Hatred and half-truths have swirled around
Kate McCann ever since Madeleine was snatched in 2007. Here she tells
what really happened
I ran out into the car park of our holiday apartment, flying from end to
end, yelling desperately: "Madeleine! Madeleine!" It was so cold and so
windy. I kept picturing her in her short-sleeved Marks & Spencer Eeyore
pyjamas and feeling how chilled she would be. Fear was shearing through
I vividly recall sobbing: "Not Madeleine, not Madeleine, not Madeleine."
Even now, when the dark clouds close in on me, I find myself shaking my
head manically and repeating over and over again: "Not Madeleine, not
Madeleine. Please, God, not my Madeleine."
After that night in Portugal when Madeleine disappeared four years ago -
May 3, 2007 it was a long time before I was able to allow myself to take
any real pleasure in anything. Madeleine was in my thoughts when I woke
up in the morning and as I battled to fall asleep at night. Gerry would
suggest doing something nice - and I would cry.
Despite his inner strength, determination and capability, Gerry has his
own down days, too. He's been such a rock through so many testing times
that when he crumbles, it is all the more concerning.
I remember finding him on the couch one day with our twins, Sean and
Amelie, watching TV. When he looked up at me there were tears rolling
down his face. They were watching Doctor Who: Madeleine's and Gerry's
It has always been my intention to set down for our children a complete
record of what happened in Portugal, so that, when they are ready, the
facts will be there for them to read. Understanding our ordeal will give
them the best chance of dealing with whatever life throws at them.
Choosing to share this personal account with the world in a book has
been much harder. Of course we want the truth to be told. For the past
four years it has been excruciating to stand by as all kinds of tales
have circulated about Madeleine's disappearance and
about Gerry, me and our family.
The press has published a mountain of stories, often without knowing,
and perhaps without caring, whether or not there was any substance to
them, causing great distress to our family and, more important,
hindering the search for Madeleine.
Others have seized the opportunity to profit from our agony by writing
books about our daughter, several of them claiming to reveal "what
really happened"- which is extraordinary, given that the only person who
knows this is whoever abducted her
Dealing with Madeleine's disappearance has been almost all-consuming,
leaving us little time or strength to address these further crimes
against our family. The appalling loss of our daughter has been too much
to bear. Everything else, however huge, has had to take second place.
There is only so much pain human beings can stand at once. It doesn't
mean the injustices hurt any less.
I have had to keep saying to myself: I know the truth, we know the truth
and God knows the truth. And, one day, the truth will out.
It was on New Year's Day 2007 that the idea of a spring holiday in
Portugal was raised. Our friends Fiona and David Payne were planning a
week's break at a Mark Warner resort in the Algarve with two other
coupIes and their young children,and they asked us if we'd like to join
Boarding the aircraft four months later, on Saturday, April 28,
Madeleine had her princess trolley-bag gripped tightly in one hand. She
was just two weeks short of her fourth birthday. As she went up he
steps, she slipped, clattering her shin on the sharp metal edge. Even
that wasn't enough lo spoil her holiday mood.
On arrival she was so excited to see a pool that she immediately wanted
me to go swimming with her. I was not exactly keen. There was a cool
breeze, and I am one of those people who really feel the cold. ("Get a
bit of meat on yerself!" my hardy Scottish in-laws are always telling
me.) But I took one look at her eager little face and went off to put on
The water was absolutely freezing, but Madeleine was straight in there,
even if her voice disappeared for a second or two with the shock of it.
"Come on, Mummy!" she called when she'd got her breath back. I
tentatively inched my way in. It was worth it -it will always be worth
it - just to see her delight. Even if it did take us both the best part
of three hours to warm up afterwards.
The Mark Warner Ocean Club resort was in the village of Praia da Luz.
Our ground-floor apartment was on the corner of a five-storey block.vith
roads at the front and side. At the rear, a veranda overlooked a garden,
the pool and tennis courts. It was lovely.
Later we were told by the British police that the ground-floor location,
access to roads front and side, secluded entrance and partial tree cover
made our apartment a prime target for criminals. Never did this occur to
us when we arrived. As far as we were concerned, we were in a safe,
family-oriented holiday resort.
The apartments and facilities were spread out around the village.The
main restaurant turned out to be nearly half a mile from our base -a bit
too far for weary toddlers.
