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A stab in the dark

Why was Chris dead just hours after this photo was taken?


Published by: Mark Christy & Louie Matthews
Published on: 4th August 2011

The kitchen door flew open and a pile of dirty washing swayed into the room. It was dumped by the washing machine, and my son Chris emerged from behind it.
Great, he’d brought his washing round from his flat!
He grinned at me sheepishly and gave me a big hug. ‘Sorry Mum. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ I laughed. ‘Not when you reward me with flowers, hugs, and prezzies!’
He was always thinking of me, like the time he bought me a little silver fairy in a box from Camden Market. ‘It’s got purple wings, and that’s your favourite colour,’ he’d said to me proudly.
Not many 25-year-olds know that sort of thing about their mum.
But that was Chris all over, a good-hearted family man.
He was such a softie, that’s why I called him Chrissie Bear.
‘Thanks Mum,’ he said now, giving me a peck on the cheek.
‘You’ll never find another like me,’ I teased.
Although, I hoped he had. Chris had started dating Jamie Girvan six months ago and they really seemed well-suited.
Maybe with her, his ambition to become a dad would come true.
‘I want a footie team – a big family, just like we have,’ he always said.
Well, we could certainly manage five-a-side no problem!
As well as Chris, I had three other boys Ray, 35, Colin, 30, and Paul, 26, as well as a daughter Shanna, 19.
‘Right, I’d better get ready,’ I smiled to Chris now, turning the washing machine on. ‘Got to make myself look presentable.’
‘You look great whatever,’ he beamed. Giving him a nudge in the ribs, I headed upstairs. The whole family, including my husband Kevin, 54, was off to a charity do at the local social club. My sister Dawn, 53, and brother-in-law Barry Edwards, 50, organised it every year to raise money for Little Haven Children’s Hospice.
A few hours later, the party was in full swing. As usual, Chris was on the dance floor larking about.
He was always the life and soul of the party – a few months earlier, he’d gone to a fancy dress party as Ace Ventura. He’d slicked his blond hair into a quiff, put on a Hawaiian shirt, even spoken like him!
He’d made us all laugh, and tonight was no different. By 2am though, the crowd was thinning. ‘Last couple of songs,’ called the DJ.
‘Have you seen Chris?’ I asked my hubby.
‘No,’ he said, scanning the room. ‘But Jamie was drinking a fair bit, maybe he’s taken her outside for some air?’
‘Well, Dawn and Barry have popped out for a cigarette,’ I said. ‘I’ll nip to the loo, then we’ll all head home, eh?’
Having checked my lippy, I walked back into the social club… and faltered. Something wasn’t right, Robbie Williams’ Angels was playing, but no one was dancing.
A group of people huddled on the floor near the entrance. Someone was urgently talking into their mobile, a woman was crying in the corner, another knelt over something on the floor.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, wandering over.
‘No, Sue…’ someone started. Then I saw Barry, laying on the floor, blood seeping through his t-shirt. ‘What happened?!’ I gasped.
‘He’s been stabbed.’
‘B-but when? How? He was just…’ Hold on, why was everyone avoiding my eye? I looked around frantically, my stomach clenching.
‘Where’s Kevin? Where are my kids?’ I asked urgently.
‘Sue, Chris has been stabbed, too,’ someone said, placing their hand on my shoulder.
Chrissie Bear? Stabbed? Had I gone into the toilet and stepped out into a parallel universe?
‘H-he can’t have been,’ I snorted. ‘He was with Jamie and…’
Was this some kind of sick joke? Chris was always one for having a laugh, but this was too far. But then I was being handed a mobile phone. It was my son Ray.
‘Mum? Mum, you’ve got to get to the hospital,’ he said. ‘Dad and Paul are with me, we’re rushing Chris there now.’
‘What happened?’ I urged. ‘Is he okay? Can I talk to him?’ But the line had gone dead.
Chrissie Bear had been stabbed?! It made no sense, he
was soft as butter. I needed answers but, more importantly, I needed to see my son.
My friend Fran Johnson raced me to Oldchurch Hospital in Romford. ‘He has to be all right,’
I kept saying over and over. ‘He just has to be.’
Once there, I was ushered into a family waiting room where Kevin, Paul and Ray were waiting. As I fell into their arms, a nurse appeared. ‘How is he?’ I asked. ‘Can we see him?’
She bit her lip, looked at the floor, and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently. ‘Chris didn’t make it.’
Kevin pulled me to him as my legs collapsed. ‘C-can we see him?’ he croaked.
The nurse guided us towards a waiting police officer.
Laying in bed, a sheet up to his chest, was Chris.
I rushed over to cuddle him, but the officer stopped me.
‘I’m sorry, you can’t touch him in case it destroys evidence,’ he explained. That hurt me more than anything. I just wanted to hold him one last time, say goodbye.
I couldn’t even run my hand through his blond hair, though.
‘My Chrissie Bear,’ I whispered, tears running down my cheeks. ‘What happened? Who did this?’
In a daze, we headed home, but fresh tears sprang when I walked into the kitchen – Chris’s washing was in the machine. On automatic pilot, I pulled out his boxer shorts and hung them on the clothes airer.
Kevin had his head in his hands. ‘He’s never been in trouble, never had so much as a parking ticket, and now he’s been murdered for no reason?’
His shoulders shook as tears racked his body.
