‘Ah, Mum,’ she wheedled. ‘I won’t have time tonight. Janette’s coming over to show me her wedding plans while I get ready. But I’m staying in tomorrow night – I’ll do it then, I promise. Please, Mum?’
Grinning to myself, I refused to be swayed. ‘We’ll talk about it when you get home,’ I repeated. Of course, I’d let her borrow the car but I didn’t want her thinking I was a complete pushover.
‘OK, Mum – bye!’ she called, and she was gone.
I often replay that conversation, longing to hear her voice again. How many times, since then, have I yearned to be back in that moment in my eighties living room. For Mum to be beside me on the couch, for life to be well, and for my biggest worry to be my daughter’s messy room. I’d give anything, anything, to walk into her room and find her clothes strewn on the unmade bed, make-up and hair clips scattered on the dressing table – and know she was coming home to me that night.
After finishing the film, I dropped Mum home to Skelmersdale, twenty minutes away. On the way back, I stopped off at the butcher in Billinge to get pork chops – Helen’s favourite – for tea.
By now, the wind had really picked up. As I opened the car door a fraction, a sudden sharp gust almost whipped it clean out of my hand. Clambering out, there was an unseemly struggle as I tried to hold onto the door with one hand and stop my skirt from blowing up with the other. Blimey, I thought, I’ll be giving the butcher an eyeful if I’m not careful!
Back at home, I prepared dinner, popped it in the oven on a low heat, then laid the dining room table, ready for when Helen, then Michael, arrived home – starving. I loved sitting across from each of them as they tucked in hungrily and filled me in on their busy days.
When the hands on the kitchen clock inched towards 5.30pm, then 5.45pm, I tried not to worry. The severe weather warnings and news bulletins were coming thick and fast on the local radio and TV, urging commuters to take care. My ears pricked up at an update – a tree had come down on the line between Liverpool and Wigan, meaning all trains were delayed. She’s probably stuck on a train somewhere, between stations, I reassured myself.
I jumped as the phone rang. That’ll be her, I thought. But it was Janette, explaining she’d only just got home because of delays. She was surprised to hear Helen hadn’t arrived. ‘I was supposed to pop round but it’s a bit late now. We’ll do it another time,’ she said.
Poor Janette was always so upset that she never got to see Helen that evening, as planned.
At 7.15pm, a key turned in the lock. Here she is now, I thought, jumping up. But it was Michael, home from a late shift at the factory in St Helens where he worked. ‘Isn’t Helen with you?’ I asked, peering behind him hopefully. Michael frowned. ‘Why would Helen be with me, Mum?’ he asked, frowning as he took off his motorbike helmet.
I’d been so sure that she would have got a message to him at work to pick her up from a nearby station if she was stranded. He’d been her knight in shining armour a number of times when there were problems on her commute. ‘Trees are down on the line,’ I said. ‘I thought she’d have rung you.’
Michael could see I was worried. He dug out the telephone directory (remember, this was in the days before the internet) and I began calling the local train information lines but they were constantly engaged. ‘The world and his wife must be calling,’ I muttered.
It was 7.45pm by the time I got through. ‘Can you tell me where the tree has fallen onto the railway line between Liverpool and Wigan?’ I asked. ‘My daughter should have been home hours ago and I’m a bit worried.’
‘Where does your daughter get off?’ the person asked. When I explained she caught the train as far as St Helens, they immediately tried to put my mind a rest. ‘Ah, her journey’s not affected,’ they said. ‘The tree has come down after her stop – between St Helens and Wigan. The trains from Liverpool are going as far as St Helens, then turning back.’
Perhaps the buses aren’t running, I thought, dialling the local bus depot. But they assured me that the 362 bus from St Helens to Chorley, via Billinge, was also running normally. ‘So, where on earth is she?’ I asked Michael, as a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. ‘She’s two and a half hours late.’
A knock at the door sent my spirits soaring – then plummeting when I found Frank on our doorstep, all dressed up ready to take Helen out. ‘She’s not here, love,’ I told him. ‘She hasn’t arrived home from work yet.’