The following evening, we were able to make a dinner reservation for the
adult contingent at the small tapas restaurant beside the pool, which,
being so close, was far more convenient. The children could have their
tea earlier, play for a while and then go to bed at their usual time,
which meant they wouldn't get overtired and out of sorts, and we could
eat later on.
After putting the children to bed, Gerry and I showered, dressed and sat
down with a glass of wine before heading over to the tapas restaurant,
booked for 8.30. There were nine of us: Gerry and me;David, Fiona and
her mum, Dianne; Matt and Rachael Oldfield; and Russell O'Brien and Jane
Like us, Russell and Matt were doctors. Jane, a marketing manager, was
taking a break from work to be a full-time mum. Rachael, a lawyer by
profession, was working in recruitment. Gerry had worked in the past
with both Russell and Matt.
The Ocean Club had a creche where children could be looked after from
about 7.30pm to lpm. As our children needed to be in bed by the time it
opened, Gerry and I both felt it would be too unsettling for them and
would disrupt their sleep.
As the tapas restaurant was so near, we collectively decided to do our
own child-checking service. This decision has naturally been questioned
time and again, not least by us. It goes without saying that we now
bitterly regret it and will do so until the end of our days. But it is
easy to be wise after the event. It never once crossed my mind that this
might not be a safe option.
If I'd had any doubts whatsoever, I would never have entertained it. I
love my three children above everything. They are more precious and
special to me than life itself. And I would never knowingly place them
at risk, no matter how small a risk it might seem to be.
If we'd had any concerns we could have hired a babysitter. I could argue
that leaving my children alone with someone neither we nor they knew,
would have been unwise, and it's certainly not something we'd do at
home, but we didn't even consider it. We felt so secure we simply didn't
think it was necessary.
Our apartment was only 30 to 45 seconds away, and although there were
some bushes in between, it was largely visible from the tapas
restaurant. We were sitting outside and could just as easily have been
eating on a fine spring evening in a friend's garden, with the kids
asleep upstairs in the house.
Bringing up children - like all aspects of life - it involves making
hundreds of tiny and seemingly minor decisions every day, balancing the
temptation to mollycoddle them with the danger of being too
laissez-faire. Sometimes, our judgment proves to have been right,
sometimes wrong. Mostly, when you make the wrong call, you can just
chalk it up to experience and do it differently next time. It is our
family's tragedy that this particular decision would have such
That Sunday night Gerry and I were back in our apartment by 11 pm. From
some of the things that would be written about us in he coming months,
you'd think we and our friends had been partying wildly every night. We
may have been noisier than other tables at dinner there were up to nine
of us talking across each other, after all but we didn't linger late and
our alcohol consumption could hardly be described as excessive. We all
had young children (which, as any parent knws, makes it impossible to
burn the candle at both ends) and we were all up at 7am or 7.30 every
The following days settled into a pattern. The children would spend most
mornings and afternoons at toddler club and mini club but had 2-3 hours
with us at lunchtime, and then we were together again for their tea and
a good run-around in the play area. In the evening the adults would all
meet up at the tapas restaurant after putting the children to bed. It's
hard to accept that living our lives in such an ordinary way might have
been our downfall. Was someone watching us that week' Watching
Madeleine' Taking note of the pattern of our days'
The restaurant had only 15 places and wouldn't normally have taken a
block booking for nine for the week, but Rachael had a word with the
receptionist at the pool and tapas area. It wasn't until a year later,
when I was combing through the Portuguese police files, that I
discovered that the receptionist's note requesting our block booking was
written in a staff message book, which sat on a desk at the pool
reception for most of the day.
This book was by definition accessible to all staff and, albeit
unintentionally, probably to guests and visitors, too. To my horror, I
saw that, no doubt in all innocence, the receptionist had added that we
wanted to eat close to our apartments as we were leaving our young
children alone there and checking on them intermittently.
Wednesday, May 2, was our last completely happy day. Our last,to date,
as a family of five. If only it were possible to rewind. Even for an
hour. In the evening it was the usual routine: tea with the children,
playtime, bathtime, milk, stories, kids' bedtime, get ready, tapas at
8.30pm. After dinner we ventured into the enclosed bar area for a
liqueur. As a result we slayed a little later than normal.
At about 11.50pm Gerry abruptly announced: "Right,I'm off to bed. Good
night." I was slightly hurt that he should just go off without me.