‘As soon as I saw him laying in that pool of blood, I could see we were losing him,’ he wept.
‘That was the worst bit, Mum,’ whispered Ray. ‘Chris looked me in the eyes, and he knew he was going to die – and I knew, too.’
Why? Why? Why?
Dawn had seen everything, but even she didn’t understand what had happened.
‘Jamie had had a bit to drink and was walking off alone. Chris was trying to stop her,’ she said. ‘Then this guy appeared from nowhere and walked up to Chris.’
Dawn and Barry had watched while my happy-go-lucky son had told the stranger everything was fine – they were only stood 50ft away. ‘Without warning, he stabbed Chris,’ added Dawn. ‘As he fell to the floor, Barry ran over and the bloke stabbed him three times before doing a runner.’
Barry was going to be fine, but my poor son…
‘My poor baby,’ I sobbed.
What kind of sick person walks up to a stranger, and kills them for no reason at all?
That was the question police were trying to answer, too.
No one had got a good look at the killer, and rain had washed away any evidence.
All police had was CCTV footage of a man slashing car tyres nearby before the killing.
They described him as white, between 5ft 8in and 6ft tall, with mousy hair and a dark jacket.
That was half the men in Essex. Still, it wasn’t like I could start a manhunt of my own, I had Chris’s funeral to prepare for.
A few days before, Kevin turned to me, holding out his gold wedding band.
‘I haven’t taken this off in 33 years, but I want Chris to have it now,’ he said.
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ I said.
Along with the ring, we placed family snaps and a bottle of Budweiser in his coffin.
In return, the undertaker gave me a lock of Chris’s hair, which I put in
a locket.
Chris’s funeral didn’t help me, though – how could it when his killer was still out there? ‘I’m going to make a wanted poster,’ I decided.
Because of you, we have one less son, one less brother, I wrote, addressing the killer of my son directly.
Because of you we cry at night.
Because of you, Chris will never marry and have the children he wanted.
I even found my favourite photo of Chris, taken a few months earlier on a fishing trip with his brothers, to go with it. Then I walked around the neighbourhood, sticking one to every lamppost.
Police printed beer mats with an e-fit of the killer on them, and distributed them around pubs
in the local area.
And you know what? It worked! Two years after Chris died, police arrested a landscape gardener.
His alibi for that night didn’t stand up, the case looked strong.
‘Maybe this nightmare will soon be over,’ I said to Kevin.
‘Maybe Chris can finally rest in peace,’ he nodded.
But in court, CCTV footage was shown of the suspect in a shop the night Chris died.
He had a crew cut – but my son’s killer had longer hair, we knew that much.
The trial collapsed – and with it all my hope.
‘I can’t bear this,’ I sobbed to Kevin. ‘Chris’s killer is still out there, enjoying life, mocking us.’
‘We need to stay strong, and fight for justice,’ encouraged Kevin. ‘We’ll find who did this.’
When? Months turned into years. Every day was torture, not knowing who the culprit was.
Sat next to a bloke at the bus stop, stood behind one in Tesco, I’d stare and wonder – did you kill my son?
On birthdays and the anniversary of Chris’s death, we made yet more posters.
‘Maybe it’ll jog someone’s memory,’ I prayed.
Finally, five years after Chris’s murder, Kevin got a phone call.
When he’d finished, he turned to me, eyes glistening with hope.
‘Police have arrested someone. This time they’re certain they’ve got enough evidence,’
he said.
His name was Mark Parrish. Four women had come forward saying he’d confessed to Chris’s murder.
Shockingly, one woman had told police at the time, but they’d dismissed her, thinking they’d already got their man – the man who was later acquitted.
I was flooded with frustration and relief.
‘For six years, Chris’s killer has walked freely among us,’ I fumed. ‘He got married, had two kids… all the things our boy will never be able to do.’
Still, maybe now he’d get what he deserved. In May this year, Mark Parrish, 37, appeared at the Old Bailey pleading not guilty to murdering Chris and attempting to murder Barry.
Determined to see justice done, I went along every day.
The court heard that on the night of the murder, Parrish had proposed to his girlfriend, but then they’d had a row.
He’d then stormed off, and taken his anger out on the first person he had come across.
My Chrissie Bear.
He was killed because of a lovers’ tiff that had absolutely nothing to do with him.
Finally, it was time to hear the jury’s verdict.
I sat up in my seat, stroking the gold locket holding Chris’s hair.
‘We’re nearly there now, son,’ I whispered.
‘Guilty,’ said the foreman of the jury. A gasp echoed round the court. ‘Yes!’ shouted someone.
Then everything went quiet except for the sound of sobbing from me, Kev, our family.
We all went back to our house and didn’t know what to do with ourselves. ‘Let’s open some champagne,’ I decided.
‘To Chrissie,’ Kev said, and we all drank to our beautiful boy.
Nothing can ever bring him back, or stop the pain of loss.
But because his killer is behind bars at last, serving 26 years, we can finally concentrate on celebrating Chris’s life.
I know I’ll never feel Chrissie Bear’s strong tanned arms pull me into a hug again, but at least after six years I can sleep easier. His killer no longer has a hold over our family.
Sue Taylor, 55, Harold Hill, Essex