That should have been Helen. That should have been Helen . . .
Later that year, taking part in another news programme, I was introduced to Pat Green – a Liverpool mum whose teenage son, Phillip, had been killed in 1991.
After filming, she sought me out. ‘There’s very little out there for parents like us,’ she said. ‘I’m setting up a group for people who have lost a child to murder or manslaughter. I’d love it if you were involved.’
But I shook my head. ‘No, I need to find Helen first,’ I said. ‘That’s all that matters. Once I’ve found her and can give her a burial, then I can start to think about myself.’
But as another twelve months passed, my thoughts changed. The searches were becoming so much harder. Landscapes had changed beyond all recognition. We were all older and less fit. And we were in a constant battle with Mother Nature, fighting her sprawling brambles and razor-sharp thickets.
Returning home wet, cold and despairing after yet another fruitless search, I rang Pat Green: ‘Let me know when your next meeting is,’ I said before adding, ‘I’m only coming the once, mind.’
Inside the community hall, the air was thick with anger, frustration and bitterness. Some people had only recently lost their children. You could see the pain etched in their faces.
It took an age for me to be able to recognise the difference between them and me. One night, it came to me. We had all suffered a terrible loss but, unlike me, they had seen the body of their loved one. They had gazed, sadly, down on them in a morgue or held them closely as they took their last breaths. They had organised a funeral, laid them to rest, scattered earth or petals onto their coffin. Now, with that ritual behind them, they were working their way through the countless stages of grief – shock, anger, guilt, blame, denial. Eventually, they would come to acceptance and learn to live again.
I would never reach that stage.
Years later, grieving mum Sheila Dolton – who had also devoted her life to searching for her missing son, Jonathan, killed by a work colleague – summed it up brilliantly. She said: ‘When you lose someone you have to fall apart to put yourself back together again, stronger and more resilient. But without a body, without a funeral, that’s impossible. We are trapped in this “constantly falling apart” stage.’
I felt like a needle on a stuck record. In my heart, it would always be 8 February 1988.
* * *
The new group, Support After Murder and Manslaughter (SAMM), wanted to do wonderful things.
‘We should help,’ I suggested to John on the way home.
He nodded.
We agreed to join as volunteers for one year. More than twenty years later, we have still never missed a group meeting. John went on to work for the charity full-time as business development manager and we’ve both chaired the group over the years.
Members were passionate about making a difference. Steering committees sprang up, official agendas were followed, grants applied for and fundraising programmes released. Within twelve months there was a helpline up and running. We all took it in turns to man the phone – day or night – and set up a round-the-clock rota for supporting families in need.
On hearing of a local homicide, we’d brace ourselves, knowing our help would be needed. The police would pass on our details with the message that, at some point, in the early hours, in their darkest need, they could pick up the phone and speak to someone who understood exactly what they were going through.
Volunteers would visit them in their homes, talk them through the judicial process, walk into court with them, accompany them to inquests, support them through appeals and parole hearings. We listened while they vented their anger, frustration and pain and then, when there were no more words, we offered our shoulders for them to cry on.
For a long time, I thought it was a one-way system. Then, out of the blue, it came to me: You idiot, I thought, incredulously. This is helping you just as much.
It was keeping my mind focused, giving me something worthwhile to do. Also, it helped me realise that something good had come out of Helen’s death. Yes, her life had been taken, but other people were being helped. That thought comforted me.
Stepping up our mission, we reached out to the CPS, probation services, the courts, the police, journalists, the Government. We gave presentations and told our stories to new recruits and trainees.
In December 1997, I joined hundreds of other families whose lives had been destroyed by murder in a rally at Trafalgar Square, organised by Mothers Against Murder and Aggression (MAMA). We marched to Downing Street to hand in a ‘life should mean life’ petition. Afterwards we lit candles and released white balloons with loved ones’ names on.
At every opportunity, I shouted about the need for legal changes in cases of missing murder victims. For these heinous crimes against both the victim and their family to be recognised. But it was like playing a game of rugby on your own. I’d clear a part of the field then make a strong pass – only to find there was no one there to catch the ball. I could only watch, dismayed, as it soared through the air, hit the ground awkwardly, then rolled pitifully out of play.
The game was over.
There was no social media in those days, no way of getting your message out to thousands of people at the click of a button. I was making myself hoarse and getting nowhere. Little did I know, with the tenth anniversary of Helen’s murder approaching, all that was about to change . . .
* Simms’ first application was turned down but his second was granted and John and I were there to see it rejected by judges.