Concern flashed across his face, as he stepped inside. This was only their fourth date but he thought the world of Helen. Suddenly a terrible thought occurred to me. ‘What if she’s been hit by flying masonry?’ I asked him. ‘What if she’s lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere – or has lost her memory?’
Frantically flicking through the pages of the phone book once more, I rang the Royal Liverpool University Hospital, then St Helens and Whiston hospitals to see if anyone matching Helen’s description had been admitted.
‘Five foot four, shoulder-length curly hair, pretty face,’ I said, hopefully.
‘OK, thank you,’ I replied, replacing the receiver in the cradle each time with a click. By now, John had arrived home and helped look up numbers for me.
Next, I tried a few of her workmates – who’d all arrived home safe and sound. They assured me Helen had left the office early, as planned. ‘She should have been home hours ago,’ one said. I even tried the Royal Insurance bar in Liverpool city centre where her colleagues would sometimes gather for a drink before heading home.
‘Everyone’s gone, love,’ the manager said.
Finally, John dialled the George and Dragon. ‘There’s no way she’d be there,’ I insisted, remembering our conversation from last night. And the thought of Helen popping into her local on her own and leaving me fretting, her dinner getting ruined and her boyfriend high and dry was unthinkable. But, by now, we were desperate. Grasping at straws. The barmaid put a message out over the tannoy before returning: ‘Nope, Helen hasn’t been in tonight,’ she said.
Replacing the receiver, I grabbed my coat, bag and a photograph taken on New Year’s Eve of Helen and me from the mantlepiece. ‘We need to look for her,’ I decided.
John drove, with me in the passenger seat and Frank in the back. We travelled in silence – all three of us scouring the deserted streets and pavements for any sign of her. Michael stayed at home to man the phone and let her in if she’d lost her keys.
After checking St Helens station, we tried Moorfields (the station near Helen’s workplace), but, by now, it was locked up with heavy gates firmly closed. Twice we stopped at phone boxes to ring home. Each time, Michael snatched the phone up on the first ring. I could hear his heart sink when he heard my anxious voice instead of his sister’s.
‘No word, Mum,’ he sighed.
Finally, we headed for Lime Street station in the centre of Liverpool. My heart felt leaden as we parked up and hurried inside to the information office. ‘I need to speak to the station master urgently,’ I said. He confirmed the trains to St Helens had been running only a few minutes behind schedule and, yes, it was further along the line that a tree was blocking the track.
Pulling the photo of Helen out of my bag, I thrust it under his nose. ‘This is my daughter,’ I said. ‘She gets the train here every night. Have you seen her?’
He looked at the image closely. ‘She looks familiar,’ he finally said. ‘But I can’t say as I’ve seen her tonight as we’ve been so busy. Sorry, love,’ he added seeing the desperation in my face.
Tears of terror and despair welled. Something has happened to my daughter. I just knew it. There was nowhere, and no one else, to try. ‘Can you tell me where the nearest police station is?’ I asked in a shaky voice. It was 9.30pm when I hurried up the steps and into the tiny lobby of Copperas Hill police station, which has long since closed.
‘I’d like to report my daughter missing,’ I told the desk sergeant. ‘Her name’s Helen McCourt.’ Our visit coincided with a shift changeover and there were
lots of officers coming and going behind him. He wrote her name down but when I gave her age, his pen paused. I could almost see the urgency evaporate. Twenty-two? She’s a grown woman. He looked up. ‘Perhaps she’s with friends?’ he suggested.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve checked them all – they haven’t seen her.’
‘Maybe she’s met up with someone and gone for a drink without realising the time?’ I could see it written all over his face: Over-protective mother.
Again, I was adamant. ‘You don’t know my daughter. She wouldn’t do that without letting me know.’
Whatever suggestion he made, I gave the same response: ‘She’d have rung me. She’d have found a phone box and rung me. I’ve tried the train stations, the hospitals, and there’s no sign of her.’ My voice was rising with every word.
