In a spectacular display of family unity and exquisite timing, the relatives of a British toddler have decided that now, as the Australian sun beats down on a decade-old mystery, is the perfect moment to criticise the investigating constabulary. The Metropolitan Police, already overworked due to having to fill out forms in triplicate for every traffic cone stolen from a roadworks site, now face the wrath of a clan whose tot was allegedly dispatched in the Outback. One can only imagine the family's strategy meeting: 'The Aussies are finally stirring from their barbie-induced coma to prod this case!
Quick, ring the Daily Mail and blame the Brit filth!' It's a masterclass in public relations, if your goal is to ensure no one ever wants to help you find justice. The cold case, which has been gathering dust alongside a collection of didgeridoo-shaped backscratchers in an evidence locker in Adelaide, is now the subject of a fresh inquiry.
Good luck to the South Australian police, who must now navigate not only the scorching desert and the tangle of outdated tips, but also the delicate art of managing a family whose grasp of gratitude appears to be as flimsy as a pair of disposable BBQs in a cyclone. The toddler, a cherubic creature who may or may not have been the victim of foul play, has become a symbol of everything that is wrong with the intersection of tragedy, media, and the modern need to apportion blame regardless of evidence. 'We just want answers,' sobbed a family spokesperson, probably while clutching a crudely drawn picture of the child and a gin and tonic.
Of course they want answers. We all want answers. But insulting the very people trying to provide them is akin to slapping a lifeguard in the face while drowning.
The police, to their credit, have maintained a stoic silence, possibly because they are busy sifting through a mountain of paperwork and the occasional tumbleweed. The tragedy, which has dragged on for years, now enters a new phase: the phase of the soundbite. Expect emotional interviews, carefully selected photographs of the toddler looking angelic, and a complete media circus that will, inevitably, distract from the actual investigation.
But why let facts get in the way of a good story? The cold case inquiry is expected to take months, if not years. Meanwhile, the family will continue to critique police procedure, probably from the comfort of their front rooms, while the hard-pressed detectives do their best to unlock a mystery that has baffled authorities for long enough for the child to have presumably learned to drive.
In the end, one hopes that justice is served, regardless of the family's tactless timing. But if the early signs are anything to go by, the journey will be paved with sharp words, sharp elbows, and not nearly enough gin. Darlings, it's a grim day when the only thing colder than the case is the family's bedside manner.
I need a stiff drink. Preferably one that comes with a side of remorse from the relatives.