Chapter 13
‘Tell me mum I’m here’
S
uddenly, in the blink of an eye, Helen had been gone for a decade. Ten endless, tortuous years.
The idea of holding a memorial service came to me after one of my Tuesday novenas. Simms had denied us her funeral but he couldn’t stop us celebrating her short, happy, life.
I designed Order of Service books, selected readings, asked a soprano singer to perform and arranged a buffet in the church hall for afterwards. The only thing we didn’t have was a coffin.
I was so touched when more than 400 people who had known, loved and remembered Helen came along. Schoolfriends, Girl Guides, colleagues . . . they were all there, along with the friends I’d made through my work with Support After Murder and Manslaughter Merseyside and various championing groups.
The priest gave a lovely sermon: ‘This isn’t the final chapter of Helen’s life, which is still unwritten, but the penultimate one,’ he said.
As moving renditions of ‘Pie Jesu’ and ‘Ave Maria’ floated up to the rafters, I remembered the singer who had serenaded me in Rome, more than eight years earlier. I’d been so sure we’d have found Helen by now.
Finally, it was my turn. I stood nervously, smoothed down my dress and then walked onto the altar. After taking a deep breath, I cleared my throat, then began to read. The unforgiving microphone amplified every jitter in my voice but I was determined to read this poem ‘God’s Lent Child’ without breaking down:
I’ll lend you for a little while
A child of mine, God said.
For you to love the while she lives
And mourn for when she’s dead.
It may be six or seven years
Or forty-two or three
But will you, till I call her back
Take care of her for me?
She’ll bring her charms to gladden you
And, should her stay be brief,
You’ll have her nicest memories
As solace for your grief . . .
Glancing up, I could see hundreds of eyes glistening in the gloom. Mouths were twisted and lips bitten in the effort of holding back tears.
Now will you give her all your love
Nor think the labour vain
Nor hate me when I come to take
This lent child back again?
I poured my heart and soul into the final few lines – the response f
rom the grateful parents, accepting this gift from God:
We’ll shelter her with tenderness
We’ll love her while we may
And for the happiness we’ve known
Forever grateful stay.
But should thy angels call for her
Much sooner than we planned
We’ll brave the grief that comes
And try to understand.
As the last word died away, you could have heard a pin drop. The page crinkled softly as I lifted it from the lectern. ‘God bless you, Helen,’ I whispered. Then I slowly made my way down the steps and returned to my seat. Family members reached across to pat my arm or squeeze my shoulder.
Every member of the congregation had been given a candle to hold. Now, as lit tapers were distributed, 400 wicks were brought to life. One by one, pews were lit up by rows of flickering, joyful, tiny tongues of fire.
For sixty long seconds, as the flames danced, we remembered Helen. Precious memories flashed through my mind – her first day at school, tearing up her L plates, blowing out the candles on her twenty-first, twirling around in a new work outfit . . .
Afterwards, in the church hall, I thanked everyone for coming. Family photos of Helen appeared on a screen and songs from her favourite artists from the eighties were all played. She’d loved the Human League, Blondie, Spandau Ballet and Paul Young. Sadly, she’d only ever been to one concert – to see David Bowie in Manchester.
It all went so well. I’d hoped it would close a chapter in my life, enable me to move forwards.
But who was I kidding?
That night, I lay awake. Tears soaked the pillow as I realised I could hold as many memorial services as I liked but it changed nothing. My murdered daughter was still out there, somewhere. And until I found her and brought her home, I’d never rest.
Journalists had all covered the ‘Ten Years of Pain’ story. One local freelance writer placed my story with a women’s magazine called Bella: ‘An editor will ring you for a chat,’ she said.
And so, a few evenings later, my phone rang. It was Fiona Duffy. ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ she said. ‘I’m going through your story and just need one or two more details, please?’
We chatted for three hours. Fiona remembered my story from working on the Liverpool Echo a few years earlier. During a discussion of stories at an early morning news conference when the name Marie McCourt was mentioned, a colleague had whispered, ‘Her daughter was murdered. She goes out digging to try and find the body.’
She told me, ‘I was lost for words – appalled that in this day and age, a grieving mother was being left to search for the body of her murdered daughter, alone.’
Fiona moved to London soon afterwards to get married and start a new job. Now, three years on – and by a bizarre quirk of fate – my story had landed on her desk for editing. Once again, I thanked St Martha. ‘I’ll help you,’ she said. That promise marked the start of a close friendship that is still going strong more than two decades later, resulting in the book you are reading now.
