I feel blessed for the three happy years I had with her
‘No leads… the police were getting desperate’
cle about a man who used some toys to tell his grandson a story in which a nasty character played the role of a villain. Over time the little boy became disturbed by the presence of the threatening figure, until finally his grandfather had no choice but to destroy the toy so that his grandson could regain his sense of security.
And so, one morning my father drew a gingerbread man with a knife in his hand.
‘This is the man that killed Mummy,’ he said. ‘He is a bad, bad man and I hate him. This is what I want to do with him!’
He grabbed the piece of paper, scrunched it violently in his hands and slammed it straight into the bin. I squealed with delight and, when he drew it again, I leapt to my feet, pounded the drawing into a little ball, ran away from him into the kitchen and slammed it into the bin with all my strength.
At that moment my father was overcome with pride. It was the first time I’d left his sight since he’d collected me at the hospital 36 hours earlier.
The police drove us to the hospital to see my mother’s body.
‘She has gone now, sweetheart,’ my father explained. ‘What’s left behind is just the shell, it’s just like old clothing. It’s not her any longer.’ Hesitantly I stood, studying him for a few seconds, before reluctantly walking forward and allowing him to lift me up.
I glanced sideways for a moment and then looked away again. Resting on a table, the body lay on its back, wrapped from neck to toe in a robe that left only vague contours visible. There was no sign of any wounds, and her face looked like wax. ‘Can we go now?’ I asked. ‘In a minute,’ he replied. ‘I want to say goodbye.’ Holding me in his arms, he bent over and kissed her forehead.
WITHIN a few days of my mother’s death, the room where I played had been filled with enough video equipment to make a film. The police didn’t want to miss a word I might say.
There had been more than 500 people on the common on the morning of the attack, but so far there were no firm leads: the police were becoming desperate.
At a visit to a child psychologist, a detective placed a tray in front of me containing household cutlery, a bread knife, several large kitchen knives, a penknife and a hunting knife. I instantly picked out the hunting knife.
Later, it would be confirmed that the blade matched the shape of the murder weapon.
‘What did the bad man do after he had killed Mummy?’ one of the detectives asked. ‘The bad man washed the blood off in the water,’ I said.
In a bid to show me how tough the police were, the detectives took me with my father to see a real, locked cell and encouraged me to see how secure the doors really were. Suddenly a man lurched forward out of the shadows and tried to grab me, scaring the life out of me.
The detectives rushed to throw him back into the cell, slamming the heavy door behind, which had mistakenly been left unlocked.
They were mortified. ‘That was close!’ one of them said under his breath. They bustled us away. I was badly shaken and no longer interested in their games.
I held on to my father’s hand and wanted to leave.
TWO months after the murder, BBC’s Crimewatch programme presented an identikit picture of my mother’s assailant based on my description. Several callers identified Colin Stagg, who lived nearby.
Stagg was arrested, but the evidence against him was at best flimsy and he was released without charge. Despite the lack of evidence, the police were so convinced he was the killer that they eventually mounted an undercover ‘honey-trap’ operation to tempt a confession.
He was duly charged, but in the autumn of 1994, when I was five, the trial against him collapsed in a storm of controversy.
My mother’s killer remained at large, free to kill again. As long as that remained the case, my father would be forever looking over his shoulder, fearing for my safety.
When my father had first announced to our family that we would be leaving the country, it caused a great deal of upset. My mother’s father stopped talking to him and her mother told him that he was causing them a second bereavement. Bringing me up in France without my mother in our new home was lonely and hard for my father. Eventually, we were tracked down by the press – and if they could find us, so could the killer. We fled secretly to Spain.
The years that followed were rocky. Once, during a heated argument, I threatened my father with a large kitchen knife.
When I was 13, on an exchange trip to France. I was caught smoking a joint in a toilet, and also had several run-ins with the police. Eventually, I was forced to look at
‘I remember her smile, her smell, her voice’
‘What I have taken away from the experience of losing my mother is the knowledge that I must appreciate every day.’
Even a failed bid to oblige the Metropolitan Police to be more publicly accountable back in 2010 causes him no grief.
‘Police officers are human, so mistakes happen. They are not goodies or baddies, they just belong to an institution that is greater than any person within it.
‘When you have a system of dark corridors, where people are not forced to face the consequences of their actions, you attract those who are prone to mistakes or corruption.
‘What I question is not who made what mistake, it is whether the systems are effective. In our particular case, mistakes led not only to my mother’s death but to violent attacks on over 80 women.
‘Sadly, I don’t think things have changed over the last two decades. The organisation remains bigger than any particular person. Bigger even than Cressida Dick.’ Instead of bearing a grudge against Ms Dick, the new Met Commissioner, who officially apologised to Alex seven years ago for the force’s failings, or pouring his emotional energy into a hatred of Napper, Alex chooses to live a contented life in his adopted home city of Barcelona.
He travels widely, practises yoga for two hours a day, is passionate about jazz and speaks English, French, Spanish and Catalan.
Currently single, he has been in a loving long-term relationship and would one day consider having children to recreate the loving family unit he once enjoyed with his own parents. Rachel Nickell was just 23 when she died on July 15, 1992, leaving her partner, Alex’s father Andre Hanscombe, now 54, to raise their beloved only son. The bungled police investigation which followed focused on innocent loner Colin Stagg, and it was not until 2008 that Napper was convicted of Rachel’s manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility.
The killing gave Alex just three years with his mother. ‘She wanted a boy, that was her dream, to have a strong son to look after her.
‘She was always grooming me to be that man. I remember her smile, her smell, the sound of her voice. Even though she is in the spiritual realm now, I know she is looking out for me.
‘I feel blessed because in the first three years of my life I had a happiness not everyone enjoys. I would rather have had that experience of love and loss than live without it.’
This equilibrium has been hard won. In the hours after the murder, Alex’s father considered killing both himself and his young son. ‘He could not imagine me wanting to go on without her, so he was thinking about the method he was going to use to end our lives,’ Alex admits. ‘But I knew it was not my time.’
Instead they sought anonymity moving to France and later to Spain, where they still share a home. Alex says: ‘I was able to complete my childhood in private. Now I am ready to talk about it which is why I have written a book which I believe would make my mother proud.’
He and Andre are working on a series of children’s books based on the stories Andre invented to amuse and stimulate Alex in his recovery. They are also considering publishing a self-help book codifying the beliefs that helped them survive.
Alex is proof such a book would be valuable. He’s not angry or embittered but filled instead with courage, optimism and kindness.
‘There are a hundred different what-ifs but I believe everything has played itself out for a reason,’ he says. ‘Those experiences have made me who I am today and there is no one else whose shoes I would rather be standing in.’