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
forever and ever. Little did I know then that this was to be the last ever photograph taken of my beautiful daughter and one that I would treasure during the long torturous years that followed. How I have wanted to pluck Colette from it and pull her back into my arms. I have held it to my heart countless times. It is my most treasured possession.
At 16, Colette was a child in a growing woman’s body. She held the innocence and untarnished optimism of a child. She’d spent her entire life surrounded by love and she in turn loved those who surrounded her. She’d never been exposed to violence or horror and therefore trusted others – she thought everyone was as lovely and pure as she was. She loved life and, in turn, it loved her back.
We’d protected her all her life: she was her father’s little princess, Mark’s wonderful younger sister and my angel – an extension of me – she held my heart and soul in her hands. Colette brought a bright, warm and wonderful light into our lives. Unbeknown to us, that vibrant light was about to be extinguished forever.
It was the day before Halloween – 30 October 1983. I pulled open the curtains and squinted in the unexpected sunlight. The day was bright and full of hope. I looked at the trees outside. The golden light of early morning filtered through the branches into my bedroom. It was a glorious crisp Sunday morning, unusual for the time of year.
I heard Mark and Colette stirring, so I pulled on my slippers and dressing gown and headed down for breakfast. Tony had a lie-in, while I busied myself making a cooked breakfast for me and the children.
It was a typical weekend; everyone had plans for the day ahead. Mark was going to see a friend, while Tony and I were due to visit nearby relatives. Colette had arranged to see her boyfriend later that evening.
‘Do you want to come with me and Dad?’ I asked Colette as she picked at her poached egg on toast.
‘No, Mum, I’ll just stay here. I want to bake a cake, so I’ll do that instead. You can have it for your tea,’ she smiled.
That afternoon, Tony and I left home around 2.30pm and drove the short distance to see May and Ken. It was an afternoon of small talk but we also spent time discussing Ken’s elderly mother’s deteriorating health.
By the time we returned, it was 5pm, just in time for tea. Colette was busy clearing up in the kitchen. As soon as I walked in the front door, I smelled the delicious aroma of home cooking. I gasped when I saw it taking pride of place on the kitchen worktop – a beautiful Victoria sponge cake oozing with fresh cream and jam. It was cookbook picture perfect.
‘Wow, that looks delicious!’ I exclaimed.
Colette’s face lit up. ‘Thanks, Mum!’ she beamed. She looked so proud.
I held my hands out and Colette walked towards me, wrapped her arms around me and enveloped me in a hug. It always felt so good to hug my precious, beautiful girl.
Colette was a great cook. She took pride in her work and insisted on cleaning up the kitchen before getting ready for her date with her boyfriend Russell Godfrey.
Russell and Colette had been dating for about eight months. Russell was 17 – a year older than Colette – but he was a kind and gentle boy, the type every mother would want for their daughter.
Russell would usually drive over and pick Colette up in his silver Vauxhall. He was one of the few boys his age to have already passed his test and have his own car. Then again, his parents did run the local driving school. The family had a fleet of cars, but they were all at the garage that night. As a result, Russell had no transport.
At 7.45pm, Colette came downstairs and grabbed her coat. She’d spent time blow-drying her hair – it was dark and glossy and styled in a neat cropped cut. Colette was trying out different looks as teenage girls do. She had such a pretty little face that, whatever she did, she always looked lovely.
While Colette was still fussing over her make-up – she wanted to look her best for Russell – she told me that they planned to watch a video together and maybe go into the village later to meet up with friends.
‘I’m off to Russell’s now,’ she announced suddenly, and gave her mouth one last slick of lipgloss.
I glanced through the window at the inky black sky outside. A silvery hue from an eerie full moon was the only source of light now. The beautiful day had given way to a frosty autumn evening.
‘I’ll take you in the car,’ I said.
‘No, Mum, I’d rather walk,’ she replied, sliding her arms into her cropped red jacket. She was wearing black corduroy trousers and a white silky blouse underneath. As I glanced at her, I thought how stunning she looked, just like a model.
I glanced anxiously out the window again. It was cold and dark out there and I didn’t like the idea of my 16-year-old daughter walking alone.
‘Well, if you won’t let me take you, let your dad,’ I insisted.
But Colette was adamant. ‘It’s a nice night. I’d rather walk. But, if Russell calls, tell him that I’m going to walk up Nicker Hill.’
Nicker Hill was the main hill leading through the village. It had a fairly steep incline but it was well lit on one side with fields on the other side of the road. I knew that Colette would keep to the well-lit path, as Russell’s home was in Willow Brook, which joined that side of the road.
I can’t explain it, but I had a knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I simply didn’t want her walking the 10 minutes to Russell’s house. But what could I do? Colette was an independent 16-year-old; she knew her own mind and didn’t want her mother fussing.
Before she left, Colette walked over and said, ‘Love you lots and lots.’ Then she gave me a kiss.
‘Love you too,’ I called back as she walked out of the house and closed the front door behind her.
It was 7.50pm when she left.
Russell rang five minutes later. I told him what Colette had said and he set off on his bike to meet her. At 8.10pm, the phone rang again. It was Russell. His voice was breathless and he sounded a little confused.
‘Jacqui, I thought you said that Colette had walked up Nicker Hill?’
‘I did, Russell – that’s what Colette told me.’
‘Well,’ he said, trying to catch his breath, ‘I’ve cycled all the way around the village and I can’t see her anywhere.’
Suddenly, I felt very sick. The knot of anxiety in my stomach had risen through my body and was now lodged as a lump in my throat. On hearing Russell’s words, my throat went bone dry and was constricted with panic. I knew in an instant that something was very wrong. Colette was the kind of girl who hated others to worry about her. If she’d stopped off anywhere, she would have phoned to tell us. She knew how worried her father and I would have been.
Colette had left just over ten minutes before but I knew instinctively that she was missing. I put the phone down, took a deep breath, picked the receiver back up and dialled 999.
The police officer on the other end of the line didn’t share my concern. ‘How can you say a 16-year-old girl is missing at 8pm on a Sunday night?’ he scoffed, more than a hint of disbelief in his voice.
‘Easy,’ I told him, ‘because she’s my daughter. It’s just not like her to vanish like this. I know her.’
Colette had been brought up to respect others. She was a caring girl who wouldn’t want to upset or annoy people. She always operated within certain boundaries and would never just decide to take off without telling anyone.
‘What