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

  To Colette, our lovely, happy and caring girl. Rest in peace our angel. No one can harm you now.

  Brought to you by KeVkRaY

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER 1 GROWING UP

  CHAPTER 2 THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS

  CHAPTER 3 THE AFTERMATH

  CHAPTER 4 THE INVESTIGATION

  CHAPTER 5 THE BREAKDOWN OF A MARRIAGE

  CHAPTER 6 THE CASE GOES COLD

  CHAPTER 7 A NEW LIFE IN GREECE

  CHAPTER 8 THE CRIMEWATCH YEARS

  CHAPTER 9 THE BREAKTHROUGH

  CHAPTER 10 JUSTICE

  CHAPTER 11 THE DOUBLE LIFE OF A KILLER

  CHAPTER 12 CLOSURE

  CHAPTER 13 THE STING IN THE TAIL

  AFTERWORD

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are many people I’d like to thank for their support over the years. Firstly, I’d like to say a huge thank you to all my family, particularly my son Mark and my mother Joyce. Also my gratitude goes to my brother Michael and sister-in-law Sue, and to all the family and friends who have helped and encouraged me over the years. Special thanks to those who had hoped to see justice be done but sadly passed away before this could happen.

  My humble gratitude goes to my dear friend Sue Copley, who sat endlessly by my bed during those horrific early days and who has continued to support me throughout the rest of my life. Also my very dear friends Ann Carnegie Brown, Kay Woodhall and Val Woodford, who helped me keep my sanity in the early days of the murder inquiry.

  To all the officers from Nottinghamshire police who worked tirelessly around the clock to catch Colette’s killer. But, most of all, my heartfelt thanks goes to now retired Detective Superintendent Kevin Flint for his compassion, patience and determination that one day the man responsible for taking my beautiful daughter’s life would be jailed. Kevin promised me that we would get our day in court and, thanks to him and his fantastic team, we did. There are not enough words to express my gratitude to you. You are a gentleman and I thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart.

  Kevin received the Queen’s Medal for Distinguished Service, presented to him by Prince Charles at Buckingham Palace. It marked a fitting end to his 34 years’ service in the police force. Many people can sleep safer at night thanks to Kevin and his team.

  Thank you also to all the forensic scientists who worked on Colette’s case over the many years that followed, particularly the brilliant Tim Clayton.

  Finally to my very dear friend and ghostwriter Veronica Clark, for the empathy and respect that she has shown throughout the process of writing this book. Without her, none of this would have been possible. Not only have we written this book together, but I have also gained in her a lifelong friend.

  INTRODUCTION

  It is often said that, without hope, you have nothing. I have written this book to give hope to those who find themselves in the same dreadful position that we did. I am talking about the families who have lost a loved one in the most callous and brutal way imaginable – murder.

  We’ve all seen them – the grieving families on the TV, staring out from the court steps, weeping towards the cameras. They are captured forever on film as they try to come to terms with their deep loss. For onlookers it is sad, but not forever. Long after the cameras and journalists have packed up and gone away, those families must live with that grief for the rest of their lives.

  Murder leaves a huge void in your heart and soul that can never be filled. The pain doesn’t get any easier; you just learn to live with it. Most families in this situation get their conclusion a year or so after an arrest is made. Most of the time and, in the case of murder, an arrest usually follows pretty quickly; in our case, it didn’t. We had to wait more than a quarter of a century for justice for my lovely daughter Colette. During that time, the grief not only destroyed us one by one, it also split up my family, cost me my marriage and at times threatened my sanity. You continue to mourn for your loved one, and being the one left behind is sometimes a very lonely place to be.

  It was my intention to write this book to give hope to other families that have gone, or are going, through the hell that we have endured for 26 long years. I also want to tell people what really happens to the other victims – those left behind – in these situations. Murder doesn’t stop at the crime itself. By its very nature, it sends shockwaves through entire families, destroying everything in its path. This ripple effect hurts every single person it touches, most of all the immediate family. They will try, as we did, to piece their fragmented lives back together, but it’s almost impossible. Once those lives have been smashed to smithereens by the impact of murder, there is no turning back. Your life changes forever in an instant.

  This book is about the impact of such a deep and sudden loss, and how I grieved for my beautiful daughter. But it is also a book of hope – how I always believed that the police would catch her killer. It is written in memory of my lovely daughter Colette. I hope that, by reading it, you will gain a valuable insight into what happens behind the doors of those grieving family homes up and down the country.

  Colette’s murder was one of the biggest and longest manhunts that Britain has ever seen. At its peak the inquiry had over 50 detectives working on it, day and night. It was led by no less than four senior investigating officers with one common goal – to catch her killer.

  It took 26 years, but the police finally got their man and I got my justice. This unique experience has taught me one thing – never to give up hope. At times, I felt like doing so, but I never did, for without hope you have nothing.

