My husband Ron Jonker wasn’t always so angry.
We’d first met through my dad David’s fishing club when I was 15 and Ron was 21.
For five years, we were great friends and Ron always made me laugh.
During that time, I had a relationship with someone else, and had a son who I named after my dad. Ron had a daughter with his partner at the time.
But when both our relationships ended, romance blossomed between us.
Together we had a son, Aaron, and got married.
‘I want to keep trying for a girl,’ I told Ron.
David was six and Aaron almost four when we had Ashlee.
All I’d ever wanted in life was to be a mum and I worked so hard at being a good one. The kids were my absolute pride and joy.
My kids David, Aaron and Ashlee were my absolute pride and joy
David, tall for his age with beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair, was my little man. Close to my dad, ‘Gampa’ as he called him, he liked fishing and country music.
Aaron had a beautiful smile and blues eyes too. He and David were best mates.
‘When I get big I’m going to buy a house with David so we can live together,’ he’d say.
The boys loved the Wiggles, Buzz Lightyear and absolutely doted on their baby sister.
Ashlee walked at nine months and was into everything. If anyone left the front door open, she’d try to make a cheeky escape.
One Easter, I bought her a pair of bunny ears and she wouldn’t take them off.
I should have been so happy. But I wasn’t. You see, over time my relationship with Ron had deteriorated.
He was verbally abusive, pushed and shoved me. Worse still, he was completely disinterested in the kids – even cruel.
My gentle dad David was so upset by the way Ron treated me and the kids that he’d often walk out and leave
He picked on David.
Once, when my dad was round, Ron yanked David by the ear to discipline him.
My gentle dad was so upset he left.
Another time Ron smacked Aaron, then five, because he took too long getting his shoes off.
By the end of September 1998, I’d had enough and told Ron our marriage was over.
He demanded we leave the house immediately, so we all moved in with my dad.
Ron was always angry but I tried keeping things civil.
‘You can have the kids anytime you like. Come round for dinner if you want,’ I said.
I thought we’d work it out.
David and Aaron absolutely doted on their little sister, Ashlee
On Friday, October 2, Ron took the kids for the weekend. On the Sunday he called to ask me if he could have them for a few more days. Trying my best to keep the peace, I agreed.
Later, I popped in to see them, just to check how they were doing. Ron flew into a rage, grabbing me round the throat.
‘I want to hit you but you’re not worth it,’ he snarled.
Then he dropped a bombshell: he was going to apply for full custody.
‘If you win in court, you’ll never see your kids again,’ he threatened.
I was distraught and shaken.
On Monday, October 19, three weeks after our split, we had the hearing. Mercifully, the judge saw right through Ron, awarding me custody and only allowing Ron access two weekends out of three.
Outside court, Roy was seething. His eyes bored into me, empty and black. It was like looking into pure evil.
Ashlee was walking by nine months and would often try to make an escape if someone left the front door open
One Easter I bought Ashlee a pair of bunny ears and she wouldn’t take them off
In that moment I had a horrific premonition. Ron was going to make good on his threat that I’d never see my kids again.
‘He’s going to kill the kids,’ I sobbed to my lawyer. ‘Please, do something.’
As it stood, the kids were still in Ron’s care and he hadn’t been ordered to return them to me until 23rd.
My blood ran cold. I was so convinced he was going to harm the kids before I could bring them home safely with me that I called the police, who sent an officer round.
He reported Ron was no threat to the kids or himself.
Next, I called the child welfare authorities, but they wouldn’t listen either. I felt terrified and helpless.
The next day, Ron allowed the kids to ring me.
I spoke to Aaron, five, and David, seven, briefly.
They seemed fine. But even though on that call, Ron indicated he’d bring them home on the agreed date, I still felt sick to my stomach.
The next day, at 6.20pm, Ron called again. This time he spoke to my dad, telling him to go to the bottom of the drive where he was waiting.
I assumed he was handing the kids to dad and didn’t want to see me.
