Sharon Hamilton - Taken: The Agonising True Story of My Missing Sister

Downing their shovels, the police search team bowed their heads in silence as the wreaths were placed next to the children's sandpit that covered the grave of a girl who had been missing for nearly seventeen years.

Two detectives laid the floral tributes on behalf of the girl's father and her sister. Both had attached notes with their own thoughts. Every detail of Vicky Hamilton's short life and gruesome death would now become public knowledge as the scale of the crime unfolded ...

But yesterday their words to her remained private.

Daily Mail, 14 November 2007

*

CALL IT A sister's intuition, or maybe I had just become an expert on police protocol, but when I heard the familiar voice of CID officer Pat Gaughan on the other end of the telephone I had an overwhelming feeling that my 17-year search for my missing sister was about to end. Wednesday 14 November 2007 was a typical morning in our house, the little haven in Scotland I share with my partner Brian, our son John and my daughter Emma-Jane, and I was busying myself with the usual mundane pieces of housework.

Another day with my family. Another day, just like every other over the previous 17 years, when I wake up and the first thing I think about is my sister Vicky. Always there in my head, the haunting image of a young girl lost.

Now, almost two decades on, I was about to find the truth about her disappearance.

The call from Pat was out of character. I could tell that something was different. There was no usual friendly chat. And with just seven little words, he turned my world upside down. 'Are you going to be home later?'

I caught my breath. When a police officer asks you if you are going to be home, it can only mean one thing: he has something significant to tell you. Important news doesn't come in a phone call. It comes face to face.

My voice was reduced to a whisper as I replied: 'Yes. I'll be home.'

I came off the phone and sat motionless, going over Pat's words in my head. My emotions went into overdrive, my stomach was churning. Must keep busy. Must keep occupied. Why does he want me home? What is he going to tell me?

Deep down I already knew the answer.

Around an hour later, I jumped as the phone rang again. It was Pat. Two of his colleagues were on their way to my house to speak to me. I didn't hear anything else he said. This was it. Face to face...

I called my brother and sister, twins Lee and Lindsay, to tell them to come home as soon as possible. Lee arrived within ten minutes. I met him in the hallway, threw my arms around him and gave him a big hug. He looked petrified, and there were tears in his eyes.

By the time Lindsay got my voicemail it was almost midday. She called me back as I had stepped into the back garden to get some fresh air and try and clear my head. I couldn't bring myself to tell her my suspicions over the phone, so I told her I'd send Brian to pick her up as soon as he could. As I finished the call I could hear Brian greeting the police officers at the front door.

I walked from the kitchen to the living room where the two officers were standing. When they saw me, their gaze, as if synchronised, dropped to the floor. The police are trained to impart bad news, but I suppose it is difficult to disguise body language in situations like this. I motioned to them to sit down, and they both sat on the same couch. Brian offered them coffee, but they politely refused. I went to our other sofa, facing them. Lee looked ashen-faced as he sat down next to me.

The atmosphere was tense, and I felt nauseous. Vicky had disappeared on the night of 10 February 1991, and after nearly 17 years of speaking to dozens of police officers about various aspects of Vicky's case, I couldn't believe I had arrived at this moment. All the years of campaigning. Hoping. Waiting. Praying. It had all come down to now. Although they had hardly said a word between them, I knew in my heart what these two police officers had come to tell me. I braced myself.

The female officer looked straight at me and said: 'You know we found a body at a house in Kent?' I nodded slowly, gripping the arm of the couch for support. She continued: 'We did some checks, and judging by the dental records, the body is Vicky's. I'm sorry.'

It's Vicky.

My God. It's Vicky. These were the words I'd waited almost 17 years to hear. They've found Vicky. I'd often wondered how I would react on hearing these words. I'd played it over and over in my head. It was bad news, but in a strange way, good news too, as Vicky had finally been found. It was the moment I had both yearned for and dreaded.

I was shaking and crying at the same time and Brian tried to comfort me. The room seemed to echo with voices. I got up off the couch and staggered through the kitchen and out the back of the house into the garden. I let out a scream: 'Noooo.' Then Brian was beside me and I fell into his arms, sobbing.

As I hugged him tightly I heard him, over my shoulder, ask the police officers: 'Are you sure it is Vicky?' I understood why he asked it. There could be no mistakes. We had to be certain. The male officer replied: 'One hundred per cent sure. Sorry.' I heard Lee gasp and saw his hand move to his mouth in shock.

Vicky was dead. It was official. Our darling Vicky had been brutally murdered.

To think of my beautiful Vicky lying alone, buried in a garden at the other end of the country, just crushed me. In a strange way, I think the fact that her body was found 400 miles away from home, so far from her family, made it seem worse. On her own for nearly 17 years.

The police said she had been found with some of my mother's jewellery beside her body. She had borrowed some pieces from Mum when she came to visit me the weekend she disappeared a bracelet and a couple of rings. Murdered while wearing her mother's jewellery. A young girl trying to be grown-up; a child on the cusp of adulthood. Taken from the streets by a serial sex killer.