Madeleine (35 page)

Most people find it hard to comprehend how innocent people can confess to crimes they haven’t committed. Gerry and I don’t. Not now. The monumental psychological duress we were under can easily lead to bad, irrational decision-making. Thankfully, we resisted the urge to flee. When we left Portugal, it would be with the blessing of the PJ and our heads held high.

Saturday 8 September. We were on tenterhooks all day, waiting to hear whether we would be allowed to go home. Rachael had found a couple of criminal lawyers in London she was sure could help us. Michael Caplan and Angus McBride of Kingsley Napley had worked on several high-profile cases, including the Pinochet extradition proceedings and the Stevens inquiry. Gerry gave them a call. They discussed Madeleine’s case in detail, what had happened so far and how Kingsley Napley might be able to assist us. Meanwhile, we tried to rein in family and friends from speaking any further to the press. Enough had been said and we were very conscious that we – and Madeleine – were at the mercy of the Portuguese judicial system. Being overly critical at this delicate point could, and probably would, work against us all.

Late that afternoon, we were notified by Liz Dow, the British consul in Lisbon, that Luís Neves and Guilhermino Encarnação had declared us ‘free’ to leave the country whenever we wished. Thank you, God.

On the advice of the lawyers, we decided to get out as soon as possible. We would go the next day rather than leaving it until Monday. Then it was all hands on deck to pack everything up and clear the villa. Michael volunteered to stay on for a couple of days to organize the cleaning, hand back the keys and arrange for our remaining belongings to be shipped home by a removal company.

In view of the immovable wall of journalists, cameramen and film crews that remained outside the villa all day, Gerry and I felt it would be prudent to stay on the premises. The rest of the family, using the side entrance, took Amelie and Sean for some lunch and a swim. Although we had a lot to do, there was one arrangement I had been particularly eager to keep: an ecumenical feast-day service at Nossa Senhora da Luz that evening. The little church and its wonderful community had been so important to us since Madeleine’s abduction and celebrating its feast day meant a great deal to me. I badly wanted to be there, for Madeleine, and of course to say my goodbyes and express my heartfelt thanks to all our friends and supporters in the parish, especially a small and faithful group of elderly Portuguese ladies. We knew, though, that if we went the media circus would overshadow and spoil everybody else’s celebrations. I was deeply disappointed to have to miss it.

We heard from Clarence that evening. Before long Justine would be moving on to pursue her political career and we’d always hoped he would be able to return as our family spokesperson. The government, however, had other ideas. They forbade him from any further involvement with us because of our
arguido
status. Clarence was very upset, as were we. This was the first sign we had of doors starting to close on us because of this unwarranted stigma. We felt that our government had abandoned us. It hadn’t occurred to me that they wouldn’t protect us and I berated myself, once again, for my naivety. I knew the situation was bad but I still didn’t fully appreciate just how detrimental the recent turn of events would be to us and to Madeleine.

With the family around there was always the odd funny moment to alleviate the tension and keep us sane. That last evening, Gerry’s mum was sitting outside on the patio giving it lots of granny chat (which our granny does exceptionally well) when we suddenly spotted a big, furry boom microphone hovering over the patio wall. Whether it was Eileen’s colourful outburst on finally noticing this fluffy intruder, or the thought that anyone would need a boom microphone around Granny McCann (she’s quite loud), we all collapsed into fits of belly-aching laughter.

Some time after midnight, Justine notified the media that we would be returning to the UK early the next morning. We’d rather not have done this but as we knew they would get wind of our departure anyway, telling them a short while in advance seemed to give us the best chance of managing the situation and trying to minimize the almighty scramble that would ensue when they found out.

The next morning we packed our last bits and pieces and said a tearful farewell to Susan Hubbard before rousing Sean and Amelie. Their bedtime had got later and later in recent months – I think they were becoming Portuguese by this stage! – and they were still very sleepy, but once they were properly awake and heard they were going on a plane they were very excited.

I had never expected to be leaving Portugal under these circumstances. It was incomprehensible to be going home as a family of four – something that still sends shivers down my spine – and to be going in this way, under a cloud of suspicion, was almost more than we could stand.

Of course, many sections of the press would suggest we were running away, but as I’ve recounted, the decision had been made several weeks earlier. All we were doing was leaving a day earlier than originally planned. Our situation here was untenable. We were trapped within four walls, surrounded by hostility, and not only did this restrict what we were able to do for Madeleine, it was no kind of environment for our other two children, either. I resented being pushed out of the country, as I saw it, but ultimately we had to do what was right and fair for Sean and Amelie and what would best equip us to help Madeleine.

By 6am the media were stationed outside in their droves. An hour later we left the villa and Praia da Luz, Gerry driving the children and me in our hire car while a local British friend kindly took the rest of the family. The heaviness of our hearts almost took second place to sheer terror on that journey. We were chased the whole way, mainly by the Portuguese and Spanish press, who tailgated us dangerously. There were torsos hanging out of sun-roofs, huge video cameras balancing on shoulders and heavily laden motorbikes brushing the sides of our car as they skimmed past. A helicopter hovered overhead. It was utter madness, and extremely frightening for the children as well as for us. An image of Princess Diana flashed through my mind. It was easy to see now how her tragic death had come about.

Gerry’s foot kept pressing down harder on the accelerator as he instinctively tried to put a safe distance between us and the car that was practically touching our bumper. I urged him to slow down. The most important thing was to stay in control and to try to blank out the craziness all around us. It didn’t matter how quickly we got there. It didn’t matter if we were pursued all the way to the airport. It did matter that we stayed alive. I’d said so many prayers over the last four months but I’d never anticipated having to beg the Lord to protect us on the A22.

