Then, in a direct plea that I hoped would reach him, I stared straight into one of the cameras and said: ‘There’s nothing for you now. You’ve gone down for life. So please tell us what you’ve done with our daughter.’
I also urged Simms’ wife and mother to get him to reveal where Helen’s body was. ‘As mothers, they can imagine how I feel. It’s been bad enough trying to live with her gone, but not knowing what happened or where she is, has been the hardest to bear.
‘Simms’ wife, Nadine, must understand the anguish we are suffering and I am hoping she can put pressure on him to reveal where he put Helen’s body.’
But I vowed I would not lower myself to beg: ‘He is not human,’ I said. ‘He is a robot.’
Like the judge, I had to praise the police for helping me get this justice for my daughter. ‘I cannot thank them enough,’ I said. ‘They have been brilliant throughout. We have adopted them all,’ I added with a watery smile.
Then, in a final tribute to Helen, I said: ‘In a way I count myself lucky. I had a beautiful daughter for twenty-two years. Many people have not been so fortunate.’
I was so proud of Michael for standing tall beside me and giving his own statement. ‘It’s the right verdict and I’m happy,’ he said. ‘We have been waiting a year for this.
‘With or without Simms’ help, we are going to go on searching.’ Then he turned to me. ‘My mother has been superb,’ he added. ‘I do not think any of us would have got through this without her.’ Tearfully, I reached out for his hand. My poor son had been to hell and back, but we’d get through this together.
In separate interviews DCS Alldred said police would be visiting Simms to implore ‘for pity’s sake, tell us where she is’. He explained he would be consulting with lawyers and counsel to appeal to his better nature.
‘I will never rest until I have found Helen’s body. Killers usually show some sign of remorse, but Simms has shown none and has gone to jail in a defiant mood. In this case the file on Helen McCourt will remain open until her body is found,’ he vowed.
As reporters hurried off to the phone box to file copy to editors, I glanced at my watch: ‘If we hurry, we can just about make 7.30pm mass,’ I said to John.
The rest of the family went to the pub to buy the police a drink.
Slipping into our usual pew, I allowed relief to envelope me like a cloak.
‘Thank you, St Martha,’ I whispered.
It was over, he’d been found guilty. There was no point in staying quiet now – he’d been sentenced to life. Surely, he’d now say where she was so we could lay her to rest and start to grieve properly?
Surely.
Closing my eyes, I willed an image of a smiling, beaming Helen to appear in my mind and felt an intense surge of love.
Hold tight, Helen, I thought. You’ll be home soon, I promise. We’ll find you.
Chapter 9
Bring her home
S
imms’ conviction dominated the papers for days: ‘Braggart Killer Takes Grim Secret to Jail’ and ‘Cruel “Missing Body” Killer Jailed for Life’ were just some of the screaming headlines.
Editors went to town on details that were never revealed in court: how Simms was a Jekyll and Hyde character well known for his hot temper and violent outbursts. One pub customer who’d joked about Simms going bald on top ended up in hospital. I heard that a woman had walked into the empty pub one afternoon to find Simms on the floor astride a man, strangling him. After pushing him off (shrieking ‘You’ll kill him!’), she described him as suddenly ‘coming to’.
‘Sorry about that,’ he mumbled, helping the lad up and asking if he’d like a pint.
Simms had been involved in small-time drug dealing and money lending. He once produced a gun and offered a customer a wad of money to put the gun in his own mouth and pull the trigger. When the man refused, a furious Simms had fired the gun into the wall – it was loaded.
Chillingly, he then boasted that he could kill the lad and get rid of his body so well it would never be found or traced back to him.
Good God, I thought. He’s a monster.
I felt vindicated at a double-page spread in the Liverpool Echo headlined: ‘To Save His Skin, He Dragged Her Reputation Through the Mud’ – dismissing Simms’ ludicrous claim that he had lured Helen into bed in an attempt to explain her earring being found in his room.