Gerry's honesty makes him very direct, often to the point of bluntness,
and he's not a touchy-feely guy. like many men, he assumes I take his
feelings as read and doesn't see any need to express them with
soft-soaping, flowers or cards. And although, like most women, I would
appreciate the odd romantic gesture, the fact that he has always been
loyal, solid and loving deep down, where it really matters, is far more
important. It's just Gerry.
As far as he was concerned, it was late, he was tired and he was going
to bed. End of story. I am not sure why I was miffed by his lack of
social graces that particular evening. Perhaps because the other guys in
the group were all attentive "new men", compared with Gerry at least,
and I was a bit embarrassed. Anyway, I followed him a few minutes later.
He certainly was tired, because by the time I got into the apartment he
was asleep-snoring, in fact. Still feeling a bit offended, I decided to
sleep with the children. This was highly unusual - unprecedented, even.
I wasn't the type to flounce off to the spare room and never would have
done so at home. I suppose it was because there was a bed made up in the
other bedroom and at that moment my peaceful, slumbering babies were
more attractive room-mates than my snoring husband.
I'm loath even to mention it as it was such an isolated incident and not
at all representative of our relationship. However, since every scrap of
information was shortly to become potentially crucial, I feel it is
necessary to state for the record that I was in that room that night.
Though it can have no bearing that I can imagine on subsequent events,
the thought of Gerry and me sleeping alone on this of all nights still
makes me feel sad.
At breakfast next morning, Madeleine asked: "Why didn't you come when
Sean and I cried last night'" She moved on to some other topic that had
popped into her head and didn't seem to be at all anxious or upset. But
Gerry and I were puzzled and disconcerted.
Could Madeleine and Sean have woken up while we were at dinner' If so,
it was worrying, but it didn't seem very probable. They rarely stirred
at night, and hardly ever before the early hours. It seemed highly
unlikely that they'd woken up, cried for awhile, calmed themselves down
and fallen asleep again between our half-hourly checks. Or 45 minutes,
if it had been after our last check, as we had stayed in the restaurant
later than usual.
Not for a moment did we think there might be some sinister explanation.
Within hours, however, this would seem hugely important; and so haunted
have I been ever since by Madeleine's words that I've continued to blame
myself for not sitting down and making completely certain there was no
more information I could draw out of her.
This could have been my one chance to prevent what was about to happen,
and I blew it. In the infrequent moments when I'm able to be kinder to
myself, I can acknowledge, if only temporarily, that there was
absolutely nothing to give me any reason for suspicion and that we can
all be clever after the event. But it is my belief there was somebody
either in or trying to get into the children's bedroom that night, and
that is what disturbed them.
Some images are etched for all time on my brain. Madeleine that Thursday
lunchtime is one of them.She was wearing an outfit I'd bought especially
for her holiday: a peach-coloured smock top from Gap and some white
broderie-anglaise shorts from Monsoon - a small extravagance, perhaps,
but I'd pictured how lovely she would look in them and I'd been right.
She was striding ahead of Fiona and me, swinging her bare arms to and
fro, happy and carefree. I was following her with my eyes, admiring her.
I wonder now, the nausea rising in my throat, if someone else was doing
the same. At the toddler pool, dipping our feet in, I took what has
turned out to be my last photograph to date of Madeleine. Heartbreaking
as it is for me to look at it now, it encapsulates the essence of
Madeleine: so beautiful and so happy.
That evening, as I prepared the children for bed, she was very tired.
Here is another of those vivid memories: Madeleine, in her Eeyore
pyjamas, sitting on my lap and cuddling in, with Sean and Amelie to our
right. I read them a Mag story by Judith Kerr. She asked if she could
wear my engagement ring, which she often liked to do. I took it off and
she put it on her middle finger for a few minutes.
In the bedroom I read our final story, If You're Happy and You Know It!.
If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands! says the monkey. If
you're happy and you know it... It seemed so fitting at the time.
Gerry and I helped the twins give their big sister a "night-night" kiss
before laying them in their travel cots. Madeleine was already snuggled
down with her princess blanket and Cuddle Cat - a soft toy she'd been
given soon after she was born and never went to bed without. We were in
no doubt that all three would be asleep in an instant.
