couldnât tell him about the unconfirmed sightings, or the chain of command that had been put in place and the fact that Forrestâs bank account was being monitored. The police didnât want full disclosure of how Gemma and Forrest were being tracked down. They had told me because I was the parent with responsibility, but I had to keep that information to myself. I promised Max that I would tell him as soon as I possibly could. He was disappointed, but he understood that I had my reasons.
By 10pm, the phone calls seemed to stop for the night. The reporters outside had gone home and Paul and I were able to sit together and talk through the dayâs events once again.
That night, the television presenter Anne Diamond appeared on Sky News as part of a panel of guests previewing the following dayâs newspapers. I couldnât believe it when she described the story as âa bit so-whatishâ. The fact that Gemma was fifteen and Forrest was âtwenty-somethingâ â even thoughhe was actually thirty â wasnât, she said, a âsickeningly huge age gapâ.
I couldnât believe what I was hearing. She said that he must be tracked down and brought to book for the offence, but she was talking about it as if it wasnât a big deal. She seemed unable to see that she was actually talking about child abuse. We were absolutely seething.
One thing that did lighten the day was that the daughter of one of our neighbours, who we barely knew, had been interviewed in the Daily Mail. In the piece, she claimed to be a âclose friendâ of Gemmaâs, although as far as we knew they had never hung out together or socialised at all. However, she very kindly said that it was completely unlike Gemma to run away and we were all in shock, and that we were a very nice family â which was nice! It was just another example of the crazy âextraâ things that we had to deal with while this whole situation was going on.
We then watched TV into the night to see what news had come out that day. I dreaded turning it off, for it all to go eerily quiet. For me, when the noise stopped, the searching stopped. I didnât think about the fact that it was a 24-hour operation for the police. I lived for the morning to arrive when everything felt like it started up again, when I knew that people were still searching, still getting the message out that my daughter was missing.
CHAPTER 11
THE WAITING GAME CONTINUES
S ure enough, around 7am the following morning, the newspaper reporters and television cameras returned and took up their pitches outside the house. It seemed strange how quickly we had fallen into a pattern of living – another day camped out on the street for the press pack, another day of waiting in the kitchen of our blacked-out house for us.
As usual, the post arrived early. To add to all of the madness in the street, we started receiving letters from complete strangers. They would have the words ‘To the parents of Gemma Grant, Eastbourne’ on the front of them and yet, unbelievably, they still somehow got to us, like those letters addressed to ‘Father Christmas, Lapland’ you hear about.
I received some saying ‘God will protect your daughter, God will keep her safe’. I’m not a religious person, but I didn’t mind well-wishers saying things like that. It was comfortingto know that Gemma’s story had touched them enough for them to take the time to write to us.
But not all the letters were positive. Some, frankly, were just plain disturbing. One in particular I remember was from a retired schoolteacher, who wrote: ‘You need to let your daughter be with this man. She loves him and you should let the relationship continue.’ He said it wasn’t important what I believed and that Gemma was entitled to do what she wanted.
I couldn’t believe how some people felt they were entitled to wade in with opinions on good parenting. I received letters, some from other
By 10pm, the phone calls seemed to stop for the night. The reporters outside had gone home and Paul and I were able to sit together and talk through the dayâs events once again.
That night, the television presenter Anne Diamond appeared on Sky News as part of a panel of guests previewing the following dayâs newspapers. I couldnât believe it when she described the story as âa bit so-whatishâ. The fact that Gemma was fifteen and Forrest was âtwenty-somethingâ â even thoughhe was actually thirty â wasnât, she said, a âsickeningly huge age gapâ.
I couldnât believe what I was hearing. She said that he must be tracked down and brought to book for the offence, but she was talking about it as if it wasnât a big deal. She seemed unable to see that she was actually talking about child abuse. We were absolutely seething.
One thing that did lighten the day was that the daughter of one of our neighbours, who we barely knew, had been interviewed in the Daily Mail. In the piece, she claimed to be a âclose friendâ of Gemmaâs, although as far as we knew they had never hung out together or socialised at all. However, she very kindly said that it was completely unlike Gemma to run away and we were all in shock, and that we were a very nice family â which was nice! It was just another example of the crazy âextraâ things that we had to deal with while this whole situation was going on.
We then watched TV into the night to see what news had come out that day. I dreaded turning it off, for it all to go eerily quiet. For me, when the noise stopped, the searching stopped. I didnât think about the fact that it was a 24-hour operation for the police. I lived for the morning to arrive when everything felt like it started up again, when I knew that people were still searching, still getting the message out that my daughter was missing.
CHAPTER 11
THE WAITING GAME CONTINUES
S ure enough, around 7am the following morning, the newspaper reporters and television cameras returned and took up their pitches outside the house. It seemed strange how quickly we had fallen into a pattern of living – another day camped out on the street for the press pack, another day of waiting in the kitchen of our blacked-out house for us.
As usual, the post arrived early. To add to all of the madness in the street, we started receiving letters from complete strangers. They would have the words ‘To the parents of Gemma Grant, Eastbourne’ on the front of them and yet, unbelievably, they still somehow got to us, like those letters addressed to ‘Father Christmas, Lapland’ you hear about.
I received some saying ‘God will protect your daughter, God will keep her safe’. I’m not a religious person, but I didn’t mind well-wishers saying things like that. It was comfortingto know that Gemma’s story had touched them enough for them to take the time to write to us.
But not all the letters were positive. Some, frankly, were just plain disturbing. One in particular I remember was from a retired schoolteacher, who wrote: ‘You need to let your daughter be with this man. She loves him and you should let the relationship continue.’ He said it wasn’t important what I believed and that Gemma was entitled to do what she wanted.
I couldn’t believe how some people felt they were entitled to wade in with opinions on good parenting. I received letters, some from other
Similar Books
