Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  My daughter had always taken such pride in her appearance, kept her outfits so pristine. It was heartbreaking to see her lovingly chosen and cared-for clothes in this state.

  I looked up and met Paul’s quizzical expression. ‘They’re all Helen’s,’ I whispered. He nodded. ‘Apart from the trousers,’ I added. ‘Helen was wearing brown trousers. These are navy, they’re not hers.’

  It was a year later, at Simms’ trial, that I learned the trousers were Helen’s after all. Although she’d originally set off that Monday lunchtime to buy brown trousers, the shop only had navy in stock. After trying them on for size, she liked them so much that she decided to buy them and order the brown. When she’d put them on for me that evening, and twirled at the top of the stairs, I’d just presumed they were the brown ones . . .

  We never did find out if those brown trousers had arrived for her. I presume they were sent back to the warehouse once it was clear they were never going to be collected and worn. We travelled home in miserable silence. I realised that after everything that had happened, I’d still been holding out for a miracle. For the impossible . . . for Helen to, somehow, still be alive and well.

  Anyone can lose an earring. But you don’t just lose your boot, your mitts, your coat . . . This was it. It was over, she was dead.

  An image of Helen’s underwear flashed into my mind and I instantly batted it away. Those thoughts, those questions, were too disturbing, too upsetting, too horrible to think about, yet. I needed to brace myself.

  These days, homicide cases move quickly through the legal system. Suspects are charged and committed to crown court quickly, with trials usually underway within six months. It’s all so much better for the families of the victims. Back then, however, things moved at a snail’s pace. Simms was repeatedly brought back before magistrates before finally being committed to Liverpool Crown Court in August 1988 – a full six months after Helen went missing. Although he’d been arrested very quickly after she disappeared it would be another six months before the murder trial began – the longest twelve months of my life.

  John, Michael and my brothers and sisters made a point of attending every hearing at St Helens Magistrates Court, sitting on pull-down seats in the public gallery. Each time the magistrate said: ‘You are remanded in custody, take him down,’ my family would immediately stand up as one. The noise of the pull-down seats snapping back into place was like a gunshot going off.

  The first time it happened, Simms looked around, startled (as did the magistrate, clerks and prison officers) and met the cold, staring faces of Helen’s loved ones. ‘We were telling him “We’re here. We are a family and we’re not going anywhere,”’ John told me afterwards. But there was no mouthing, no gesticulation, no issue of threats. Through my work with victims’ families over the years, John and I have always urged them to show the court that you are respectful. I’ve always tried to show dignity and respect in any official setting relating to my murdered daughter and my quest for justice – whether that be a crown court or the Houses of Parliament.

  Throughout all this time, my weekly novena kept me going. Being in church, gazing up at the stained-glass windows, watching the flickering candles brought me some comfort and gave me strength.

  Five weeks after Helen went missing, John, Mum and I slipped into a pew towards the back of the church just as mass was about to start – I didn’t want sympathetic glances or looks of pity. As the familiar words washed over me, I immersed myself in prayer. I’d accepted Helen had been taken from me. All I wanted was for her body to be found so she could be laid to rest.

  Please, please, merciful God in heaven, bring Helen home to me. Mother of God, pray for me. St Martha, pray for me. End this torment, I beg you.

  As the priest came to the consecration of the bread he lifted the paten (small plate) and asked God to bless its contents. As I’ve always done, I looked up, struck my breast and whispered, ‘My Lord and My God.’ It’s a ritual left over from the days when Catholic masses were said in Latin. The little altar bell rang out to symbolise the miracle taking place then died away. I bowed my head.

  Next, the priest lifted the chalice, looked to the skies and asked God to bless the wine it contained. Once more, I looked up, struck my breast, opened my mouth to whisper . . . then froze.

  The shock that jolted through me couldn’t have been stronger if I’d stuck my wet finger in an electrical socket. One hand flew to my mouth, the other gripped the bench in front of me so tightly, my knuckles turned white. My heart literally froze in my chest.