Seeing that I wasn’t going to let this go, he picked up his pen again. ‘OK, let’s get some details, shall we?’
I handed over the photo of Helen and reeled off facts: ‘Dark hair, slight build, five foot four . . . ’
Meanwhile, John had slipped outside to use the phone box to ring home. As he came back in, I looked up hopefully. He shook his head.
I started to cry. ‘Please,’ I begged the sergeant. ‘She should have been home five hours ago. Something’s happened to her, I know it has. What if she’s lying somewhere injured and doesn’t know who she is or where she is? She won’t even be able to phone.’
The officer tried to reassure me. ‘Look, I’ll ask the night shift to keep a lookout for her, but why don’t you get yourself off home? In fact, she’s probably there now – waiting for you.’
I gulped back a wave of annoyance and gripped the counter. ‘She’s not,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘We’ve just phoned home and she’s not there.’
Behind him, an officer was calling for his attention. Another was waving sheets of paper.
‘Leave it with us,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
He turned to speak to his officers but I didn’t leave. One coughed.
She’s still there, Sarg.
He turned back to see me still standing there. ‘What can I do now?’ I asked, helplessly.
He took a deep breath. ‘Get yourself home,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve got your details. If we hear anything, we’ll let you know.’
I nodded sadly. Then a thought occurred: ‘Can I ring you?’ I asked. I could sense his patience wearing thin.
‘Erm, if you want to,’ he replied, scribbling down the desk number.
I took the slip of paper. ‘How often can I ring?’ I persisted. I didn’t want to be a nuisance but I didn’t want him to forget me. It was like I was five years old again – back at school and raising my hand to speak to the teacher.
‘You can ring every hour if you want,’ he said.
I could tell he thought I was mad – planning to stay up ringing all through the night, enquiring after my grown-up daughter who hadn’t arrived home from work.
I understand that, back then in the late eighties, police only sprang into action if a juvenile under seventeen was reported missing. Otherwise, although an unofficial risk assessment was carried out, they tended to wait for twenty-four to forty-eight hours before acting. Because of my persistence they acted straightaway. I thank God they did. Because had they followed protocol and waited until forty-eight hours had passed, my daughter would now be a long-term missing person. And her killer would have, quite literally, got away with murder.
Things are very different now, of course, with police acting promptly on all missing person’s reports. My heart breaks for all those other unfortunates who have never arrived home – and who will never be found, either. What sort of torture is that for their loved ones? Always hoping, always praying, for a phone call, a birthday card, a text, a message on social media . . . Anything to end the misery of simply not knowing.
Later, I learned that the duty sergeant was upset when he realised that my concerns were founded. He felt he hadn’t been able to give me his full attention as the station was so busy. However, I will always be grateful to him for setting the search in motion. Because he did issue alerts to the night squad. He distributed Helen’s photo and a description of what she was wearing – a grey-brown coat (I couldn’t remember the name of the shade), brown trousers, suede brown boots, maroon scarf and her favourite green mitts.
‘She’s not arrived home from work and her mother’s panicking,’ he told them. ‘Keep an eye out for her.’
He also rang the hospitals, only to be told: ‘We’ve already had a call off the mother. There’s no one of that description here.’ The half-hour drive home took much longer due to the terrible weather. Over and over, I prayed Helen would be there when we arrived – mortified at having caused us so much worry. I imagined myself calling the police station and telling them, with relief: ‘Don’t worry, officer. She’s turned up.’ Maybe even given a rueful laugh as I agreed: ‘Yes, she’s in a lot of trouble.’
As we pulled onto the drive, the front door opened sharply. My heart leapt – then sank. It was Michael. Alone. ‘Have you found her?’ he called, as John switched the engine off. The look of complete and utter anguish that washed over his young face as he watched just three of us – John, Frank and me – emerge from the car, will stay with me forever.
‘Let’s go in, Michael,’ I said, placing my hand gently on his shoulder.
Frank headed off home – assuring us he’d ring the moment he heard anything, and vice versa.
