Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  Local solicitor, Robin Makin, read about my plight and suggested I apply for criminal injuries. At this, I bristled. ‘I don’t want money, thank you,’ I said coldly. ‘I want my daughter.’

  ‘But you could be entitled to it,’ he persisted. ‘And surely it could go towards your searches?’

  He was right, I wasn’t in a fit state to work. And I could hire more equipment, put it towards her funeral . . . when it finally happened.

  The hearing was at the Customs House in Liverpool. John couldn’t get time off work so I went alone. While Robin Makin put his case, I wasn’t permitted to speak. I started to prickle. Didn’t they want to know how this was affecting me? How a part of me had died on 9 February 1988?

  ‘Thank you, Robin,’ I said during a break. ‘I think you put the case extremely well. However, I don’t think you’re going to win.’

  He tilted his head. ‘I think we have a pretty good chance,’ he said.

  I shook my head and sighed. ‘From where I was sitting, they’re going to say no.’

  I was right: they said no. Because Helen was over eighteen, unmarried and still living at home, we weren’t entitled to anything. Her life had no value. I’ve since heard of families who haven’t been able to afford a funeral for a murdered loved one because they weren’t entitled to compensation.

  As we left the building, angry tears stung my eyes. I’d put myself through that humiliating ordeal for nothing. Hot blood coursed through my veins.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs McCourt?’ Robin asked, as I strode up and down the car park, eyes darting wildly around. ‘Have you lost something? What are you doing? Can I help?

  ‘What am I doing?’ I retorted wildly. ‘What am I doing? I’ll tell you what I’m doing! I’m looking for a good heavy brick to throw through their lovely window.’

  Alarm, quickly followed by confusion, flashed across his face.

  ‘That way, the police can come and read me my rights,’ I continued hysterically, jabbing my chest forcefully. ‘Because right now, I have none. None! I haven’t broken the law. I haven’t killed anyone. But I have no rights whatsoever. It’s all there for the criminal to escape conviction or punishment! And it’s not fair!’

  By now, people were openly staring. I took a deep breath. As quickly as it had engulfed me, the blind rage evaporated and ebbed away. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, wearily.

  In more than thirty years I have never received a penny from the state to either fund searches or fight decisions. Simms, however, has been granted legal aid countless times.

  * * *

  That outburst lit a fire in my belly. Simms had been given a sixteen-year tariff, which meant that in 2004, his case would be up for review. If he hadn’t told me the truth by then, it was up to me to ensure he stayed locked up.

  ‘We need new laws,’ I argued. ‘How can killers get away with this? They should be made to reveal the location of their victims’ remains. And the longer they remain silent, the longer their sentence should be.’

  I’m a naturally shy, unassuming woman. The thought of calling for change and approaching figures of authority to highlight what was wrong with our justice system terrified me. But if I didn’t do it, who would?

  Other women, other mums, would help, surely? Kath Moodie put me in touch with the head offices for the National Federation of Women’s Institutes, Soroptimist International Great Britain and Ireland, and the National Council of Women.

  I’d summon my courage, take a deep breath and start talking: ‘Hello,’ I’d begin. ‘My name is Marie McCourt.’ From that point on, the words flowed – either from my mouth or my pen. They all agreed to support me.

  Every anniversary, Christmas and birthday, journalists contacted me to cover the story. I was so grateful to them.

  I wrote to HM The Queen, to my MP, John Evans, and Prime Minister John Major.

  The Queen wrote back and said although she sympathised, she couldn’t intervene. She forwarded my letter to the then Home Secretary, Michael Howard.

  Winnie Johnson, Keith Bennett’s mother, supported my campaign. I arranged for us both to travel to London to be interviewed about our plight on a BBC daytime news programme. ‘No one else understands our pain,’ I said. ‘If killers know they will never get out until they co-operate, they might well end this nightmare.’

  Learning about an ancient English common-law offence of preventing a burial spurred me on. For some reason it was rarely used. But why?