  I sensed John and Mum, either side of me, turn their faces towards me, bewildered. But I continued to stare straight ahead, without blinking.

  There, just above the altar railings, where the congregation knelt to take Holy Communion, Helen had appeared.

  I could just make out the top half of her, floating serenely. She was wearing a red silky vest top. Even from this far away, I could see her make-up was natural – just a gentle arc of lilac eyeshadow and a sheen of lipstick – and she was wearing her heated hair rollers. In her right hand, she clutched a half-full glass of red wine. She was gazing right back at me with sparkling eyes and smiling that beautiful smile.

  Instinctively, one of my hands floated up from the pew. I reached out to her. Then, as before, the image shimmered, then evaporated. As the altar bell died away, so too did my daughter.

  A long, juddering whimper escaped me. I sensed people turning their heads. Burying my face in my hands, I wept. Again, she’d been so real. And, again, she’d slipped away.

  The rest of the mass passed in a blur. Religious stories from the Bible I remembered from my childhood raced through my mind. Jesus had brought his best friend, Lazarus, back to life, after seeing how distraught his sisters, Mary and Martha, were. Could he . . . they . . . not see the impact this was having on me? Jesus himself had been resurrected from the dead on Easter Sunday. Why not Helen, my daughter?

  I want her back . . .

  I was aware of John and Mum helping me up to the altar to take Holy Communion. Tears streamed down my face and my hands trembled as I took the offered host, whispered amen, placed it on my tongue and made the sign of the cross.

  As the priest gave his final blessing, I turned to John: ‘I need to go. Please get me out,’ I begged. He put one strong arm around me and literally carried me out of the church and into the car.

  I was shaking like a leaf and my body heaved as dry sobs continued to rack through me. ‘What is it, love?’ Mum kept asking. But I shook my head.

  How could I tell her? How could I tell anyone that my dead daughter had just appeared to me in the middle of mass?

  I don’t remember getting home or being put to bed. It was Thursday morning, a full thirty-six hours later, that my eyes flickered open. I’d heard a familiar creak on the stairs followed by my door opening. Seconds later, Mum tiptoed into my room.

  ‘Are you OK, love?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Yeah,’ I whispered blankly. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Do you want some tea and toast?’ she offered.

  I sighed. ‘Who’s in the house?’ I didn’t want to face anyone.

  She smiled. ‘Only me and you, love,’ she said. ‘Margaret and Pat will be down later. Why don’t you come downstairs? The kettle’s on.’

  Wrapping a dressing gown around me, I stepped weakly down the stairs, holding onto the rail. As I entered the kitchen, Mum looked up from pouring tea and I could have wept. She tried to smile encouragingly but the lines on her face were so etched and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right, girl?’ she asked gently.

  This is killing her.

  Pain was emanating from every pore, I couldn’t keep her in the dark.

  ‘Shall I tell you what happened in church, Mum?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  Tears slid down her face as I described how I’d seen Helen on the altar – the rollers in her hair, the red vest top.

  ‘She was
there, Mum. I swear. As clear as you are to me now. She was so serene, it was so beautiful.’ I shook my head. ‘And I couldn’t deal with it.’

  She nodded and reached out a hand to briefly squeeze mine. We sat there for ages, drinking tea in silence, listening to the clock ticking in the background and nursing our hurt.

  ‘That must mean something,’ Mum murmured at one point.

  I nodded. ‘Maybe,’ I agreed.

  That evening, the phone rang. It was Lynn – Helen’s friend, who had taken her to Blackpool in October of the previous year. ‘Hello, Mrs McCourt,’ she said. ‘I’m coming to Cheshire tomorrow to visit my sister who’s just had a baby, the first grandchild in the family. It’s not that far from you. I’d love to call by and see you . . . if that’s OK?’

