My daughter was a lovely young woman of 17 when she made the mistake of accepting a lift from you. She was about to start her last term at school and was making an application to go to art school. That summer she was booked to go to Sweden to a peace and reconciliation camp for students. She was very excited about that: she had such a lot to live for. She was a normal young person, at times confident, maybe a little headstrong, and at other times shy and a little unsure of herself.

If I ever met you I would simply want to ask you: why? Why did you kill her and then throw her body away? You treated her like a broken doll you didn't want any more. You hid her body in a forest and left us, her family, in torment not knowing for two years where she was and why she didn't come home that dreadful night. Why were you unable to stop yourself from doing such a terrible thing? Did someone in your earlier years treat you as less than human; treat you like a thing and not a person?

There is a great deal written now about forgiveness and closure in these situations, but it would be for her to forgive you, not us. How can we forgive you when we do not even know who you are? Would she forgive you for her pain and suffering and for all the lost years of living? As for closure, that to me is an extremely academic idea. She is always with me when I am awake and sometimes half the night. I don't sleep well. Do you?

I try to remember her living, not her dying. It's not always easy to do that.

This spring, on the anniversary of her death, a small group of family and friends gathered at her graveside. We wanted at last to celebrate her life and to share our memories of her. We all agreed to put aside the manner of her going and remember the lively young woman she was. Which one of us would wish to be remembered only for the circumstances of our death?

She came alive when friends read briefly from letters and postcards she had written just before her death. She was due to return to school at the end of the holiday and, at 17, a little reluctant to submit to the routine of school life. She wrote to tell her friend she had been made head girl and would have her own little study and a gas ring. These small reminders of her brought her to life, and her two nephews and her niece, born long after she died, felt she had come into the light and they could now ask questions and talk about her in the family.

But what happened to you? Maybe you are long since dead or in prison for some other offence. Perhaps you led a quiet life and kept your guilty secret from everyone. You must know, as we all do, that murder cases are never closed. They may go cold but are constantly reviewed. My daughter's case has been re-examined many times: with the advent of DNA profiling, the reviews take place regularly. Reviews for us mean painful memories and stress. We feel anguish and deep sadness at these times. How about you? Do you wait for that knock on the door? Would you feel fear or even relief if the police did come for you at last?

Every time we turn on the news and hear of a young person going missing we relive those terrible times. What you did that evening in early spring all those years ago changed our lives for ever. What did it do to yours?

In fact, you did not destroy us as a family, though my husband's health deteriorated and he died prematurely. In some ways, the tragic event made us all stronger. My other two daughters, now middle-aged, are brilliant and loving parents, and through their professional lives have made very real contributions to the communities in which they live. More importantly they seem able to take risks and allow their children to take risks. I am so proud of what they have achieved.

I need to tell you that I grieve daily for a relationship so cruelly ended and for the grandchildren who will never be born. I think of the very different life my family might have had. For the terrible thing that you did, you might well have been given a life sentence; only a jury could decide that. What would that mean: nine years? Twelve years?

For us, after more than 30 years, we continue to serve our life sentence when all we did was lead an ordinary life and tried to bring up our children to care for and respect other people. If only the same had been true for you.

Anonymous