Darren Galsworthy - The Evil Within - Murdered by her stepbrother – the crime that shocked a nation. The heartbreaking story of Becky Watts by her father

‘I loved you so much, Becky – and you knew it too. You knew how to wind me around your little finger. I couldn’t even tell you off for being naughty without telling you that I loved you first. I didn’t want you to have any doubt about how loved you were. You are still loved so much – not just by me, but by your friends and the whole family. Now that you’re gone there is a huge hole in our hearts.

‘I try not to focus on our loss; instead I think about all the amazing memories we made together. I used to worry about you not making friends easily, but now I’m actually grateful that you didn’t, because I became both your dad and your friend, and I will always treasure the time we spent together.

‘So for now, until we meet again, my princess, I just close my eyes and imagine you running around with your brown hair – which always shimmered red when the sun caught it – a big smile on your face and a lot of love in your heart. Your laughter could cheer me up even on a dark day. And one day, I know I’m going to hear that laughter again. Lots of love, Dad x’

MONDAY, 23 FEBRUARY 2015

Appeal over missing schoolgirl: Concern is mounting over the disappearance of Bristol schoolgirl Becky Watts. The 16-year-old was last seen by her stepmother, Anjie Galsworthy, four days ago after she returned to her home at Crown Hill, St George’s, following a night at a friend’s house. Mrs Galsworthy says she saw Becky at around 11.15 a.m. on Thursday and chatted with her before heading out. Becky’s family and friends are growing increasingly worried as her disappearance is out of character. Her boyfriend Luke had been expecting to see her that day, but she didn’t respond to his texts. Becky’s mobile phone and laptop are missing too, but it appears she took no cash, clothes, makeup or anything else that might suggest she was going away for any length of time. Today, her father, Darren Galsworthy, and grandmother, Pat Watts, made a heartfelt public appeal for her return. Mr Galsworthy said: ‘Becky, we just want you to come home. You’re in no trouble at all – we just want to make sure you are OK. If you can, please give us a call or a text to let us know you are safe. We all love you and want you back home with us.’ Police are working with the family. They’ve released a photo and description of the missing girl and a social media campaign is under way, with the hashtag #FindBecky.

The first time I peered down at my baby daughter Becky, my heart melted. She was a proper bundle of joy and cute as a button. As she gazed up at me from her cot, blinking rapidly to try to take in her new surroundings, I couldn’t help but fall for her. At 6 pounds 12 ounces she was tiny, but I soon discovered that she had a good set of lungs for a newborn and could silence a whole room with her cries.

I adored Becky from that first moment, even though my feelings were tinged with uncertainty because I wasn’t sure if she was really my child. Her mother and I had been in an on–off relationship that was veering towards ‘off’ at the time she was conceived. But as Becky grew up, she became more and more like her old man – so much so that it startled both of us at times. Her big hazel eyes were the same as mine, and as she got older she developed a lot of my mannerisms. The only difference between us was the fact that she was far better looking! I called her ‘my beautiful Bex’ because, to me, Becky really was beautiful – inside and out.

I was born and bred in Bristol and have lived here all my life. Some parts of the city aren’t pretty, as I well know because I’ve made my home in some of the roughest bits, but in Bristol I have a strong sense of belonging. Bristol folk are some of the kindest, most genuine and supportive people you will ever meet, and I am proud of the city’s brilliant community spirit. I simply can’t imagine living anywhere else.

I was the first child in my family, born on New Year’s Eve 1963, when the Beatles were at number one with ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’. I waited until 11 p.m. to make an appearance, so my parents, John and Sue Galsworthy, were staring down at my scrunched-up face as the clock struck midnight and everyone else across the country was welcoming in the New Year.

The next day, they brought me back from Southmead Hospital to their two-bedroom terraced house in Easton, Bristol. At that time Easton was one of the most deprived areas in the South West and it was multicultural, which was quite rare in those days. My family were among the only white people on our estate. Life in the 1960s in Bristol was quite tough for working-class people like us, and we had to struggle to make ends meet. My dad worked long hours as a machinist for a nuclear and defence engineering company, and my mum worked in a leather factory then later became an auxiliary nurse at an old people’s home.

My little brother Lee was born on 15 August 1966, when I was two and a half. We shared a room and at first I quite enjoyed having a younger brother, but as he grew older he became a bit gobby, always getting himself into trouble with the other kids on our estate. Because I was the older one, I had to jump in to protect him, and I eventually got a reputation for enjoying a fight – all thanks to Lee!

The 1970s was the decade of strikes, which led to power cuts and huge piles of rat-infested rubbish on the streets because the bin men weren’t collecting it any more. The economy was prone to inflation – it seemed as if every single time you went to the shops, prices had gone up. This led to workers demanding higher wages, which the government didn’t want to pay, and as a result the unions started to call for all-out strikes. Three-day working weeks were introduced as businesses were only allowed to use electricity for three consecutive days each week, while there were regular power cuts for home users. This meant that the inside of our house was as freezing cold as the outside during the winter months – we had ice on the inside of the windows. I was taught to bake bread at school because the bakers were on strike, like everyone else, and I got in the habit of nicking coal whenever I spotted it just so we could light the fire at night to keep warm. Huddled together by candlelight in the evenings, Lee and I thought it was great fun – but, of course, we were young and didn’t have any responsibilities. I imagine it was quite different for our parents, who had two kids to feed and keep warm.

My dad was the head of our household and extremely strict, as many fathers were back then. It wasn’t uncommon to receive a beating with his belt if we were naughty. Sometimes if my brother was bad I’d be punished too, and vice versa, which didn’t seem fair. Teachers were also allowed to beat pupils in those days. We were often hit with a bat, like a wooden paddle, in primary school, and when we got to secondary school a cane was used. I was quite an emotional kid, and it didn’t take much to make me cry. When the teacher asked me if I wanted a telling off or the bat, I always chose the bat because I was used to getting beatings at home and knew I could take them. Strange as it may sound, to me words hurt more.

My mother wasn’t the most maternal person and never stood up for my brother or me. She worked morning or evening shifts at the leather factory, and we would often come home from school to find her passed out on the sofa after drinking gin during the afternoon. I didn’t realise she was an alcoholic until much later. I didn’t really know what that was then, but I knew it was useless trying to get any sense out of her when she’d been drinking. Since she wasn’t capable of making dinner, I learned to make food for Lee and me from an early age. At first it was just sandwiches I made from the food parcels donated to poor families by people at the local church. Later, I learned to make simple meals like egg and chips or sausage and chips, and I often made dinner for my father too. He was always in a better mood if there was food on the table ready for him when he returned home from work.