  I often think what courage that phone call and visit would have taken. She was celebrating a great family occasion, but took time out to visit the mother of her missing, murdered, friend.

  I smiled. ‘That would be lovely, Lynn,’ I said. ‘Do come over. Please.’

  When she pulled up the following morning, I suddenly remembered we’d found some photos of her in Helen’s drawer and wearily headed upstairs to get them. Coming back downstairs, I found Mum, my sisters and Lynn all stood in the doorway of the living room.

  ‘Sorry about that, Lynn,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to grab some photos for you . . . ’ But my voice trailed away. Pat, Margaret and Lynn were all looking, concerned, at Mum. The colour had drained from her face and she was trembling as she gazed at the photo in her hand. An age seemed to go by, then she held it out to me.

  ‘Marie?’ she began. ‘Lynn’s got something she wants to give you.’

  Taking the offered photograph, I looked at it and gasped: it was a picture of Helen I’d never seen before. It was as if I was back in that church pew, gazing at the altar again.

  There was Helen in her bedroom, wearing that red, silky top. Her hair was in curlers – apart from one curl which had worked its way loose. She was beautifully made up, with lilac eye shadow and pink lipstick. And she had the prettiest, widest smile on her face. Only one thing was missing – the glass of wine.

  Beside me, I sensed Mum crying. I looked up, stunned, at Lynn.

  ‘Wh— where did this come from?’ I asked.

  Lynn swallowed, unsure of what was going on. ‘I took it that weekend when I was down visiting. We were getting ready for our night out in Blackpool. It’s such a lovely picture . . . I thought you might like it.’

  I ran my finger over the image. ‘Lynn, were you and Helen drinking red wine in her room before going out?’ I asked.

  Lynn coloured. She would have known I disapproved of Helen drinking in her room while getting ready. Drinking was something you did with friends, not on your own. But you could see her brain working.

  How on earth did you know that?

  ‘Erm, yes, we were, Mrs McCourt,’ she confessed. ‘But, don’t tell me mum – she’d kill me.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s OK, love,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s just that I saw Helen, just like this – in church, two days ago,’ I explained. ‘Me mum knows. She was on the altar, holding a glass of wine. This is exactly how she looked.’

  I can’t thank Lynn enough for bringing that photo to me that day. It has brought me such comfort over the years. After the initial shock of seeing my daughter in church, I realised I’d been blessed in being allowed to see her one more time. Some divine intervention, perhaps St Martha, had allowed me a glimpse of her, smiling and happy. They couldn’t bring her back to me but they could let me see her just one more time. And thanks to the photo, that image has stayed fresh in my mind.

  * * *

  I was so touched by gestures of kindness, both from loved ones and complete strangers. Flowers, cards and little gifts would arrive from well-wishers and local congregations at churches. They’d tell me they were thinking of me and praying for me. Some were simply signed ‘from a mum’ or ‘a parent whose heart goes out to you’.

  Meanwhile I continued to say the novena, so sure that Helen would be found by the ninth Tuesday. I spent all day, right up to midnight, willing the phone or doorbell to ring, imagining my relief at hearing those three words: ‘We’ve found her.’ But the house remained silent.

  I’ve stuck to my novena religiously. Tuesday evening mass has long since stopped, but wherever I am in the world, whatever I’m doing, on Tuesday evening I light a candle to Helen’s confirmation saint. Then I kneel, bow my head and fervently say my novena. I lose myself in the words and finally emerge, blinking. Afterwards I feel exhausted and spent, but a little more at peace.

  I was so touched when a dear friend, who has since died, bought me a statue of St Martha to use for my novenas. For thirty years she has stood on our mantlepiece watching over us all, one hand on her heart, the other holding her staff. On Tuesday evenings, I place Helen’s framed portrait beside her, then add softly flickering candles.

