You found a little girl walking alone in Chichester, West Sussex and you realised something was wrong. You asked her if she had lost her mummy. I think she said yes. She was three and a half.

At a shoe shop near The Cross in South Street, we had gone downstairs to the children’s department, taken a numbered ticket and sat down to wait. It was very busy and, after a while, I told the children we would go to another shop. They both complained because they were watching cartoons on a big screen and did not want to leave.

We went to a shop in East Street, found some suitable school shoes for my son, but none for my daughter. Both children were sitting in the trying-on area when I went to pay. Shortly after, my son joined me at the till. I asked where his sister was, and he shrugged and said he did not know. Perhaps I should have been concerned, but neither of my children had ever left a shop without me or their father or grandparents.

After I had paid, I could not find my daughter in the shop. I asked the staff if they could look in the storeroom, but she was not there.

My son and I went to the shops either side to look for her and asked if the staff could check their store rooms, which they did. No little girl anywhere.

I was panicking now, breathing fast, feeling sick and not thinking straight. We crossed the pedestrianised street to the shop opposite, had a quick look, but there was no sign of her. We went back where we had bought my son’s shoes to ask if they would check their store room once more, but she was not there.

I asked my son: “If you were your sister, where would you go?” He said he would go back to the first shoe shop to watch the cartoons. I should have asked him sooner! We walked at top speed towards South Street. I was trying to hold back the tears, I was heaving and wanted to be sick. It was August 2000, only one month since the abduction and murder of Sarah Payne in Ferring, about 20 miles from Chichester.

As my son and I neared The Cross, you very calmly approached me to ask if I had lost a little girl. Was it the look of panic on my face that alerted you? Was it that the little boy holding my hand had red hair as did my daughter? Thankfully, you had guessed right.

I said thank you, but it was not enough. I hope my voice and face said it all, but I was so distraught I could say nothing more.

We did not return to the first shop to buy my daughter new shoes or to watch cartoons – that had to wait for another day. I needed time to calm down before I drove us home. My daughter was gone from the shop for about 10-15 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity and I had assumed the worst.

That was 17 years ago and my daughter is now 20. Occasionally, I retell the story and it brings me to tears, as it is has done as I write this letter. I will never forget your kindness and forethought in noticing her, waiting with her and spotting me and her brother in the crowd. I did not thank you enough then, but I hope to now.

Jan

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