  There were other offences, too – obstructing a coroner, hiding a corpse, not to mention perverting the course of justice.

  So why hadn’t Simms also been charged with these offences? Initially I was told they were only used in cases of manslaughter and not murder – a bizarre answer which didn’t make any sense to me.

  Then in April 1994, paedophile Robert Black was convicted of the kidnap and murder of three beautiful little girls, Caroline Hogg, Sarah Harper and Susan Maxwell, between 1981 and 1985.

  It was a horrific case and my heart went out to the families of those little girls. But my eyes widened when I read that Black had also been charged, and convicted of, three counts of preventing a lawful burial. It was the first time I’d heard of this charge being used.

  If these offences had been used against Black, surely they could be used against Simms too?

  However, it wasn’t as straightforward as that.

  A barrister advised me that although I could try to have him charged with preventing Helen’s burial he doubted it would go anywhere. Simms had already been found guilty of murder – one of the gravest crimes there was – and was already serving life.

  In the eyes of the law, Simms had been convicted. He was banged up. A dangerous killer had been taken off the streets. There was no way he would be brought back to court for additional charges.

  I’ll never forget his words. ‘Every time it came to the top of the pile of paperwork it would be put straight to the bottom again,’ he said. ‘There are simply too many other cases for them to focus on.’

  Only, for me, and Helen’s family, this was far from over. Yes, he’d been convicted of my daughter’s murder. But if I was ever to move forwards from her tragic, needless death, I needed to be able to bury her.

  I’d fully intended to take out a private prosecution once I was sure that Simms’ wife, Nadine, and the children were sorted.

  But the costs involved were astronomical. I could literally lose everything – with no guarantee of a successful outcome.

  Besides, we were all still under the illusion that Simms would never be released without saying where Helen was. And I genuinely believed it.

  Robin Makin also helped me take my case to the European Court of Human Rights. It was a lengthy process and went on for more than a year, from 1994 to 1995. We got to the final stage before it was thrown out. We appealed – and lost.

  That was it, the end of the road: you can’t appeal after an appeal.

  * * *

  Fighting for a change in the law was my only option. My plight was continuing to get lots of coverage in the media. ‘If I can prevent one more family from going through this torment, something good will have come from Helen’s death,’ I said.

  Producers began inviting me on to news shows to talk about my predicament. I’d quake with terror as the cameras lit up, but this was something I had to do – for Helen. While appearing on the TV programme Kilroy in 1992, I finally got to meet Diana Lamplugh, mum of missing estate agent Suzy Lamplugh, twenty-five. Suzy had vanished in July 1986 while showing a man around a London property.

  Diana had sent her support when Helen went missing and now we hugged instinctively. My heart went out to her. At least the monster who had taken Helen’s life was behind bars. It was another two years before Suzy was even declared dead, in 1994. Her disappearance remains a mystery to this day, but it’s believed she was murdered by convicted sex killer John Cannan.

  We sat side by side – two mums searching desperately for their daughters – and,
afterwards, continued to support each other. (Sadly, Diana died in 2011 – still not knowing what had happened to her daughter.)

  Later that year (ironically, on Friday, 13 November 1992), a Channel 4 documentary called Short Stories: Still Missing, focusing on Helen’s disappearance, was watched by 2.7 million people. Afterwards, a neighbour called me into her house to listen to a message on her answer machine. ‘Sorry for calling on this number,’ said a male voice in a Liverpudlian accent, ‘but I have a message for Marie McCourt. I have information that could help her. Can you get her number and I’ll call back for it?’

  My heart leapt. I waited excitedly, but he never rang. Both I and the police issued an appeal, urging him to come forward. Nothing. Did he change his mind? Did someone talk him out of it? Sadly, I’ll never know. But if he, or anyone else, is reading this now and has information that could end more than thirty years of misery, please, please contact me through the email at the back of this book.

  I was astonished at the letters of support I received from people who said they would back my campaign.

  ‘We need to do this,’ I said to John.

