John Foster,

I address you as John Foster because after you murdered my daughter's boyfriend in cold blood, you lost the right to be labelled as doctor. You also lost the right to be given introduction other than your name after you murdered my daughter, too. Because however indirectly it may have been, it was your fault.

Taking a baseball bat to a child's head and beating him with it until you've ripped him from this world is possible the worst thing you could do, because that is all Freddie McLair was - a child. A child who got mixed up with a deranged psychopath who killed him and who destroyed what taste of life he had experienced. It wasn't a life really was it? A teenage boy of seventeen, who never did you any harm, who could mend my child with a single touch was on this earth for a moment, because seventeen years old wasn't a life, just a glimpse of a life and because of you he will never see his eighteenth birthday or be able to drink legally or ever become an adult, because of you he is dead and so is my daughter.

My daughter was born on April 17th 1992 and to be honest, she died on May 30th 2010, the day her boyfriend died. The day her world died. Because my daughter had been ill for a very long time since her early teens, but that boy could mend her with a smile and telling her he loved her, had he been given the chance had you not taken him away because he did the job I had been trying to do for the past her entire life in less than a year.

I knew from the day we found his body my daughter was soon destined to follow. I think part of me knew that day because she smiled - an expression she hadn't been able to possess for the six weeks since she had last seen him. His Father found her in his bed, she had asked if she could just collect a few things she'd left in there and, after half and hour, he went upstairs to find her curled up beneath his covers, one of his t-shirts pressed to her mouth and nose, drenched in her own blood, her arms slashed to pieces.

My daughter was my best friend. I doted on her and even though I never always showed it – she was my life, my world. Even though I can't imagine how to begin to cope with each day without her being on the same planet as me, I get comfort in the fact Effy is happy, Effy is with Freddie. Effy is now safe.

On April 17th 1992 at 03:27 am, my daughter was born, she weighed 6lb 9 ounces and we called her Elizabeth Georgia Stonem, it was my son who named her Effy, no matter how many times my husband and I said Lizzie, he replied Effy, a name which stuck. Less than three hours after her birth, I knew she was remarkable. I knew I had been blessed with this powerful creature, because I swear to god, she looked directly at me and smirked. It was that smirk only she possessed, a smirk that no one could capture, a smirk with unbelievable power and a smirk that screamed: I am Effy Stonem and I am amazing. She could have done so much with her life, however, now she will never get the chance and that is your fault.

Anthea Stonem

"Mum?" Called the voice of Tony, "Mum, the car's here, we have to go."

Anthea rose from the kitchen table folding the letter into an envelope and placing it in her bag, smoothing down her black dress, she walked through to the hallway, she smiled painfully at her son and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and, wordlessly, they made their way to the awaiting hearse.

Freddie wrapped his arms around Effy's middle as they watched the procession go.

Turning back from the car, Anthea surveyed the house she had raised her children in and glancing up at her daughter's bedroom window and she could have sworn...