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