As it was late now, I sent both John and Michael to bed. ‘You two have got work in the morning, you need your sleep,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait up.’
I sat bolt upright in the chair by the red brick fireplace, facing the window, with the lamp on. The blinds were closed but through the little holes where the threads went, I could see into the street outside. The little gold carriage clock on the mantlepiece ticked away the seconds.
The central heating had long gone off and there was a chill in the air. I pulled my cardigan around me, tighter. At midnight, I made the first of my hourly phone calls to the police station. ‘It’s Mrs McCourt,’ I began. I’d close my eyes, silently begging for positive news. Please, please, please . . . Each time, I replaced the handset, slightly more dejected than before.
I thought back to her last words that morning: ‘I’m going now, Mum. I’ll see you at lunchtime,’ she’d called up the stairs cheerily. It seemed a lifetime ago, now.
At 4.20am, my ears pricked up at the sound of a car approaching. We lived at the far end of a cul-de-sac so didn’t get passing traffic. The car drew closer, then stopped outside our house. For a moment, the room flooded with red light as the brake lights lit up, then died.
With my heart in my mouth, I leapt to my feet and yanked open the front door to find two men on the doorstep. I craned my neck to see behind them. Was she injured on the back seat? ‘Have you found her?’ I cried.
One of the men held out his police identification badge. ‘Detective Sergeant John Ross,’ he told me, and introduced his colleague. ‘We’d just like to get a few more details about your daughter, Mrs McCourt,’ he said.
I swallowed back frustration as I led them into the living room. More questions? He picked up the framed photo of Helen that took pride of place on the coffee table and gazed at it before putting it back down. Later, DS Ross wrote to me, explaining that he’d recognised Helen straight away. They’d often caught the same train from St Helens to Liverpool Lime Street. In fact, he’d once mentioned her to his wife: ‘There’s a pleasant young lady who gets my train. She always dresses really well, has a lovely smile and says good morning to everyone. If our daughter grows up to be like her, we can give ourselves a pat on the back.’
I’d smiled, reading those words. He must have only ever seen Helen on a good day – when she’d caught her train on time! But deep down, I swelled with pride. Because, yes, Helen really was a dream daughter and I couldn’t have been prouder of her.
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DS Ross had instinctively known that my fears weren’t unfounded. ‘I know this girl,’ he’d said when going through calls from the shift and seeing the New Year’s Eve photo I’d left. ‘She’s from a nice area. If her mum’s worried, I believe her. There’s something not right here.’ He’d picked up his car keys, recruited a colleague and paid me a visit. Again, it was thanks to him that things moved so quickly.
At this point, I was still convinced Helen was lying some-where injured, or in a hospital bed. These days, mobile phone and CCTV mean it’s impossible for someone to go missing just like that. Three decades ago the world was a very different, old-fashioned, place.
‘So, Mrs McCourt, what time were you expecting your daughter home?’ DS Ross asked.
My heart sank.
I’ve been through all this at the station.
With hindsight, they were obviously checking I wasn’t telling lies or had mental health issues – reporting a phantom daughter missing. I fought the urge to scream: ‘Why aren’t you out there looking for her?’ and patiently went through all the information again – what time she left work, what she was wearing. I even went upstairs and checked her wardrobe to make doubly sure the description was accurate. ‘She was wearing new trousers and a smart blouse under her long grey-brown coat, with brown suede knee-length boots. She’d only bought the trousers and blouse the day before,’ I recalled.
Helen had arrived home from work on the Monday, clutching a shopping bag. ‘Hiya Mum,’ she’d called as she dumped her handbag and kicked off her boots in the hall. ‘I’ve bought some new trousers and a . . . ’
Her voice trailed off as she’d seen the look on my face. I’d just learned, remember, that there had been an incident in the pub the night before, and Helen had been barred.
After reassuring me there was nothing to worry about and that she’d never be going there again, I’d felt happier.
‘Come on, then. Let’s see these new clothes,’ I’d said brightly.
Justice for Helen Page 5