As always, we left the door a few inches open to allow a glimmer of
light into the room. We'd wondered about having a leisurely dinner in
the apartment and enjoying an early night, but as it was such a short
holiday, and almost over, it seemed a bit unsociable not to join
everyone else at the tapas restaurant.
As usual, at 8.30pm, we checked the children, left a lamp on in the
sitting room, drew the long curtains of the patio doors and closed the
doors but did not lock them. Taking the short flight of steps down from
the veranda to the garden and pool area, shutting the child safety gate
at the top and the gate at the bottom, we headed to the restaurant
without seeing anyone else.
After ordering his food, Gerry left to do the first check just before
9.05 by his watch. He entered via the patio doors and noticed almost
immediately that the children's bedroom door was further ajar than it
had been. Madeleine was lying on her left-hand side, her legs under the
covers, in exactly the same position as we'd left her.
He paused for a couple of seconds to look at her and thought to himself,
she is so beautiful. After pulling the bedroom door to its original
angle, he went to the bathroom before leaving the apartment.
At 9.30pm I stood up to go and make our second check. Almost
simultaneously, Matt got to his feet to check on his toddler, Grace. As
his apartment was right next door to ours, he offered to look in on our
three. On his return he reassured us: "All quiet!"
At 10pm I went back to the apartment. All was silent. Then I noticed
that the door to the children's bedroom was open quite wide, not how we
had left it. At first I assumed that Matt must have moved it. I walked
over and gently began to pull it to. Suddenly it slammed shut, as if
caught by a draught.
I opened the door a little, and as I did so I glanced over at
Madeleine's bed. I couldn't quite make her out in the dark. I remember
looking at it and looking at it for what was probably only a few
seconds, though it felt like much longer. It seems so daft now, but I
didn't switch on the light straight away. Force of habit, I suppose:
taking care to avoid waking the children at all costs.
When I realised Madeleine wasn't actually there, I went through to our
bedroom to see if she'd got into our bed. On the discovery of another
empty bed, the first wave of panic hit me.
As I ran back into the children's room the closed curtains flew up in a
gust of wind. My heart lurched as I saw that, behind them, the window
was wide open and the shutters on the outside shutter raised all the way
up. Nausea, terror, disbelief, fear. Icy fear. Dear God, no! Please, no!
On Madeleine's bed, the top right-hand corners of the covers were still
turned over, forming a triangle.Cuddle Cat and her pink princess blanket
were lying where they'd been when we'd kissed her goodnight.
Refusing to acknowledge what I already knew, and perhaps automatically
going into a well-practised medical-emergency mode, I quickly scoured
the apartment to exclude all other possibilities, mentally ticking boxes
that I knew, deep down,were already ticked.
I checked the wardrobe in the children's room. I ran into the kitchen,
throwing open all the cupboard doors, into our bedroom, searching the
wardrobes, in and out of the bathroom, all within about 15 seconds,
before hurtling out through the patio doors and down towards Gerry and
As soon as our table was in sight I started screaming. "Madeleine's
gone! Someone's taken her!"
Everyone seemed frozen for a split second, perhaps unable, as I'd been,
to process this information. Then they all jumped up from their chairs
and ran towards me. I remember Gerry saying: "She must be there!"
By now I was hysterical. "She's not! She's gone!"
David said: "Let's just check the apartment." I'd done that, and I knew,
I knew, that Madeleine had been abducted.
As our friends searched the apartment again, Gerry made the sickening
discovery that the shutter to the children's window could be raised from
outside, not just from inside. He asked Matt to get the staff to call
I was trying so hard to suppress the negative voice in my head
tormenting me with the words, "She's gone. She's gone."
Gerry and I stood in the living room of our holiday apartment clutching
each other, utterly distraught. I couldn't help myself, let alone try to
soothe my husband, who was in a state too harrowing for me to bear,
howling for his precious little girl. I kept blaming myself - "We've let
her down. We've failed her!" - which increased Fiona's own distress.
"You haven't, Kate. You haven't," she insisted.
The Mark Warner people rounded up as many staff as they could, rousing
some of them from their beds, to comb the complex and its environs.
At 10.35 the police had stilI not arrived. Minutes felt like hours.