  Those novenas kept me going during the darkest, darkest times that descended upon me. With no date even set for the trial, I found myself in an horrendous no man’s land. I entered a long period of ‘No’ days, as my mum called them. She’d moved in to support me, sleeping in Helen’s bedroom, and would make tentative knocks on my door throughout the day. The curtains remained closed but sleep still eluded me – I just lay there, hour after hour, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Marie?’ she’d ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shall I run you a bath?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going to get dressed today?’

  ‘No.’

  On and on it went. No matter what was asked, my answer was always the same. Even if the police visited with an update, I’d go down in my dressing gown (much to Mum’s horror) to listen to them. Why should I care what people thought? Over time, I’ve come to realise that they’re used to dealing with grieving, distressed families. The sight of someone in their dressing gown isn’t going to phase them in the slightest.

  I tormented myself, reliving that evening over and over. I knew the weather was going to be horrendous so what was I thinking, sitting in the house? Why didn’t I go and pick her up? Why did I let her make that journey in those appalling conditions? Why? Why? Why? What sort of a mother was I to let her down in the worst way possible? I know now, through my work with the families affected by homicide, that those ‘what ifs?’ and ‘why didn’ts?’ are incredibly common. We berate ourselves over and over.

  Over time I came to accept that what happened couldn’t be changed and in my work with other families, have helped them to do the same. For a long time, however, that pain, that anger towards myself, was there. But no matter how low and miserable I felt, I would drag myself to church every Tuesday evening and Sunday morning. To this day, my faith has kept me going.

  Looking back, my heart goes out to so many of my loved ones who were also struggling, but particularly John. After the initial media interviews following Helen’s disappearance, I had no further contact with Billy, my ex-husband, and the situation remains to this day. No doubt he has his own grief to deal with, and his own story, but it’s not mine to share.

  Poor John must have wondered what he’d taken on. He’d fallen in love with a happy-go-lucky woman who was blessed with two lovely children. We were a great, little unit – the happiest of families – looking forward to spending the rest of our lives together.

  As it would be the second wedding for both John and me we only wanted a small do with family and close friends. We’d booked St Helens register office but we hadn’t even got around to sorting outfits or booking a venue for a meal afterwards. In a way, it was just as well: there was only one phone call to make to cancel the service.

  John was the strong glue that held our family together through those dark times. I’d been an old-fashioned mum who had prided herself on providing for her children. There was a meal on the table every night but from the night Helen went missing, I stoppe
d cooking.

  Her dinner had been ready that night. And she had never come home for it. I was simply never able to cook again.

  It was the same with clothes shopping. Helen and I used to spend all our Saturdays together, choosing outfits. To this day, I dread shopping for clothes.

  John stepped in, doing all the shopping and cooking. Our house which once rang with laughter and music was now stifled with misery and grief. There were times it was so engulfing I found it difficult to breathe – it descended from the ceiling, rose up from the floor and leached off the walls, no matter how many windows I opened. Anyone who came into our house couldn’t fail to feel it settle across their chest and shoulders and sink into their clothes. I imagined it as a dank, damp fog, wrapping itself around visitors.

  I urged John to leave. To get out. ‘Go and find yourself a nice, ordinary woman – someone who can make you happy,’ I’d say, blankly.

  He would shake his head and smile a sad smile. ‘I’m going nowhere, love,’ he’d reassure me. ‘I love you and I’m staying.’

  * * *

  Along with every member of my family, John threw himself into the physical search for Helen. To start with, he, Michael, my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law and cousins would join the police on their searches.

  They were focusing on two areas: the first was near to where a man’s clothes had been found dumped the morning after Helen disappeared, on wasteland, at a place called Hollins Green, near Warrington – near the Manchester Ship Canal. A car (the Volkswagen police had appealed for information on in the early days after Helen disappeared) had also been spotted backed up to the canal, its boot open. Police had spent an entire week just dragging the murky waters.

  The second area was where Helen’s clothing had been recovered three miles from this spot – on the banks of the River Irwell.