Although the friend driving our relatives behind us was in slightly less jeopardy, they too were getting a taste of the motorway mayhem. ‘Jesus!’ Granny McCann memorably remarked. ‘It’s like the Wacky Races!’

Mercifully, we all arrived at the airport in one piece. There we said goodbye to Eileen and Sandy, who were flying home to Glasgow, and Michael, who was taking our hire car back to Praia da Luz. On hearing about the interpretation of the forensic results, the lawyers at Kingsley Napley thought it wise to hold on to it for the time being. Trisha was coming to Rothley with us. At the risk of repeating myself, I can’t imagine how we’d have coped without the help of our wonderful family.

Needless to say, once Justine had informed the media of our return, every journalist in town, it seemed, had tried to book a seat on our flight and a fair few of them had succeeded. By the time we were strapped into our seats, I was beyond caring. The majority of them respected our need to be left alone. Only one or two were unable to resist the temptation to ask that inane question, ‘How are you both feeling?’

So how
were
we feeling? Full of a confusing mixture of relief, disbelief, oppressive sadness, piercing guilt and pain. The sadness, guilt and pain were dominant. We were going home without Madeleine. I was leaving her behind.
I’m her mother and I’m
leaving her behind
. My heart ached as it was torn away from my last geographical link with my little girl.

When we touched down in the Midlands, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, even though I could see how they were worrying Amelie. We were home at last; home without Madeleine. Soon we would be walking into our house, the house we’d only ever lived in with Madeleine. My chest hurt, my throat felt swollen and my head began to spin. Gerry put his arm round me. I glanced up to see the strain on his face and his red, watery eyes. He was being so strong but I knew he was dying inside.

Slowly and solemnly, we came down the steps from the aeroplane, Gerry with a sleeping Sean resting against his chest and me with Amelie, tired but awake, on my hip. What did the future hold for our family now?

On reaching the tarmac, Gerry gave a short statement to the waiting reporters and film crews. He was breaking, his voice tight as he fought the persistent urge to bawl.

. . . While we are returning to the UK, it does not mean we are giving up our search for Madeleine. As parents, we cannot give up on our daughter until we know what has happened. We have to keep doing everything we can to find her.

Kate and I wish to thank once again all those who have supported us over the past days, weeks and months. But we would like to ask for our privacy to be respected now that we have returned home.

Our return is with the full agreement of the Portuguese authorities and police. Portuguese law prohibits us from commenting further on the police investigation.

Despite there being so much we wish to say we are unable to do so, except to say this: we played no part in the disappearance of our lovely daughter, Madeleine.

A Special Branch officer drove us to Rothley. As we got closer and closer to our village, memories of so many happy times began to fill my mind, interrupted constantly by chilling reminders of the hard reality of our existence now. At last we pulled into our cul-de-sac and the media throng assembled there sprang into action. I hadn’t seen our house since we’d left for our holiday, full of excitement, that April morning. We lifted our sleeping babies out of the car, took a few deep breaths and headed towards the front door. My Uncle Brian, Auntie Janet and our friend Amanda were already there, waiting to let us in and welcome us home. I cuddled them all, needing to be held tightly, and then I cried and cried and cried.

A short while later, I went upstairs and opened the door to Madeleine’s bedroom. I needed to do this. I needed to feel her close. I didn’t go in, I just let my eyes wander round the shocking-pink walls and up to the stars on her ceiling, over her teddies and dolls, and then to her bed and her pillow. I could almost see her there, lying on her side in a foetal position, her little head resting gently on the pillow with her fine, blonde hair spread out artlessly behind. ‘Lie with me, Mummy.’

As for Sean and Amelie, it was as if they had never been away. Within seconds they were running around the playroom, making us pretend cups of tea, pushing their teddies and Noddy about in buggies and rushing out into the garden to whizz down the slide.

For us, it was straight down to business. Michael Caplan and Angus McBride arrived that afternoon for a thorough discussion of our situation. Our family’s future looked bleak and we needed help. When they left three and a half hours later we felt more positive, confident that we now had the right people to guide us through this mess.

In the evening the phone was ringing off the hook and there were a few visitors, too, mainly members of our family coming round to give us a hug.

Being back in our house wasn’t as bad, or even as sad, as I’d feared. In fact it was quite comforting. Perhaps just having our own familiar bits and pieces around us relieved some of the stress. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Sean and Amelie were happy to be where they belonged. Or perhaps it was that the whole house was full of reminders of Madeleine. Maybe it was a combination of all these consolations. Whatever the case, when we climbed into bed shortly before midnight, life felt momentarily tolerable. And we still had our hope.

This wasn’t over yet.

18

THE FIGHTBACK BEGINS

We woke up that Monday morning with a daunting task ahead of us. Declared
arguidos
, labelled as suspects in the press and consequently considered by many to be guilty of
something
, we needed to clear our names, comprehensively and quickly, before we could continue the search for Madeleine on any effective level. While suspicions remained among the authorities and the public that we had somehow been involved in our daughter’s disappearance, fewer people were going to be looking for her. To have to devote our time and physical and emotional resources to this extra battle, while Madeleine was still out there somewhere, was galling in the extreme.

The media coverage was absolutely huge, driven, it seemed, by the ‘ultimate twist’: the parents who were conducting an international campaign now rumoured to be suspected of hiding their own daughter’s body. It was despicable given that the basis for the stories was simply untrue. And yet we could see how it was happening: the Portuguese press were publishing information from police sources, which was picked up by all the other newspapers, and the fact that we had been made
arguidos
appeared to justify it. The damage being done was immense. We felt as if we had no control over anything. It was like 3 and 4 May all over again.