Other stories reflected on the impact of the murder on Billinge and how our close-knit village would never be the same. As one local poignantly said: ‘I don’t think this tragedy will be over properly until Helen’s body is found.’
Yes, Helen’s killer had been caught and convicted, but this was far from over. Until my daughter was found, there would never be closure – for any of us.
* * *
My heart goes out to the naive, hopeful, pitiful Marie of those early days, hurrying to answer the doorbell or phone. She was so sure that, now he’d been convicted, it was only a matter of time before Simms did the right thing and ended this misery. She imagined him requesting a meeting with his wife, his mistress or his lawyer – or even his mum – then he’d take a deep breath and tell everything.
At some point, he might ask for a map, or a pencil and paper. Turning the paper this way and that, he would draw a crude diagram. There would be arrows, scribbled instructions and references to landmarks such as third lamp post along, high stone wall or tall oak tree – all leading to one dominant spot. ‘She’s here,’ he’d finally conclude, circling a definite area.
I’d see myself, watching from a distance, as forensic searches got underway. I’d listen out for a cry or a shout, indicating a positive find. Then I’d fall to my knees in gratitude and grief.
Thank God.
I even visualised Helen’s coffin, sprinkled with holy water and bedecked with yellow roses gently, and with the dignity she deserved, being lowered into consecrated ground.
(Back then flowers were a luxury we couldn’t afford. Very occasionally I’d buy a cheap bunch to pop in a vase. But neither Helen nor I had favourites. However, I’ve always loved her in yellow and that vibrant shade would become the theme of the campaign I would fight in her name. And roses are beautiful. Like my daughter.)
Burying a child is every parent’s nightmare, but it was a dream that spurred me on for the next three decades. It was to become an obsession. A compulsion.
First, however, we needed to show our gratitude to those who had snared Simms. We delivered a case of whisky to Merseyside Police and a box of spirits to the forensic team.
Many of the police officers and forensic experts, who received commendations for their work, became lifelong friends. They’ve attended every memorial service I’ve ever had for Helen and to this day, Paul Acres sends a bouquet on the anniversary of Helen’s murder.
We bought beautiful magnifying glasses, in presentation boxes, for prosecuting counsel Brian Leveson and Bryn Holloway and also gave ‘thank you’ gifts to the two men who had stumbled across, and alerted police so quickly to, crucial evidence dumped by Simms.
In one post-trial article forensic expert Dr Moore said that the only way Helen’s body would now turn up was if Simms confessed or she turned up by accident.
‘Or we find her,’ I added determinedly.
And so, on Sunday, 19 March 1989 – just five days after the trial had concluded and on the same day that Tracey Hornby was telling readers of a Sunday tabloid how she would ‘always love sex brute killer Simms’ – we resumed our searches.
Two days later, I was back in church, saying my Tuesday novena to St Martha for Simms to do the right thing. He was refusing to allow police to interview him in his cell but he couldn’t hold out for ever. Could he?
Ten days after the trial, an officer rang with news: ‘He’s appealing, Marie,’ he said. ‘On the grounds that the verdict was “unsafe and unsatisfactory”.’
Was this some sort of sick joke? The man was guilty as hell.
My knuckles turned white a
s I gripped the phone. ‘He never once looked at me during the trial,’ I said, in a trembling voice. ‘Not once. They are not the actions of an innocent man.’
It was a pathetic charade of innocence but it meant police had to wait until the appeal had been dealt with before requesting prison cell visits.
Yet another story, under the headline ‘Bully Boasts: I’ll Not Crack’ chilled me to the bone. While on remand Simms had, apparently, boasted to Tracey: ‘I’ve withstood seventy-two hours of questioning, but they couldn’t break me. And they never will.’
Deep inside my very being, a maelstrom of emotions swirled – disgust, determination, fury. And resolve.
‘We’ll step up our searches,’ I vowed. ‘We’ll find her with or without his help.’
With my brother Tez at the helm we became a formidable team, using all the evidence from the trial. We thought forensically, logically, poring over Ordnance Survey maps and placing ourselves inside Simms’ sick, twisted mind.
