Madeleine (24 page)

Wednesday 6 June. Today we left on our campaign visits to Berlin and Amsterdam. For this three-legged trip we’d been offered the use of a plane by one of the directors of Netjets, a company that sells fractional jet ownership (a bit like a holiday-home timeshare, only with planes), which we accepted gratefully for the same reasons as we’d decided to accept Sir Philip Green’s help to get us to Rome. Again, a small press contingent travelled with us.

Our schedule in Berlin looked a bit daunting, but in the event everything ran incredibly smoothly. Admirable German efficiency! After a television interview, we were off to meet the ambassador, Peter Torry, a nice man with three daughters of his own.

Next came that infamous press conference – infamous in that it produced such outrage in the British press and public. Our reaction was far less dramatic, regardless of headlines such as ‘McCANNS APPALLED BY NEWSGIRL’S SLUR’ in the
Mirror
. The fuss began when Sabine Mueller from German radio asked us, ‘How do you feel about the fact that more and more people seem to be pointing the finger at you, saying that the way you behave is not the way people would normally behave when their child is abducted, and they seem to imply that you might have something to do with it?’ In spite of the gasps and restless shuffling around the room, at first I failed to pick up on her last eight words: I was still concentrating on the first part of her question, which related to criticism there had been of our participation in the European campaign to find our daughter.

Some commentators seemed to be very preoccupied by how it was we were able to cope with meeting and greeting politicians, NGOs and news crews without breaking down all the time, as if managing to display a modicum of calm and control in public meant there must be something wrong with us. My ability to function on any level with Madeleine missing, albeit on autopilot, is something I’ve always found difficult to comprehend myself, and I can completely understand why somebody who hasn’t walked in our shoes might find it weird. I responded by saying I thought these critics were in a very small minority. It was only after Gerry stated firmly, ‘There is absolutely no way Kate and I are involved in this abduction,’ that the second part of her question caught up with me. ‘I have never heard before that anyone considers us suspects in this,’ he went on. ‘And the Portuguese police certainly don’t.’

Honest to God, I almost want to pat my lovely husband and myself sympathetically on the head or put an arm round us both when I recall how trusting we were back then. To think we could have made comments like this, in all confidence and conviction. The fact that we could and did highlights why we were so totally dumbfounded when the tide turned against us two months later. We knew we were innocent, and we believed the PJ knew that, too. And despite everything that happened, we still believe that.

Our next meeting was with the deputy justice minister, who gave us a document relating to a conference on child welfare that had been held in Berlin two days previously. Over lunch, I browsed through it. It dealt with the dramatic rise in child pornography and the way the internet had turned this hideous blight on our society into a billion-dollar industry. I couldn’t eat a thing.

The final encounter of the day was with the mayor of Berlin, Klaus Wowereit. We’d heard that he was a colourful and charismatic man, well liked and something of a celebrity in the region. If his popularity and the respect in which he was held by the citizens of Berlin could benefit Madeleine, we were more than prepared to have another few hundred photographs taken standing next to him while he appealed for help.

With the completion of the formal programme of events, the plan had been to relax for an hour before our departure to Amsterdam. At 3pm, however, a message was relayed to us from the British police with instructions for us to be taken immediately to the British Embassy. ‘What’s happened?’ We had barely got the words out before the reply came: ‘I’m sorry, we don’t know.’

A wave of nausea. Immediate tears. Was she dead? Had she been found? We had been here before and couldn’t believe this was happening all over again, but there we were, holding on to each other in the back of a car, crying, shaking and praying. Please God, let it be good news. Please God, let Madeleine be all right.

At the Embassy, Ambassador Torry had been joined by David Connolly, an officer from SOCA (the Serious Organised Crime Agency). David told us how sorry he was we’d had to go through another twenty minutes of suffering and reassured us that nothing terrible had happened. I felt myself breathe again. He explained that the Spanish police had received a call, on an Argentinian mobile phone, from a man calling himself Walter, who told them he had information about Madeleine but would speak only to Gerry or me. The Spanish police conferred with the Portuguese police and both concluded that it might be significant. The Spanish police were going to ring Walter back and arrange for him to talk to us.

David warned us that it might be a hoax, but it was equally possible it might be genuine, perhaps a ransom demand. My heartbeat quickened. I tried to keep a lid on any optimism, knowing how bad the crash would be if this amounted to nothing, but it was incredibly hard to suppress the flicker of hope it had ignited.

David briefed Gerry on what would happen. Gerry and I would take the call at the police headquarters in Berlin. He talked Gerry through the questions he would need to ask and how he should respond. As we waited to hear from the Spanish authorities we were joined by two German specialist kidnap officers. The whole team oozed professionalism and experience, which sustained Gerry and me as the minutes ticked slowly by.

At 5pm local time, the Spanish police rang Walter. There was no answer. I was completely gutted.

We were given three options: we could return to the UK, where, it was felt, the facilities for dealing with such operations were probably the best; we could stay on in Berlin in case the authorities were able to make contact with Walter; or we could carry on to Amsterdam as planned. After some discussion, we decided that, since it now seemed that this was in all probability a crank call, we should press on to Amsterdam. The episode had caused us enough heartache already and we didn’t want it to scupper this important trip as well. If there were any further developments, we could easily be contacted there.

An additional complication was that the journalists travelling with us were waiting to be told when the plane was going to leave and had already begun speculating about the reason for the delay. Clarence was being bombarded with questions and had so far managed to field them without disclosing any sensitive details, but it could only be a matter of time before the press got wind of something. The last thing we needed was another dramatic and wildly inaccurate story blowing up. In the unlikely event that Walter’s call had been genuine, who knows what effect it might have had on any negotiations?

