The Night My Husband Killed Me

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Two weeks later, I typed out a curt email to Robert. I want a divorce, I wrote. He seemed desperate to give our marriage another crack, so I agreed to visit a counsellor with him.

I felt uneasy, but I still had a tiny bit of hope I could find the Robert I fell in love with again. Later that day, I noticed Robert hovering around my caravan. He was often pottering around the yard, so I thought nothing of it. That evening, I retreated outside to the van and fell into a deep sleep. But at 2am, I was woken to a weird hissing coming from under my pillow.

Getting out of bed, I went outside to check the back of the caravan.

I noticed a hose was snaking down from one of the windows. Following it back inside, I lifted up the mattress. It had been duct taped all the way to my pillow.

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Stranger still, I saw a jersey had been stuffed in a vent to keep the air out. Winding all the way to the garage, the hose was connected to a gas cylinder. Then I tapped loudly on his window until he woke up. Finally, though, I managed to call the police and they said a team was on their way. Sally served breakfast and, as Richard ate, she took a hammer and hit him more than 20 times. In case he was still breathing, she stuffed a tea towel into his mouth, before wrapping him in some old curtains. Then she washed the dishes and drove back to the home she shared with their son, David.

The next morning, after giving David, then 23, a lift to work, Sally drove to Beachy Head.

She parked, called her cousin to confess, then walked to the cliffs. It took a suicide prevention team hours to talk her back from the edge. Ten months later, Sally stood in the dock of Guildford crown court, looking nothing like the well-coiffed woman she had once been.

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Her hair was a mess. She had lost a front tooth. Her fingers were nicotine yellow. In setting out the murder charge, the prosecution painted a picture of a possessive — or possessed — wife. Wilce and Richard had arranged to go out on her boat the next day, but Richard called to cancel because of the bad weather; she had called him right back to suggest Sunday lunch instead. Sally, the court heard, was obsessive. When asked why she had killed him, her explanation was: At the end of a seven-day trial, she was found guilty of murder.

Now, the case is making headlines again — and events have been cast in a different light.

A date for the appeal is expected later this autumn. She is also co-founder of Justice for Women , which helped secure the release of Sara Thornton , Emma Humphreys and other women who killed their violent and abusive husbands. She was not subject to sustained, persistent physical violence. There are no broken bones or hospital visits for Wistrich to draw on.

Instead, she has numerous witness statements taken in , but not used in court; emails from Richard to Sally; and months of prison visits and video calls with Sally herself. Is it enough to explain a murderous hammer attack? In fact, certain phrases come up repeatedly from those who know Sally.

Sally Jenney met Richard Challen when she was David now lives in London and works for a film distribution company, and is campaigning for his mother. It also means looking at his family life in the most ugly light imaginable, something he struggles with still his brother is supportive, but does not campaign publicly.

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Now I can look at the age gap for what it meant. Mum never had a chance to experience any other relationship or form any adult identity of her own. My dad, and the way he behaved, was all she knew. Sally came from a sheltered, old-fashioned family. Her father died when she was six and she was raised by her mother in Surrey, attending school up to O-levels.

Her brothers had high-flying careers — one was the auditor general of Hong Kong, another a company director — but for Sally the expectation was secretarial work, husband, children. Richard Challen lived locally. He was funny, charismatic, making good money dealing cars. His father had been the motoring correspondent for the News of the World and Richard was a petrolhead, passionate about fast cars and Formula One. His oldest schoolfriend, Dellon Blackmore, introduced them when Sally was in her teens. Richard took advantage of that. There were always other women.

The Night My Husband Killed Me

We were always the only people on this empty, silent, expanse of beach. The worst part was after the bathe, faced with the long trudge back. On this particular day, our little boy started grizzling and asking to be carried. My husband, preoccupied with his thoughts, was irritated and strode on ahead. I picked up the child, then the little girl was jealous and dragged on my hand so I was virtually pulling her weight along. Suddenly, from firm footing we stepped into soft, yielding sand.

It was an effort to lift one foot, then move the other up. Now both children were wailing. We were sinking down into the sand, every step more of a struggle until Calling out to my husband, my stomach became a black hollow. When a child, I had been horrified by a story about a pony named Heather who sank in quicksand while her best horse friend looked on helplessly.

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They said goodbye to each other. The end was described in lingering detail.

All the feelings that had traumatised me then were now engulfing and gripping me like a claw. My husband turned and stood watching us. Away in his deeply-in-love dream world, he was seeing this miracle happening before his eyes: Equally unbelieving, we watched him watching us.

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