Slight as Helen was, he wouldn’t have been able to carry her over a long distance. ‘We need to focus on secluded laybys where you could pull a car in close to a gap in woods or a fence . . . ’ Tez reasoned. ‘And he’s not going to bury her in the middle of an overlooked field or picturesque spots where dog walkers go. We’re talking remote well areas away from houses. Canals, bridges, sewage pipes, clay pits.’
Simms had been missing from 6pm to 10.30pm on the evening Helen went missing (apart from brief glimpses at the family home and pub). I have no doubt that when he reversed his car up to the side gate, it was to load Helen’s body into the boot.
Years later, a car passenger came forward, saying he’d seen a man outside the pub loading a roll of carpet into his boot. Suddenly, he’d exclaimed a horrified, ‘Good God!’ Hanging out of the carpet was a human hand. By the time they’d turned around and driven back, the car was gone.
‘My friend said I must have imagined it, but I know what I saw,’ he insisted. For some reason he hadn’t come forward then but it had troubled him for a long time and I was grateful to him for telling me.
After Tracey had left Simms’ bed at 1am, he was alone again until being seen back in Billinge at 8am. So, he’d only had a limited time to dispose of her body.
Where had he gone? What had he done with her?
Searching was to be a huge task. Billinge was an old mining community. As early searches revealed, the land beneath, and for miles around, was honeycombed with mining tunnels and shafts, flooded tunnels and quarries.
Simms was into fishing and shooting so he knew the countryside like the back of his hand. One local said he knew more holes and warrens than the rabbits. He’d openly boasted of being able to hide a body so well, it would never be found. Plus, a network of motorways on our doorstep means he could have driven a fair distance in a short time. We ended up covering a huge area – as far west as Southport and all across Lancashire. There was no internet or Google maps in those days. It was all done with pen and paper and Ordnance Survey maps.
During the week, we’d pore over new information before deciding on an area for the following Sunday. We’d don water-proofs, industrial gloves, wellies and steel-capped boots (I always wore Helen’s favourite jeans) and pack Thermos flasks, giant teapots and enough sandwiches to feed a small army. John’s mum, bless her, would bake trays of flapjacks to keep us going.
We’d start at first light (John and I always went to mass first) and only stop when it was too dark or cold to carry on. Week in, week out, we toiled through torrential rain, thick fog, swirling snow, bone-numbing cold and blistering heatwaves.
Divided into groups, we’d probe and sift every square inch of ground for disturbed earth, unusual dips and mounds, trampled vegetation, heavy footprints or discarded clothes (Helen’s upper garments and one boot were still missing). Simms had been covered in scratches so sharp, brambles or thickets always caught our attention.
My heart would jolt at a flapping corner of polythene (bin bags?) or a flash of metal reflecting the sunlight (an opal earring?). It was always a plastic bag or tin can.
The challenging terrain meant we quickly upgraded from our basic broom handles and spades. A foreman at John’s work devised an innovative tool – a sturdy, strong pole with a hand-like metal claw welded onto the end.
Our ‘scratchers’ became essential – and we still use them to this day. As well as breaking up clay and levering us over uneven ground, we’d drag them through soil in the hope of snagging Helen’s missing necklace. Even the police asked to borrow them.
We used sharp billhooks for cutting back shrubs and branches and hired industrial strimmers to clear long grass. John and some of the lads would head to a site the day before to prepare it for a search. Once, Tez even hired a boat to accompany Michael as he waded through deep water, checking under-water branches.
In the early days, an officer would accompany us. Many joined us on days off, roping in their families to help. Over time, the force couldn’t always spare an officer but if we needed help, they were there in a shot.
Soil samples played a huge part. Forensic experts had concluded that if we could find an exact match to the mud found on Simms’ clothes and car, we might well find the body. We managed to obtain some tiny samples to use as a control. Then we devised intricate analysis charts and grid references to cover our search areas.