  Ever since Helen had failed to come home, he had been a tower of strength. I don’t know what I’d have done without him.

  I often think back to when John and I met in 1985. Did he have any idea what he was about to get into? The death of a child, let alone the murder of one, can take a huge toll on a couple. I can see now how easily they can be left splintered and hurt, coping and surviving in their own separate ways.

  After Simms had lost his bid for an appeal, I rang Kevin Conroy of Merseyside Police.

  ‘When will I get Helen’s things back?’ I asked.

  There was a silence.

  ‘You’ve got them, Marie,’ he replied.

  I shook my head. ‘No, I haven’t,’ I insisted.

  More silence.

  ‘John picked them up after the appeal was finished,’ he finally admitted.

  When John arrived home from work that night, the smile on his face froze when he saw my expression.

  ‘Have you been and got Helen’s things?’ I asked in a clipped voice.

  He turned a distinct shade of grey. Mortification crept across his face.

  ‘Where are they?’ I asked through gritted teeth.

  His answer horrified me.

  ‘In the loft?’ I screeched. ‘You’ve put her clothes up in the loft?’

  I went berserk, absolutely berserk. It’s yet another example of how irrational your thinking becomes when tainted by grief. Helen’s clothes had been torn off her and scattered on a rat-infested riverbank for the best part of three weeks. They had been scrutinised under microscopes, presented as evidence, pored over in court. Yet the thought of them being secretly squirrelled in our loft hurt more than any of that.

  ‘Helen would never have put her things in the loft,’ I said furiously. ‘I want them down. Now!’

  The ladder rattled as he disappeared into the attic and passed down two big brown evidence bags. Without a word, I carried them into Helen’s bedroom and closed the door. I knelt down, tenderly reached into the crinkly bags and pulled out her precious, crumpled garments, one by one. There was her lovely coat, her maroon scarf, the soft, green mitts that had protected her small hands on wintry mornings . . . After spreading them out on the floor, I sobbed over them. I paused, stooped closer and inhaled deeply, only to cry even more – they didn’t even smell like her.

  Then, as my eyes fell on her lower garments, a thought so awful it took my breath away erupted inside my brain. It was like being hit by a bolt of lightning.

  Simms had hurt her.

  He had hurt her in the most awful way and I hadn’t been able to protect her.

  Her clothes from the waist-down had been found. Her trousers, her underwear.

  He had wanted my Helen and when she turned him down, he took her by force.

  He’d raped her. And then he’d killed her.

  ‘Oh, Marie, you can’t think like that,’ my appalled sisters insisted when I confided in them. ‘He killed her and hid her, that’s all. He didn’t have time to do anything else.’

  I could understand their reasoning, the truth was too horrible to contemplate. ‘But if he killed her by accident, why drag her upstairs to the bedroom? Why not just put her in the car boot there and then? It’s obvious.’

  Now, scooping the clothes she had worn so proudly into my arms, I rocked back and forth as the tears flowed.

  Oh, Helen! What did he do to you?

  Finally, exhausted and spent, I folded the items up carefully, returned them to the bags, then placed them on a shelf in Helen’s wardrobe. They were still her clothes, the clothes she’d left home in that day. She’d want me to look after them.

  I walked downstairs, fired up with a new sense of determination. It was more essential than ever for me to bring my daughter home. Her last few moments on this earth had been filled with terror and violence. I needed to put that right, to let her know she was safe now and no one would ever be allowed to hurt her again.

  Downstairs, I sat next to a stricken John.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I was helping. I wanted to put Helen’s coat into the dry cleaners so they could replace the buttons and sew the tear up. It was really upsetting for you to see it like that.’

  My heart went out to this wonderful, thoughtful, considerate man. ‘That’s how they were found,’ I said, gently. ‘We need to leave them as they are – for evidence, if nothing else. But thank you.’

  Then I kissed his cheek. I don’t think I’d ever loved him more than in that moment.