But my dad returned with only a letter from Ron.
I finally met a good man, Richard (left) who my dad David (centre) loved. But I’ll never get over what Ron did
‘I did warn you that if you won in court, you would lose. Unless some divine miracle happens, the next time you see my kids will be to make a positive ID at the Coroner’s Office,’ he’d written.
I became hysterical but managed to call the police.
Fifteen minutes later, two officers arrived.
They consulted with a superior then told me to ring Ron to find out where he was and arrange a meeting.
After repeated calls, I got through.
‘You can have custody, just please don’t hurt the children,’ I begged.
He agreed to meet me at 8.30pm at a place called Gingin. ‘I’ll see you coming and know if the cops are involved,’ he said.
It was just before 7pm. Gingin was 80 minutes away. The cops said it was too dangerous for me to go and instead made a plan to intercept him.
At 8.20pm, Ron rang and my dad answered.
‘Where is she?’ Ron demanded.
As dad tried to stall for time, saying I was on my way, I could hear the boys in the background.
‘Gampa, help us,’ they were crying.
Meanwhile, approaching the meeting place, the police spotted Ron.
He saw them and sped off. They gave chase but had to abandon it when he hit 170km.
He called me afterwards.
‘I told you, no police,’ he yelled. ‘I think I’ve lost them. You’ve done your dash.’
Then he hung up.
I knew he meant it was all over now and I dropped to knees in absolute despair.
My only hope now was if the police found him before he did something terrible.
But there was no trace of Ron, 33, and the children until the car was spotted on a quiet bush track by an air force plane the next day.
A woman officer broke the news to me that Ron and the kids were inside, all dead.
I can remember someone putting their arms around me and then being sedated.
Ron had gassed himself and the kids with exhaust fumes.
Ashlee, 17 months, was in his arms. One of the boys was slumped on the front passenger seat, the other on the rear.
A police friend of my dad’s advised me not to ID or view the children because of the condition of my babies’ bodies.
I didn’t want to go to the funeral; that would mean it was real.
But of course, I did go. When I saw the little white coffins, I almost passed out.
The children were buried together. Ashlee was wearing the little bunny ears she loved so much.
I’d lived for my kids and now I didn’t want to live anymore. All that stopped me killing myself was the thought Ron would win.
I tried blocking everything out with drink and drugs. My dad was heartbroken. He hadn’t only lost his grandchildren; he’d lost me too.
There was more pain to come.
At an inquest in the year 2000, it was revealed the kids might have been saved had it not been for police blunders.
They had known the 8.30pm meeting time from 7pm that evening.
But nobody got there until 9.30pm, because it was unclear who was in charge. The police helicopter was being serviced and the tactical squad was on another job. No roadblocks were set up and when the police did spot Ron, they lost him.
That wasn’t surprising because they’d only sent one car instead of the four at least that they should have sent.
Officers from another police station couldn’t attend because they’d run out of petrol and all the fuel stations were closed.
It all just defied belief.
After the inquest, I asked for the police files. They’d disappeared in transit, apparently.
For another eight years I was a lost soul.
Then, in 2012, my dad and I moved from Perth to Bunbury for a fresh start. Dad got a place one door down from mine and I met a decent man at last, Richard.
Dad loved him. In September 2018, six months after we got married, my father, who’d been my rock, passed away aged 82.
It’s only recently I’ve felt strong enough to face what happened.
‘I can’t stand by anymore while these family murder-suicides keep happening,’ I told Richard.
So, I’m going request the police files again.
All these years later, I’ve requested to look at the police files again. I want accountability
I want accountability.
After almost every horrific tragedy like mine, it turns out there were warnings the police didn’t take seriously enough.
The same mistakes are still being made.
If one parent is concerned the other might harm their kids, they should be removed immediately.
Give them to the grandparents, just get them out.
I’m devastated that all these years after my beautiful children were murdered, we still haven’t learned that when it comes to children’s lives, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
