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The first most of us knew of Sarah Everard was a picture. A young woman, her smile effervescent, face open and full of life. Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words and in the case of Sarah, this was true. She seemed to be someone who loved life, embraced all it had to offer and the experiences that came her way.
She had moved to London and called it home. From the start there was the sense that she could be any one of us. That first picture of Sarah soon became many. Her image was everywhere and it was everywhere because she was missing. Her family and friends were desperate. How had she vanished as she walked home through those quiet, lockdown streets on the night of March 3, ? The truth of course was terrible. Sarah had been kidnapped, raped and murdered by a Metropolitan police officer.
She would never go home to her family and friends, to the warm Brixton flat brimming with life and plans. She would not fulfil the dreams she had shared with her sister, of being a bridesmaid, a wife and a mother, of growing old together and savouring all that life had brought. Sarah's murder was an atrocity, a heinous crime committed against her, her family, her friends. But as the truth began to emerge her death took on wider significance.
A tidal wave of distress and anger was unleashed, much of it aimed at the police. Violence towards women and misogyny were flushed out into the open. There seemed signs of a societal reckoning.
