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
to be as tall as his father.
The birth had been horrendous. The nurses had approached me earlier with a glass and insisted that I drink a foul concoction of orange juice and cod liver oil to bring on the labour. I held my nose as the oily acidic mixture slid down my throat. I don’t know how I kept it down – I had to stop myself from gagging as I swallowed. But, as soon as I held my baby boy in my arms, all of that was forgotten.
Tony was desperately waiting for news back home. In those days, men were not allowed to be at the birth of their children. Instead, they were sent for once everything was over and the baby had been cleaned up and was ready to be presented to its father.
I was 18 years old when I had Mark – in many ways still a child – but now I was beginning a new chapter in my life as a mother.
The three of us soon became a happy family unit. I had already decided when I was pregnant that I would give up my work as a hairdresser and concentrate on being the best mum that I could possibly be.
I adored being a mother and everything that went with it. I breastfed Mark, even though it was fashionable back then to put your baby on the bottle. I’d also sing lullabies to him until he drifted off to sleep. Sometimes I’d just sit quietly, holding him in my arms, watching him sleep. I’d stare at him for hours, drinking in each and every one of his perfect little features. I could hardly believe that he was mine to keep. Motherhood had exceeded my expectations so much so that I decided that we should have another child as soon as possible. I wanted my children to be close so we started trying for another baby.
We didn’t have to wait long. When Mark was a couple of years old, I discovered I was expecting again. I was careful that Mark wouldn’t get jealous or feel pushed out in anyway, so I involved him at every opportunity. As my body began to swell with the new life growing inside it, I would take Mark’s tiny hand in mine and place it flat against my stomach. At first, the baby’s kicks would make Mark jump back in astonishment but soon he loved to ‘feel’ the baby.
‘Is that my baby brother or sister in there?’ he asked, wide-eyed with wonder.
‘Yes, sweetheart, it is.’
After that, every time the baby kicked or moved, Mark would be at my side.
‘Is the baby saying hello?’ he asked one afternoon.
‘It is,’ I replied.
‘Is it today that we are having our new baby, Mummy?’
‘No, not today, Mark, but very soon.’
By this time, we’d moved into a smart little bungalow. Months of dragging Mark’s heavy pushchair had put an end to our days in the little flat above the shop.
In February, I went out shopping with a friend. I’d felt a little odd all day as we walked around browsing at clothes on rails, and, by the afternoon, I felt even odder.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told my friend, ‘but I think I’m going to have to go home now.’
I started to walk home with Mark in his pushchair. The walk into the small town had been downhill all the way, so, of course, getting home was a different matter – all uphill. I had to keep stopping as I puffed and panted for breath, and I was relieved when we finally made it through the front door.
As the evening progressed, I began to feel pain. There was a tightening across my stomach and contractions. By the early hours of the morning, the pain was so excruciating that I called the midwife, who came to check on me.
‘Jacqui, I can’t believe you’ve been out shopping – you’re in labour!’ the midwife exclaimed.
Tony took Mark next door to keep him out of the way and, a few hours later, our beautiful daughter Colette was born. She weighed more than Mark – a healthy 7lbs 15oz, her skin was olive and she had a shock of black hair. She was just like a baby doll – perfect in every way.
When Mark was brought home, as soon as he saw her, his face lit up with wonder. ‘Is that my baby, Mummy?’ he gasped, running over to the cot where his little sister was sleeping soundly.
I smiled and nodded. ‘This is your sister Colette,’ I told him.
‘I finally got my baby today!’ he cheered, dancing around the room. ‘I love her so much, Mummy. I love her and I will always look after her.’
It was a promise Mark would keep – from that moment on, the two of them were always as close as they had been in that special shared moment.
Tony came back into the room. We smiled as Colette nestled peacefully in my arms. Her warm little body rested against my heart linked together forever by an invisible chain of love.
Colette’s hair remained dark and glossy – just like her father’s – and her huge expressive eyes were the colour of dark almonds. She was as pretty as a picture and adored by everyone who saw her.
As they grew, Mark and Colette remained as close as the day she was born. Mark was always very protective of his little sister. It was as though he saw it as his job to look after her – to keep her from harm. They would walk to the local primary school holding hands, Mark guiding Colette every step of the way.
I refused to have a babysitter – they were my children and far too precious to be left with just anybody. Instead, we did everything together as a family. The school was only at the end of the road but, as an over-protective mother, I insisted on walking them. But, as they grew, I knew it was time to start loosening the apron strings, and they began demanding to walk there together. I gave in and allowed it, but I still stood watching from the front doorstep. Sometimes I had to pinch myself – how had I produced such wonderful, caring children?
Of course, they weren’t perfect. Like any brother and sister, they would often argue and fall out with one another. If Mark was watching a boring programme on TV, Colette would giggle and tease him until he got fed up and left the room; that way, she could switch to a channel she wanted to watch. She was also a real practical joker and was always winding her brother up.
Colette adored Mark and would often hang on his every word, but sometimes it was just comedy. One day, when Mark was eight years old, I was cooking in the kitchen and the children were eating at the table. Mark had obviously had a full day of learning at school and was bursting to share his newfound knowledge with his little sister.
As they ate their tea, Mark decided to impart some of his wisdom. ‘Colette, you know the eggs that you eat for breakfast?’
As usual, Colette stopped mid-mouthful to listen to him, and nodded attentively.
‘Well, they haven’t been fergalised…’ he explained.
Colette, not wanting to appear less sophisticated than him at five years old, nodded wisely. ‘Yes,’ she said, all matter of fact, ‘I know.’
She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about (neither did I for that matter. Later we worked out he meant ‘fertilised’), but I had to clasp my hand across my mouth to stop myself from crying with laughter.
The children were quite a team when they put their heads together about something, and they constantly nagged me about getting a dog of their own. I wasn’t so sure but I relented when my mum bought them a gorgeous Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She’d taken them to the local breeding kennels in Stanton on the Wolds, and they picked out the pup that they’d loved the best.
By the time they arrived home, Colette was fit to burst with excitement. ‘We’re calling him Brandy,’ she announced as they ran through the door to tell me the news.
Mark was equally thrilled but Brandy was too young to leave his mother, so it was a few more weeks until we were able to go back to the kennels to collect him. Colette was so desperate to bring the dog home that she counted down every single day.
At that time, we had a huge back garden. I’ve always had a passion for cooking and I use fresh ingredients wherever I can, so I’d insisted that