles. But, when they looked at it again from 2004 onwards, they produced a full DNA profile of the offender from the paper towel that had been taken from the Generous Briton pub. It was not only Colette’s blood on that towel; her killer’s DNA was on it too, linking them together on that single piece of evidence. They’d run this sample through the national DNA database but, so far, they’d not had even the slightest match.
I liked Kevin enormously from the start. It wasn’t that the other officers hadn’t played their part – they had all been fantastic over the years – but Kevin was somehow different, and I warmed to him immediately. He was a kind and patient man but he was also painstakingly thorough and always kept in touch. He’d come to meet me if I was over from Greece and always rang me wherever I was just to touch base. I felt he kept me informed throughout. He was wonderful and I trusted him to do his very best for Colette – for us all. If anyone could catch Colette’s killer, then I believed that Kevin could.
He’d been a young detective constable – just 25 years old – when the call came in to the incident room on Colette’s murder. Initially, detectives had been pulled in from all over the county to work on the case, but Kevin was a local lad and a fantastic copper. As he progressed through his policing career, Colette’s case had never gone away. It was always there in the background. Altogether, the murder had been headed by four senior investigating officers. Detective Chief Superintenden
t Jock McNaught, then the head of CID, led it for the first six months or so, before a lovely man called Detective Superintendent Bob Davey took it over until his retirement. Bob featured on the first Crimewatch programme. Then the case was handed to Detective Superintendent Chris Barnfather in the 1990s. Finally, in 2004, Kevin took over. He’d been a young police officer sitting at the back of the room when I’d gone into the police station for a routine briefing all those years before. Since then, his career had come on in leaps and bounds.
Kevin was determined to examine everything again to ensure that nothing had been missed or overlooked. This was good old-fashioned detective work at its very best, coupled with the advancements in new offender profiling using DNA. I put my belief in Kevin. The others had done a fantastic job but, now that technology had progressed so much, I felt as if we might just be able to break new and uncharted ground.
On one occasion, Kevin asked Tony if he had any photographs of Colette that he could have. Tony unfastened his wallet and pulled out a picture of Colette as a toddler. He’d kept that picture in his wallet all those years. Colette had been and always would be close to his heart – his little princess. It was a beautiful photograph.
Kevin was determined to start another appeal on the case and ordered thousands of leaflets to be delivered to 15,000 homes in the surrounding villages in South Nottinghamshire over the next three weeks. It was a huge operation but Kevin was determined.
It was important to him and to everyone else that the perpetrator was finally nailed. Colette’s murder was classed as ‘category A homicide’ – a stranger murder – which thankfully are few and far between. Most murder victims have a connection or link to their killer but the police believed that Colette did not. This man was extremely dangerous and needed to be caught. This type of murder was a rarity not only in Nottinghamshire, but in the whole country. This had been one of the biggest and longest murder hunts in the history of Nottinghamshire police. At the height of the investigation back in 1983, there had been as many as 50 detectives working on the case and, over the years, Nottinghamshire police force had dedicated hundreds of thousands of man-hours to it.
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 14