  When Helen went missing, we’d immediately shelved our wedding that we had planned for April 1988. Over the next few years, John would occasionally suggest getting married quietly, without fanfare.

  ‘No,’ I’d always said, dismissively. How could I even think about my own happiness while my murdered daughter was missing?

  It’s something only those who have lost a loved one to murder will appreciate. Suddenly, joy is something you are no longer entitled to. You survive, you go through each day, but you can’t imagine ever feeling happy again. Those feelings are gone forever.

  ‘Go,’ I’d say. ‘Leave. Find someone else who can make you happy. Because I can’t.’ Being without him would have killed me, but I was hurting so much.

  But, one day, he gave me an ultimatum: ‘Marie, I don’t know where I am,’ he said, anguished. ‘I want to marry you, but . . . ’ Then his voice trailed off. ‘I’m going to give you to the end of this year,’ he continued. ‘If the answer is still no, I’ll do what you keep telling me to do. I’ll leave you and get on with my life.’

  I stared at him, horrified. Then I felt a crushing sensation around my heart.

  Please, I’ve lost Helen. I can’t lose you, too.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ I said, shocked.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, determinedly. I’d never seen him like that.

  I gripped his hand. I loved this man and I wasn’t going to lose him. ‘I will marry you, John. But abroad, not in this country.’

  I couldn’t bear to see ‘Tragic Mum Finds Love’ stories in the papers. Articles needed to focus on Helen and nothing could detract from that.

  He smiled. ‘

  Done,’ he said.

  There was one other condition: ‘I won’t change my name,’ I told him. ‘To keep Helen’s name alive, I need to have the same surname.’

  John, bless him, offered to change his name to McCourt, but I refused. ‘When your sons have families, your grandchildren will want to know why Grandad doesn’t have the same name.’

  We slipped away and wed quietly abroad in July 1992, agreeing to keep our separate surnames. Declaring my vows to this man, I felt safe and loved. He had come into my life just when he was needed the most. He was the glue that held our heartbroken family together and he has been my rock ever since. We celebrated our silver wedding anniversary in 2017 and it was one of t
he proudest moments of our lives – I only wish Helen could have been there with us.

  Sadly, Helen’s murder took its toll on our family in other ways. I firmly believe the stress killed my baby brother, David, in March 1992. Just thirty-four, he left a widow and three young sons Helen had adored. After the murder he spent so much time worrying about me – ringing up or popping round to check how I was. And he was devoted to the Sunday searches. But one Saturday night, he went to sleep and never woke up.

  The coroner concluded that he was a healthy, very strong young man and his epilepsy was under control. But, at some time during that night, his heart, inexplicably, had stopped beating.

  Stunned and heartbroken, we gathered at his home to plan the funeral. David’s father-in-law wanted to hire a fleet of funeral cars for everyone, which my brothers thought unnecessary.

  ‘You can send a car if you like, but we’re not getting in them,’ someone said. I stared at the carpet.

  ‘Now, hold on a minute,’ someone intervened.

  Hurt, bickering voices swarmed around my head like insects. My breath quickened. I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed my car keys, leapt up from the chair and ran from the room.

  My mouth was set in a furious, thin line as I turned the ignition key and the engine roared into life. Veering onto the motorway, I pressed my foot on the accelerator until it hit the floor. How I didn’t end up killing myself or someone else I’ll never know, I was like a woman possessed.

  Blue signs flew by and suddenly I was taking the turn-off for Irlam, thirty miles away.

  It was where Helen’s clothes had been dumped.

  Choking back tears, I scrambled out of the car, then slipped and slithered my way down the dirty, muddy bank through the sharp gorse and thick trees. Just short of the water’s edge, I sat down heavily, panting for breath. Cold, clammy wet seeped into my clothes. Then I opened my mouth and wailed like a banshee. I hung onto the cry until it wavered before petering out into a weary croak, then I took a deep breath and roared again. And again. It felt like the gates of hell had been opened and four years of pent-up, knotted pain, hurt and agony were finally unfurling.