  As I started to write this book, I thought of happy times and fond memories, but they were often overshadowed by bad ones. It was difficult to put pen to paper and recall happy memories but I knew that I must do so. When I see her smiling face, I don’t see Colette Aram the murder victim, I see Colette Aram my beautiful little girl. She had a smile that could light up a room, a wicked sense of humour and an infectious laugh. She wasn’t an angel, no one is, but she was deeply treasured – she was my lovely Colette.

  I dedicate this book not only to Colette but also to my wonderful son Mark. Despite his own private torment, he has been a continuous support to me and his father Tony throughout those 26 years. We love you, Mark, and feel honoured to call you our son.

  So, this book is for her. A tribute to Colette – a very special girl and loving daughter who we were blessed with and allowed to share 16 years of blissful life with. We all love and miss you, Colette, but this is for you, my love. This is our justice for Colette.

  Here is my story.

  CHAPTER 1

  GROWING UP

  It was 1961 – the beginning of the Swinging Sixties – and times were good. Elvis Presley was riding high in the charts and change was in the air. A teenage revolution was reverberating through society with clothes, attitudes and music to show it. It would be another two years before the Beatles broke into the charts, singing about love and pleading with screaming girls to let them hold their hands. Expectations were as high as the miniskirts of the women who wore them. It was a buoyant time to be young, free and single. And I was.

  I had my whole life mapped out in front of me. I was training to become a hairdresser at a salon in Nottingham. Even though my mother had divorced, she’d scrimped and sa
ved all of her money working as a dressmaker for a local designer to put me through an apprenticeship so that I could have the career of my dreams.

  I was just 16 years old when my uncle Joe tried to set me up on a blind date with a boy he knew from work.

  ‘His name’s Anthony but we all call him Tony,’ he began. ‘He looks like Elvis, but he’s not like him at all. Tony’s a nice lad, very quiet.’

  ‘I prefer Cliff Richard,’ I said, winking at him, as I busied myself curling my mum Joyce’s hair in the living room.

  ‘You could do much worse, Jacqui,’ Uncle Joe told me. ‘He’s not like all those boys who like to go out drinking and chasing girls. Tony’s a good lad.’

  I finally relented and allowed Uncle Joe to fix me up on a date with this mystery Elvis lookalike.

  ‘What have I let myself in for?’ I chuckled to Mum after my uncle had closed the door behind him.

  I was still a baby really, but I’d never made a secret of the fact that I wanted to settle down young and start a family. I wasn’t like other girls my age who wanted to explore the freedom and the sexual revolution of these new and exciting times. I couldn’t wait to become a mother instead. I was desperate to grow up, get a place of my own and be a good mother – it was all I’d ever dreamed of since I was a little girl.

  My father Arthur was the managing director of an engineering company in Nottingham. He had a well-paid job and we – Mum, Dad, me and my younger brother Michael – lived in a house owned by Dad’s company. However, my dad had an affair with his secretary. Mum was heartbroken, and, to rub salt into the wound, he then decided that he no longer wanted us; he wanted a new life with Audrey, his new woman. Dad moved out of our beloved family home and set up home with Audrey, and it wasn’t long before we were turfed out too.

  Our family unit had been shattered and we had nowhere to live. We’d gone from a charmed life to brassy broke. In the end, Mum went to live with my grandmother, taking Michael, then aged just eight, with her. Meanwhile, I was dispatched to stay with my mother’s youngest sister Mary. She and her husband Roy had just had their first child – a little girl called Susan – so I helped out with the baby and, as she grew, Susan and I became very close. She was the sister that I never had.

  My parents’ divorce happened when I was just 12 years old. Like most girls of that age, I was self-conscious and unsure of myself and, witnessing the mess of it all, I somehow thought I was to blame. Divorce was very unusual back in the Sixties, so I was different to all my friends – when I lost my family unit, it was as though I’d lost my way in life too. Children can take divorce very personally, and I did.

  Growing up through this traumatic time made me crave the security of a loving family of my own. It became my dream, my goal. It doesn’t sound very much, especially these days, to admit that all you want to be is a mother and housewife. But I didn’t care about money or belongings. I just wanted to find the man of my dreams, get married and have children of my own to love. Now, four years after my parents’ divorce, aged 16, I now had a blind date to contend with.

  There was a knock at our front door. I opened it to find a nervous Tony stood alongside Uncle Joe, who was leading proceedings.

  ‘Jacqui, this is Tony,’ he said, with a sweep of his upturned palm. ‘Tony, this is Jacqui. There you have it – now you’ve both been formally introduced.’

  I looked at Tony. It felt stilted and awkward standing there, and Uncle Joe sensed it.

  ‘Right, is your mother in, Jacqui?’ Uncle Joe enquired suddenly. ‘I’m gasping for a cuppa.’ With that, he pushed straight past me, leaving me on the doorstep with my blind date.

  Tony was tall, dark and handsome and wearing a smart khaki suit that looked very expensive. His black, glossy hair was combed back into a trendy Elvis-style quiff. Still, he looked awkward. He looked down at his feet rather than making direct eye contact. Even so, I knew there and then that he was quite a catch and that I’d be daft to turn this opportunity down.