As it turned out, that was the last we ever heard of Walter. But it was a good illustration, if any were needed, of the inadvisability of allowing the media to fly with us.

The Netjets plane eventually took off shortly before 7.30pm, several hours later than planned. By then I was such a nervous wreck that I accepted a restorative gin and tonic. Come to think of it, that might well have been my first drink since Madeleine was taken. It helped me relax for a few minutes, anyway.

On our descent into Schipol airport, the sensations that were now becoming familiar returned: the tight throat, the stinging, wet eyes, the heavy, dragging feeling in my chest. Oh God, how could this be? Amsterdam held so many happy memories of the year we’d lived there with Madeleine. How could we be coming back without her? I’m so sorry, Madeleine. I’m so, so sorry.

It was late and Gerry and I were both completely drained by the stress and seesawing emotions of the afternoon. On our arrival in Amsterdam, with profuse apologies, we cancelled a broadcast interview that had been scheduled to take place two hours earlier.

Unbelievably, the producers were really quite angry. I’ve learned to accept this kind of insensitive reaction, which we have encountered from time to time over the years, mainly with the international press. Some people have become pretty belligerent when they’ve felt we haven’t given them what they wanted from us. One guy even threw his mike on the floor in a fit of pique. It’s as if news, events and ‘human-interest stories’ exist solely to serve their programmes and publications rather than the other way around; as if we, and Madeleine’s situation, are there simply as fodder for their airtime or columns. It’s disappointing but we are used to it. It would be pointless to let it get to us. We move on.

We did manage a short interview that evening, in our hotel room, with a nice lady called Eleanor from
The
Tablet
, the weekly Catholic newspaper. This was more like a chat than anything else and certainly more relaxing than any other media interviews we’d done so far. Afterwards, at 10pm, five of our Amsterdam friends came over to see us. I could hardly bear to let go when they hugged me. I knew the moment I stepped back to look at them their faces would instantly remind me of days spent together with Madeleine. A fresh surge of pain mingled with the comfort brought by these special friends. We had never expected to be seeing them without Madeleine. These were people who had shared her first birthday cake with her. This incomplete reunion made no sense.

The next day followed a similar tightly packed format to our visits to Madrid and Berlin. We had meetings with the ambassador, the UK police liaison officer for the KLPD (the Dutch national police), the consul general and a government policy adviser. We talked to the national police coordinator for missing persons. It became apparent very quickly just how much more advanced than many other countries the Netherlands was in dealing with missing children. The systems in place were extremely well structured and organized. The fact that they had systems at all gave them a head start on much of Europe. We were given books on what to do if your child went missing and how to deal with the media if your child went missing (unfortunately for us, in Dutch, and a little late) – vital sources of information and guidance for families thrown into this terrifying unknown territory.

We also met Charlotte from Child Focus, an NGO for missing and exploited children in Belgium. After suffering a spate of child abductions and murders in the 1990s, Belgium had set out to tackle these heinous crimes head on. The establishment of Child Focus in 1997 was a part of this strategy. Charlotte told us she was the case manager at Child Focus for Madeleine. We were speechless. We couldn’t believe there was actually a lady in
Belgium
working officially on Madeleine’s behalf. I was so grateful I burst into tears. I cried at sad news, I cried at heartwarming news. I did a lot of crying! Those who criticized us for appearing too controlled didn’t know the half of it.

After several interviews for national television and radio, including
Opsporing Verzocht
, the Dutch equivalent of
Crimewatch
, we were back on the plane heading for the Algarve. I needed a fix of Sean and Amelie’s beautiful smiles, their funny toddler chatter, their sticky fingers, their baby breath on my face. I had to drag myself away from the twins all too soon. Gerry and I had been invited to a concert, a Music Marathon for Madeleine, in Lagos. We were both absolutely exhausted but we wanted to go to show our gratitude for this demonstration of support and solidarity. The music was fantastic and it was wonderful to see so many kids taking part, doing their bit for Madeleine. Just as we began to flag, four young rappers got up on stage. They were so entertaining and so funny that at one point I found myself laughing. It felt good and bad at the same time, prompting a confusing concoction of responses. The warmth it brought was tainted by a disgust with myself for even being able to laugh. Was this how life without Madeleine was going to be? Would I never again, until the day she came back, be able to laugh in public or feel pure, uncomplicated joy?

12

MOROCCO

Sunday 10 June. Rabat, Morocco. Shortly before leaving for the airport, I made the mistake of reading an article in a
Sunday
Ex
pr
ess
I’d found lying around – a double-page piece, I think, illustrated by a photograph of an overcrowded, chaotic market scene – about child trading in Morocco.

I can’t believe our dear little Madeleine has potentially ended up with such a scary, sordid life. Please God, please, please protect her. She loves us, God. Please bring her back to us.

We were lucky we managed to get on a plane to Rabat at all. I use the word ‘lucky’ loosely. The jet had broken down and a pre-war propeller plane was drafted to help out. It was too small to carry all the passengers and had to make a return trip to get everyone to Morocco. Flying was hard enough for me now as it was, and this was scary. The plane, a bare metal tube, was basic. It had about twenty seats and no separate cockpit, no overhead lockers or storage racks, no in-flight service (thank goodness I’d had that butty in the airport), no life jackets. I’m probably sounding a bit precious now, but of course it wasn’t the absence of small comforts that bothered me, it was the fact that I really didn’t feel safe. Still, it must be said that my imagination was in overdrive to start with, and I allowed it to run away with me to the point where I was terrified we were going to die on our way to Rabat and leave all of our children orphaned. It’s hard to stay level-headed when you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be at peace.