Overwhelmed by fear, helplessness and frustration, I was hitting out at
things, banging my fists on the metal railing of the veranda, trying to
expel the intolerable pain inside me. Our friends were running to and
from the tapas area, pleading with people to ring the police again from
What could be done' What should be done' Aware that we were only 1 1/4
hours' drive from southern Spain, beyond which lay the borderless
continent of Europe - not to mention the short hop across the Strait of
Gibraltar to north Africa - David was saying: "We need roadblocks set
I was in our bedroom, on my knees beside the bed, just praying and
praying and praying, begging God and Our Lady to protect Madeleine and
help us find her. They had heard many a supplication from me in the past
but none so intense, nor so important, as these.
A British woman in her late forties or early fifties turned up on our
veranda and kept trying to put her arm round me. She was quite drunk and
smelt of cigarettes and I remember willing her to go away. Then a lady
appeared on a balcony and, in a plummy voice, inquired: "Can someone
tell me what all the noise is about'"
I explained as clearly as I was able, given the state I was in, that my
little girl had been stoien from her bed, to which she casually
responded:"Oh, I see," almost as if she'd been told that a can of beans
had fallen off a kitchen shelf. In our outrage, Fiona and I shouted back
something rather short and to the point.
In the children's bedroom Sean and Amelie hadn't stirred in spite of the
pandemonium. They'd always been sound sleepers, but this seemed
unnatural. Scared for them, I placed the palm of my hands on their backs
to check for chest movement - basically, for some sign of life. Had
Madeleine been given some kind of sedative to keep her quiet' Had the
It was not until about 11.10pm that two policemen arrived from the
nearest town, Lagos, about five miles away. We tried to explain what had
happened. To me they seemed bewildered and out of their depth, and I
couldn't shake the images of Tweedledum and Tweedledee out of my head.
We did not appreciate until later that they were from the Guarda
Nacional Republicana (GNR), who are responsible for iaw enforcement in
rural areas such as the Algarve but do not handle criminal
I didn't yet know that at around 9.15pm, while checking on her own
children, Jane had seen a man on the road that passes in front of our
apartment, carrying a child who appeared to be asleep.
At the time she had thought little of it. She knew that Gerry had
checked our apartment only a few minutes before. As soon as she heard
about Madeleine's disappearance, everything fell into place and she felt
sick. Given the condition I was in, Gerry did not tell me until the
By midnight, the GNR officers were concerned enough to inform the
Policia Judiciaria (PJ), the main force that actually investigates
crimes, who were based in Portimao, about 20 miles away. They took more
than an hour to arrive.
Eventually, shortly after lam, two officers walked in. Once again, the
events of the evening were relayed to them and brief statements taken
from us. Dave asked whether we should get the media involved to increase
awareness and recruit more help. The reply was swift and unambiguous.
"No media! No media!"
Desperate for God's intervention, I carried on praying. The pain, terror
and suffocating helplessness I felt are indescribable.
I spoke to my friend Father Paul Seddon, the priest who had married
Gerry and me in Liverpool in 1998 and baptised Madeleine. Next I called
my best mate, Michelle. I needed her to get her large Catholic family
At about 3am I managed to get hold of Michelle's partner, Jon Corner.
He'd undoubtedly been asleep, and I wasn't at my most coherent. Poor Jon
- I don't think he could quite get his brain in gear for a moment or
two. He said that Michelle was asleep, implying that it wasn't a good
moment, as if I'd phoned for a chat. "No one's listening!" I wept.
The next thing I knew, the P.J officers were heading for the front door.
I felt another surge of panic. They said they had finished for tonight.
They would come back in the morning - after nine. And with that they
were gone, leaving us to our own devices. It was incomprehensible. The
sense of helplessness and agitation just kept intensifying.
We carried a sleepy Sean and Amelie into Fiona and David's sitting room.
Fiona took a twin from me and we both sat there hugging my children.
Holding one of my babies provided me with some much-needed comfort,
The cold, black night enveloped us for what seemed an eternity. Gerry
was stretched out on a camp bed with Amelie asleep on his chest. He kept
saying: "Kate, we need to rest." He managed to drift off but only
briefly. I didn't even try. I couldn't have allowed myself to entertain
I felt Madeleine's terror, and I had to keep vigil with her.
Kate McCann 2011
Extracted from Madeleine by Kate McCann, to be published by Bantam Press
on May 12 at '20.
Our battle to conceive
When Gerry and I married we were keen to start a family as soon as
possible, but after a couple of years it became clear that it wasn't
going to be as easy as we'd assumed. Eventually I was diagnosed with
endometriosis - a common condition, which can cause fertility problems.
