For the Love of Julie: A nightmare come true. A mother’s courage. A desperate fight for justice.
In this incredible and moving memoir, a mother tells of her fight for justice to convict her daughter’s murderer for a crime that he thought could never be punished.When her 22-year-old daughter, Julie, went missing in the night, Ann Ming was certain she had been murdered. Liaising with the police, looking after Julie’s beloved three-year-old son, Ann waited desperately for news. Three months later she found her child's decomposing body behind a bath panel.A violent local man, Billy Dunlop, was tried for her murder but a series of blunders allowed him to walk free. Knowing he could not be tried again under the law of Double Jeopardy, he callously bragged about his 'perfect crime'.But Dunlop had not reckoned on Ann Ming…This is the extraordinary story of a fight for justice which she never gave up. A moving account of courage and determination, showing how much a mother's love can achieve.
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For the Love of Julie
A nightmare come true. A mother’s courage. A desperate fight for justice
Ann Ming
with Andrew Crofts
Contents
Title PageDedicationIntroductionChapter One: Julie’s ArrivalChapter Two: Meeting Charlie MingChapter Three: Family Life Chapter Four: Our Julie Grows UpChapter Five: Our Julie Goes MissingChapter Six: The SearchChapter Seven: Finding JulieChapter Eight: The AftermathChapter Nine: Introducing Billy DunlopChapter Ten: The FuneralChapter Eleven: Learning To CopeChapter Twelve: The Police Complaints AuthorityChapter Thirteen: The Trial Chapter Fourteen: Reliving The NightmareChapter Fifteen: Whispers And RumoursChapter Sixteen: Living With The ConsequencesChapter Seventeen: Billy Runs AmokChapter Eighteen: Rolling Out The PublicityChapter Nineteen: Telling Kevin Chapter Twenty: Making Friends In High Places Chapter Twenty-One: The Final Verdict EpilogueCopyrightAbout the Publisher
‘It is one of those tales about how life can turn on a sixpence: one minute everything is dandy, the next all is darkness.’
Joe Joseph, The Times, 22 May 2002
My daughter Julie was a funny mixture of introvert and extrovert. She was shy as a child but could be feisty in arguments when she thought she was in the right, and she didn’t let anyone walk over her. She was hopelessly messy at home, dropping clothes where she took them off and leaving teacups lying around – but she never stepped out of the house without being perfectly groomed. She wouldn’t want to be the centre of attention in a crowd, but around those she loved she never stopped talking, telling us anything and everything that was going through her head.
Julie was beautiful from the day she was born, with a slight oriental look from her Dad’s side of the family, and dark colouring that let her get away with wearing the most dazzling bright colours. As a little girl she loved dressing her Sindy dolls for hours on end, and in her teens it was herself she dressed up. She’d wear ridiculously high heels, super-tight skirts and trousers showing off her perfect, slim figure, and eccentric shirts and jackets all layered on top of each other. Her hairstyle changed from month to month, but whether it was Boy George dreadlocks wrapped in rags, or a bright turquoise fringe, nothing fazed me. No matter how flamboyant an outfit she put together, she always looked stunning.
Julie had a dry (some would say warped!) sense of humour and an infectious giggle that bubbled out at inappropriate moments. She liked dancing, gymnastics and doing people’s hair for them. She was a fantastic mother to her little boy Kevin, and fiercely loyal to her family and her close circle of good friends.
She was full of life and always fun to be with. She was my little girl and I adored her.
In Middlesborough in the late 1960s it was the custom for mothers who had had one straightforward birth in hospital to deliver their babies at home after that, which is a daunting prospect for anyone, even for someone like me who prides herself on being a down-to-earth Yorkshirewoman. So many different fears and thoughts are racing through your head as your due date draws near. What if something goes wrong? What if the baby comes early, or gets stuck? When a newborn baby’s life could be at stake it is very comforting to know you have all the technology and expertise of a well-equipped hospital at your disposal, rather than one midwife, a panicking husband and a pan full of boiling water. That option, however, was not on offer to us.
My mind was buzzing with fears of imagined disasters and imminent emergency ambulance rides as the pain started to build up. My mam took my two-year-old son Gary off for a walk in his pushchair to keep him out of the way. The midwife had popped in when the contractions started in the morning but then disappeared off, breezily saying she would be back at lunchtime, leaving my husband, Charlie, plenty of time to panic as my moans increased in frequency and he started to imagine having to perform the delivery himself. No doubt the midwife had plenty of other patients to tend to; for her it was just another day’s work, even if it meant a lot more to us.
By eleven o’clock I had to go upstairs and lie down, hauling myself up on the banister, memories of just how painful the whole childbirth business is coming rushing back with every spasm. How is it that we women manage to forget all that agony almost the moment it is over? I could hear Charlie making frantic phone calls downstairs as I concentrated on the pain upstairs, lying on the bed, wanting it all to be over but not wanting the baby to come before the midwife got back.
The girl answering the phone at the doctor’s surgery must have asked Charlie if I was starting to push.
‘Are yer starting to push?’ he shouted up.
‘No,’ I yelled back.
‘Well, if the baby’s born,’ the girl told him, ‘just wrap it in a blanket, wipe its eyes and put it on the side. Don’t try to cut the cord.’
‘This is good,’ I heard him grumbling as he put the phone down. ‘I pay me National Health stamps and there’s nobody here when you need them!’
