Whatever happened to... Karen Ross whose daughter Rosie was stabbed to death?
Rosie Ross, aged 13
Saturday 8th September 2007
When we die, we all hope we'll leave a bit of us behind, that people will remember how we were and the good things we did. And no one's done that more than my daughter, Rosie.
On 12 May 2001, Rosie, 16, was stabbed to death in a random attack while sunbathing in Birmingham city centre. Me, my husband, Sean, 42, and son Alex, 13, were devastated.
But Rosie would have hated the tears. Her last morning alive, she was full of energy and talking 10 to the dozen as usual.
'I've seen the boots I want,' she told me. 'I think they're in the sale.'
I'd been hearing about the purple boots she wanted for weeks.
'Have a lovely day,' I said waving her and her friend, Amy, off.
That lunchtime, Sean and I went shopping to Tesco. It was there we got the call.
'Mrs Ross,' said a voice. 'It's the police. Can you come home straight away.'
The tone of his voice told me something was terribly wrong. Sean and I drove straight home, my heart racing all the way there. The officer was waiting for us.
'It's your daughter Rosie,' he said. 'I'm afraid she's been stabbed.'
My head started spinning. Where? How? Why?
'We don't know the details,' the officer said, reading my mind.
We dropped Alex at a neighbour's house, then drove to Birmingham City Hospital.
'It's probably not serious,' I said, trying to convince myself. 'She'll be more shaken up than anything.'
When we arrived, Rosie was in surgery, and Sean and I were taken to the relatives' room. The surgeon came to see us straight away. His first words were: 'You'd better sit down.'
He told us Rosie and Amy had taken a break from shopping in Centenary Square. Amy was sitting there in her T-shirt and skirt enjoying the sun. It was crowded with shoppers, but a man had come through the crowd with a carving knife, and plunged it into Rosie's stomach.
'She's lost a lot of blood,' the surgeon said.
Hundreds of people had been there. Why had he picked on our Rosie? A police office told us a man called Inderjit Kainth had been arrested. He was a stranger who they thought had paranoid schizophrenia. It didn't seem real.
Three hours later, at 5pm, the doctor came back. The look on his face said it all.
'I'm so sorry,' he said. 'There was nothing more we could do.'
Tears poured down my cheeks as I tried to take it in. Rosie was gone.
There was so much to take care of. Telling Alex was the worst.
'No!' he screamed.
He'd looked up to Rosie, and she'd doted on him. Then there was telling Rosie's friends, meetings with police, funeral plans… I couldn't connect these sad, serious things to my fun-loving, caring daughter.
Then three days after her death, I went up to Rosie's room for the first time. Her bed was made and her school tie hung on the back of the door. I opened the drawer in her bedside table. Among the notebooks and magazines, I saw some folded paper. I opened it.
'My Will' by Rosie.
My hands went clammy. Why on earth had my healthy 16-year-old written a will?
I read on.
'I would like to be remembered as a fun-loving, high-spirited girl, who enjoyed every moment of her life. I don't want anyone to be upset. I've gone to paradise now. I'll live on in the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved me.
'When you look up at the sky on a clear day and the sun is shining, and at night when the stars and the moon are out, I'll be there.'
It was heartbreaking, but brought me comfort.
'Thank you, Rosie,' I whispered.
Her funeral at St Mary's Church in Aldridge a week later was agony. But remembering her 'will' got me through.
In December 2001, Inderjit Kainth, 44, denied murder and pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility at Birmingham Crown Court. He was ordered to be detained indefinitely in a secure hospital.
I tried not to cry as the court heard how he'd spent three weeks hunting for a victim after his marriage ended. He convinced himself he needed to take revenge on a woman. My poor little girl.
As the anniversary of Rosie's death approached, we wanted to do something to mark the day.
'Let's raise money for Birmingham City Children's Hospital,' I said to Sean. 'That way, everyone who loved Rosie can get involved.'
We settled on a sponsored walk. We expected around 100 people to join us — some family, friends, neighbours or people from school. But applications for sponsorship forms flooded in. And, on the day, 600 people turned up.
We managed to raise £27,000 from that day. By October 2002, the Rosie Ross Memorial Fund had raised £57,888. We gave the A&E department at Birmingham City Hospital £43,416 to buy equipment to help victims of the kind of injuries Rosie died from. The rest was donated to the Institute for Cancer Studies at Birmingham University.
And in November that year, we set up Rosie's Helping Hands, a charity to improve the lives of children and young people in the Midlands. Organising events and sorting through applications from causes keeps me busy.
This July just gone, we held our sixth Rosie's Walk. Despite the bad weather, 800 people joined us. Wherever I go, I take a copy of Rosie's will with me and, whenever I feel sad, I read it. I know she'd be proud of us for making sure everyone remembers her just like she asked. A fun-loving, high-spirited girl who enjoyed every moment.
We'll never forget you, Rosie.
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