When we still failed to conceive naturally after a year's treatment, the
only option was assisted conception.
As a senior house officer in gynaecology, I'd seen the sadness and
desperation etched on the faces of women coming up to the ward to
undergo fertility treatment and had declared that, in their position,
I'd accept what was meant to be rather than put myself through in-vitro
fertilisation. The whole process seemed too traumatic. Oh, the
certainties of youth. When it came to it, I didn't lhink twice.
Our first attempt at IVF went smoothly and the invasive nature of the
treatment - the injections, scans and subsequent procedures - didn't
upset or worry me. I was responding very well to the drugs, I produced
plenty of eggs and an excellent percentage of those, once fertilised by
Gerry's sperm, resulted in embryos.
Not all embryos survive beyond the first few days and opinions on the
optimum time to transfer them into the womb are divided. Some clinicians
favour implanting them early on the grounds that they are "better inside
than out". Others feel that the embryos that make it to the five-day
''blastocyst'' stage will be the strongest.
We had 13 fertilised eggs. We decided to have some of them frozen and to
have two blastocysts implanted. We were naively confident that it was
going to work.
I remember going into the hospital after two weeks for a pregnancy test,
very calm on the outside but very excited. An even more vivid memory is
the physical pain of the blow that followed.
The test was negative. I simply couldn't believe it. Back then I
couldn't imagine there could be any pain worse than this. I cannot
understand how I had allowed myself to be so certain, especially as I
knew, not only as a would-be mother but also as a doctor, how
emotionally devastating the peaks and troughs associated with IVF can
be. I cried and cried and cried.
Two months later we were ready for a second shot, using two of the
embryos we'd had frozen. I was at work when I took the call I'd been
expecting from the hospital. But instead of being asked to come in for
the procedure, I was told, in very matter-of-fact tones, that
unfortunately the defrosted embryos hadn't survived. Another pallet of
bricks dropped on my chest.
That night, after the inevitable deluge of tears, Gerry and I went out
for a consoling curry and a few beers. At least we had each other, we
said. Then we picked ourselves up and prepared to start all over again.
The IVF team's plan was for us to return in six weeks to discuss the
next step; but I could see no reason why, provided the facilities were
available, we couldn't start a new cycle at the end of that week. It's
baffling to anyone undergoing fertility treatment how casually everybody
else can talk about weeks and months. A month is a lifetime to a woman
who has already spent years trying to get pregnant.
Then a practical obstacle arose: at the point when Gerry would need to
produce his sperm sample, he was due to be in Berlin. He'd been invited
to give a presentation about his research to the biggest cardiology
conference in Europe. It was an important stepping stone in his career,
and he was thrilled.
My heart sank.It would mean more months of waiting, but how could he
miss this conference' That evening, as I was cooking dinner, Gerry gave
me a hug and told me he'd decided not to go to Berlin. The lVF was more
This time the cycle didn't go quite as smoothly. My ovaries became
overstimulated. It was agreed with the team that we would go for a
day-three embryo transfer. On day two, however, we received an urgent
call from the embryologist, who told us the embryos weren'tlooking as
good as before. He recommended that I come into the hospital for the
We both felt very despondent. Two embryos were implanted but we did not
allow ourselves to get even slightly excited.
Two weeks laler, we did a pregnancy lest at horne the night before the
hospital test, so that if il was negative we could shed all our tears in
private. A faint blue line appeared on the indicator.Gerry and I looked
at each other.
"It's not dark enough" I said, although I knew the instructions advised
that any line should be interpreted as a positive result. I just didn't
dare trust it.
The next morning at the hospital the positive pregnancy test was
confirmed. This time there were happy tears. I felt like a different
woman: taller, buoyant, instantly radiant. I thanked God every hour.
Yet somehow, it just didn't feel real. It wasn't until I had an
ultrasound scan at six weeks and we saw a little beating heart that I
allowed myself to believe it. And that was the first time we saw our
little Madeleine. Even then she was beautiful.
Kate McCann 2011
Next week: 'We have grown stronger and adapted to our new life. But our
daughter is still missing and our family will never be complete without
her. We love her beyond words. We will never give up on her. We will not
allow our story to end here' The Incessant hunt for Madeleine - and how
you can help