With every step, we’d scoop a sample then dry it out, back home on the windowsill. I would spend hours scrutinising each tiny grain under a microscope. Occasionally, we’d grow excited and speed off to the forensic laboratory, breathlessly asking them to examine a sample.
‘It’s close, but not exact,’ they’d say, kindly.
It never was.
Although they were bleak, sad times, we grew ever closer as a family. Helping each other over stiles, sharing the digging, passing around cups of hot tea. As well as the frustration, anger and exhaustion at this relentless task, week in, week out, there was also encouragement, compassion and even humour. If there was a pond to topple into, a tree root to trip over, or a slope to tumble down, poor John was guaranteed to find it. We’d listen out for the tell-tale sound of a cry and a heavy splash or dull thud as he hit the ground. He’s a tall, well-built man so he didn’t do it quietly.
Another time, the men were busy digging into the banks of a pond when I asked what me, Pat and Margaret could do.
‘You girls go over there, round the outside,’ Tez instructed.
My sisters and I looked at each other. Our brains synchronised. Quick as a flash, Pat began to sing: ‘Buffalo gals go round the outside.’
It was a well-known hip-hop song by Malcolm McLaren that had topped the charts in the early eighties. Margaret and I dropped our shovels and joined in.
‘Round the outside, round the outside,’ we chorused, clapping in time.
The lads leaned on their shovels and grinned. For a brief moment, we were carefree, without a worry in the world. I lived for those moments when reality was suspended and all was well, even just for a nanosecond. Helen would have found it hilarious.
And then, as our voices trailed away, we picked up our shovels and carried on digging. It was such a macabre task but the searching was almost like a therapy. We were doing something practical. And if I focused exactly on the task in hand, running my gloved fingers through blades of grass, picking my way through brambles, it was almost possible to forget what we were actually looking for: my daughter’s body.
While the others went back to their jobs each Monday morning, I continued to delve.
I’d never returned to work following my whiplash injury. Now, it was out of the question. How could I think of anything but finding Helen? Yes, we struggled financially – especially forking out for search equipment hire and petrol. Over seven years, I estimated we spent £25,000. So, while the rest of the family worked, I’d pore over all the paperwork and cuttings from the trial, checking we hadn’t overlooked anything vital.
I’d drive to new build
ing sites and implore foremen to keep their eyes peeled for human remains while digging foundations. I grew used to the sudden flash of horror reflected back at me in their eyes before they promised to co-operate. I imagined them shaking their heads in disbelief and thinking, ‘Poor woman’ as I walked away.
Holding out a photo of Helen, I’d ask landowners and farmers if they’d noticed something – anything – and ask permission to search their land on Sundays. They were all so amenable.
I regularly appealed in the local papers for dog walkers, hikers, joggers and workmen to look out for disturbed ground. And I begged Simms’ childhood friends to rack their brains for dens or secret hiding places he might have told them about. I went back to witnesses from the trial, working out Simms’ timings of movements to the last nanosecond. Through painstaking research, I pinpointed which old mine shafts and clay pits were being filled in at the time of Helen’s disappearance and made careful notes to share with the team.
I acted on every single piece of information that came to me. I learned that, in one area, a massive underground drainage system was constructed at exactly the time my daughter went missing. During building work, it was under constant surveillance. But, afterwards, while being filled in, it was unmanned between shifts. Did Simms know about it? Could he have disposed of Helen there? The company gave us permission to use a JCB and dig down fifteen feet – all we found was rubble.
Over time, we embraced new search methods. Merseyside Police trained two dogs: Benny, a Springer Spaniel, and Gyp, a Border Collie, especially to help in our searches. They went on to become a permanent part of the force.
A local dog training club also offered the services of their dogs. We’d spend hours punching holes into the ground to release scents.
After appealing for help on dowsing rods, a retired expert from Leeds – who had been about to sell his equipment – donated his best rods and gave me full training.
‘You’re a natural,’ he said, when I picked up tiny shavings of gold he had buried in his garden.
Justice for Helen Page 15