  ‘I won’t be a mo,’ I said, grabbing my coat off the peg in the hallway before dashing out the front door to Tony’s car outside the garden gate.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink at a pub?’ Tony asked as he started up the engine of his dark-green Morris Minor.

  I nodded politely and soon we were on our way – I felt as if all my dreams had come true in that single moment.

  Tony was 20 years old, and I thought he was the most sophisticated man that I’d ever met. I didn’t drink back then, so, when he asked me what I wanted, I said an orange juice. I felt awkward, young and foolish – a schoolgirl in high heels and earrings. I was so desperate to impress this older, good-looking man that I tried hard to look relaxed and comfortable but I was far from it.

  Thankfully, Tony was easy to talk to. We spoke about all kinds of things that afternoon – from my meddling uncle Joe to my work as a hairdresser. Tony explained about his work and told me that he was an only child. Soon the hours had flown past. By the end of the evening, I realised that, while he was shy, Tony was hardworking, fun and had a good sense of humour. In short, he made me laugh. The only sticking point came when I discovered that he didn’t like dancing. It was my one big passion. I’d danced all my life and had even competed at shows for ballroom dancing. But, I reasoned, it was a small price to pay for the man of my dreams.

  That evening, as he dropped me back home, Tony bent forward and gave me a peck on the cheek. I felt my face flush as he did so.

  ‘I’d like to see you again, Jacqui, if that’s all right?’ he asked.

  I nodded and we set another date for the end of the week.

  That Saturday, I spent all afternoon getting ready. I made sure that I applied my make-up so it looked light and natural and I spent ages blow-drying and styling my hair. My mum had made me a Brigitte Bardot-style dress – it was all the rage at the time. The dress was white and lilac gingham and it had a neat little white bodice stitched on the front. I loved it and felt a million dollars every time I wore it. I slipped on a pair of white kitten-heel sandals and waited by the window, looking out for Tony’s car. Soon, I saw the little green Morris Minor slowly weave its way up our street and park outside my house.

  When I opened the door to Tony, I noticed there were two older people sitting in his car – a man in the back and a woman in the front. The woman was staring right at me.

  That must be his mother, I thought.

  ‘Er, you don’t mind if I drop my mum and dad off, do you?’ said Tony. ‘It’s just that I always drop them off at bingo on a Saturday night.’

  ‘Course not,’ I replied, with a tight smile. But even from where I was standing I could see that Tony’s mother Iris was already scrutinising me, stripping me right down to the bone. I steeled myself as I shut the front door behind me.

  Dutifully, I got into the back of Tony’s car. There was obviously a pecking order involved, so I sat next to his father Bernard and made polite chit-chat in the back. We dropped them off at bingo but promised to pick them up later.

  We duly picked them up after our date and, as we headed back to my house at the end of the evening, Iris suddenly piped up in the front seat. ‘Let’s all go for a drink,’ she suggested.

  Moments later, we pulled up outside the local pub. Once inside, Iris and I found a table and Tony asked what we all wanted to drink.

  ‘An orange juice please,’ I replied.

  Iris looked at me disapprovingly; she was having none of it. ‘An orange juice!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can’t keep drinking orange juice! You need to let your hair down every once in a while. Have a gin in it. Gin and orange, now that’s a nice drink.’

  I did as I was told and drank a gin and orange. It was the most disgusting thing that I had ever tasted. Needless to say, I haven’t touched a drop of gin since.

  But his mother wasn’t finished with me. Sipping at her own gin and orange, she sniffed and – in her best posh accent – said, ‘If you hadn’t been the type of girl that we wanted for our Tony, then we’d
have done our best to make life as uncomfortable as possible for you.’

  I wasn’t quite sure how to reply.

  ‘As it is,’ she continued, prodding her bony finger against my shoulder, ‘you were scrutinised long before you got in the car that day.’

  It turned out she’d been asking lots of people questions about me as soon as she found out I was dating her son. She wanted to know if I was a suitable candidate. I looked back at her in astonishment. I’d only met her son twice. Who was to say that our relationship would last any longer? I knew from that moment on that Iris was a tough cookie and that if I wanted to be with her son then I had my work cut out.

  Tony also owned a motorbike, and, one evening, he rode over on it to pick me up from work. It was a bitterly cold night, so cold that everything from grass to pavement was covered in a hard silvery glaze of frost. I was due to stay at Tony’s house for the weekend but I wasn’t dressed for the weather. I was wearing a thin coat, top, skirt and sheer tights. The wind cut through me like a knife as we scooted along the icy roads and back to Tony’s house. By the time we arrived, I was so cold that I couldn’t climb off – my legs were literally frozen against the seat – still bent at the knee. Tony was laughing as I tried to get off but it took me several minutes just to straighten up!

  When we finally walked into his house, Iris was waiting for us and she was furious that Tony had been out on his bike in such bad conditions.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ she demanded, pointing at me. ‘I’ve told you a million times before about risking your life for other people.’

  I loved Tony’s mum in many ways, but whatever I did she always saw me as the woman who would steal away her son, the apple of her eye, the centre of her universe. If I’d been a saint, I still wouldn’t have been good enough for her boy.