It was three o’clock. We hadn’t seen our daughter, Lara, all day, but Sundays are busy in clergy homes. My husband, Shaun, thought it far too soon to bother the police, so my call was apologetic.
“I’m just checking there haven’t been any accidents – admissions to A&E?”
“How old is she?”
“12.”
“She doesn’t often go missing?”
“Never before. She was expecting to play football at two. She probably went to somebody’s house after church.”
“Had there been a disagreement – a minor telling off?”
“Not at all.”
I added an afterthought: “There was an incident six months ago.” Her 10-year-old autistic brother, bullied by teachers, had nearly killed himself.
His tone changed sharply. “Where do you live, Mrs Atkins?”
“The Vicarage on Parsons Green.”
“Officers will be with you immediately. Stay where you are, please – both of you.”
Police arrived in minutes, combed her room, and wanted a photograph. Our oldest compiled a list of her sister’s friends. The police asked us to contact them all. It seemed an age before the officers left.
Then we heard it – the drone of helicopters rattling relentlessly overhead, barely an hour since I’d made my untroubled call. We saw them sweeping backwards and forwards over the Thames, heat sensors scouring the water, looking for our daughter’s still-warm body.
It seemed all wrong. Professionals are supposed to reassure parents, say there’s nothing to worry about – not act more alarmed.
Night came, and she didn’t come home. We could no longer believe she was at a friend’s. I thought, This is the beginning of the rest of our lives: from now on, we are the family who lost our daughter just before Christmas. She will never come home.
Police returned at midnight with a team of well-behaved German shepherd dogs. We were herded into a room, our lodgers dragged from their bed, one loudly sobbing.
Dogs searched our attic, sniffed behind curtains, looked under pews in the church, and went up the bell tower; finally they were taken into our midnight garden, tails wagging behind every bush.
We’d built an above-ground pool, and officers removed the winter cover and shone a torch into the murky depths. The following spring, it was dark with peaty-black motes of disintegrating leaves.
“You realise what they were looking for?” Shaun asked when they finally left around two. His father had been a police officer. “Who are the primary suspects?” I nodded.
A large, silent PC stayed behind, neither sleeping nor sitting all night, or the following day. I felt comforted, but never asked what he was for.
Our bedroom overlooked Parsons Green. I sat on our bed, arms round my knees, while Shaun scoured the night, wondering where, in the nothingness of London, she had disappeared to. I knew what he was thinking. When he turned, I knew he knew the same of me. We will never see her again. It is the worst it can be.
In that appalling moment, my mind grieved the brightest detail – her violin falling silent. She used to play Irish fiddle music, jigs and dances, with such dazzling, sparkling joy. We would never hear it again.
There seemed a curious calm at the core of our desolation, too deep for tears. I told myself she was home at last, safe in the arms of One who loved her even more than we did.
The day lasted years. At 6am, I asked the PC if there was anything we could do.
He reported back, “Publicity sometimes helps.”
Before seven, I rang the editor of the newspaper I wrote for. “What am I doing, going public? Am I mad?”
“When she walks through that door,” he replied, “you won’t care what you’ve done.”
By mid-morning, all of the nation’s media were represented, crowded into our home and garden.
The liaison officer, arriving late, asked what on earth was going on. My father, 60 miles away, wept in his vicar’s study. Someone had fetched our small sons from school. Neighbours brought delicious food we couldn’t eat – the PC did, but not before someone saw tears streaming down his face. By nightfall, the news crews were drifting off to file copy or document someone else’s misery.
We were exceptionally fortunate. The police asked our eldest and Shaun’s sisters to accompany them. An hour or two later, they smuggled our prodigal daughter through the church, avoiding the journalists camped outside. We thanked them and hugged and wept, then shinned over the wall to celebrate with neighbours.
The next day, it began – analysis, criticism, theorising, for weeks. “Too strict.” “Not strict enough.” “Wasting resources.”
I was asked to appear on programmes and met others who’d lost children. Twenty-four hours had blown our lives apart. How had they survived for years and more?
For us and for our daughter, three decades of agonising have ensued over the terrible mental anguish that first exhibited then, and has devastated her life.
I think back to our shared, sure certainty of death. I’d believed it brave and realistic, but now I wonder.
Perhaps it’s easier to be bereaved once and for ever than suffer such torment of uncertainty.
Please donate now to the SafeCall campaign, launched by The Independent and charity Missing People, to help raise £165,000 to create a free service to help find new, safe futures for vulnerable children
For advice, support and options, if you or someone you love goes missing, text or call Missing People on 116 000. It’s free, confidential and non-judgemental. Or visit missingpeople.org.uk/get-help