The magazine did a sterling job. A brilliant researcher called Kim Jones waded through the legal confusion around these ancient burial charges; why they were used in some cases and not others.
The CPS told her that it would ‘not be in the public interest’ to bring a prisoner serving a life sentence back to court for further charges.
‘Says who?’ I raged. ‘Who are they to decide what’s in the public interest or not? Why don’t they ask the public?’
Kim also wanted to know why serial killer Robert Black had been charged with these crimes in addition to murder and kidnap. A former deputy chief constable involved with the investigation explained that, ‘although it was easy to connect Black to where the children were taken and where their bodies lay, it wasn’t cut and dry that he’d be found guilty. Additional charges were brought so that if he had got off the murder charges on a technicality, at least we had him on the other counts’.
It was, as far as I could see, a prosecution tactic – to ensure a conviction. I have no argument with that – they should throw the book at these evil killers. But surely they should be applied in all homicide trials where the body hasn’t been found? The article in Bella triggered sympathetic letters from readers and a dramatic new development which would dominate our lives for the next thirteen years.
Rita Rogers – the favoured medium of the late Diana, Princess of Wales – had a column in Bella magazine. In 1999, a year after my story appeared, she invited me to her home – she was receiving information from a young woman that she needed to pass on.
An impressive thick cloud of raven-black hair framed her face and she gazed at me with dark, piercing eyes. She spoke for hours.
Some of the details were hard to hear. ‘He lured her to the pub,’ Rita said. ‘He hit her. He dragged her upstairs. He raped her. And he strangled her. Afterwards, he wrapped her up in a carpet and put her in the boot of his car.’
I listened avidly. She was confirming everything I’d suspected. ‘There was a grave open at the time, in a local churchyard,’ Rita continued. ‘Someone had been in the grave for a long time and another member of the family was due to be buried there two days later.
‘She’s telling me “He knew the grave was open”,’ she continued, recounting Helen’s words. ‘He knew it. He stove in the lid of the coffin and threw me in. I’m a second-hand Rose, I haven’t even got me own grave.’
Rita’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘She’s a bit of a character, your daughter, isn’t she?’
Over two separate readings, Rita described the location of this grave and even the surname and initials on the headstone. ‘She’s there, she’s there,’ she insisted.
Merseyside Police agreed to look into it. There was a local grave open at the time. It had been dug on Tuesday, 9 February 1988 – the day Helen went missing – all ready for the funeral on the Thursday.
As pub landlord, Simms would have heard all the local gossip. Did he set out to kill Helen that day, knowing he had the perfect hiding place?
Naturally, the family who owned the plot (I gave my word that I would not identify either them or the grave) were shocked and upset, but wanted to help and agreed to co-operate with investigations.
While Fiona Duffy researched the next steps we’d need to take, John insisted I needed a holiday. After years of refusing to have a day out, let alone a vacation, from 1997 we’d started spending New Year abroad in Goa. New Year’s Eve was Helen’s favourite night of the year and I always found it so hard to cope with. It became our annual sanctuary, a place of peace from the relentless stress of trying to find my daughter.
Our only other holiday had been to Tunisia with Ann and Alan West. But there was a heartbreaking reason: Ann was poorly with cancer. We went to support them on what would be her last holiday.
My overriding memory is of Ann and I sat in the back of a speedboat, legs dangling in the water as it flew across the azure sea. We were having a ball until I spotted a shoal of glittering jellyfish.
‘Lift your feet up!’ I squealed.
I can still see her now, peeling with laughter as we clung to each other, yanking our legs out of reach. The sun was shining and the wind whipped her blonde hair. It was a precious, precious moment.
Sadly, Ann died the following February, in 1999, aged just sixty-nine. She was laid to rest beside Lesley Ann in her new secret grave.
I’d seen, first-hand, the pain Ann had endured right through to her dying day – campaigning to keep her daughter’s killers, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, locked up until they died. Thankfully, she had been successful.
Now, as the Millennium approached, more than ever I wanted to shut out the world. There was so much excitement over the dawning of a new century but, for me, nothing would change. My daughter was still murdered. And still missing.
* * *
As New Year’s Eve celebrations rang out across the planet, John and I were thousands of feet in the skies, returning to Goa.
Earlier in the year, my sister Pat on her own visit there had heard about a psychic called Di who lived in the mountains. People travelled from far and wide to consult with her. She was renowned for finding long-lost items.
‘Could she locate a dead body?’ Pat asked.
A lovely woman called Fatima offered to take us to visit her. As we sat down on the stone floor of her house, I saw John’s mouth twitch and shot him a warning look: ‘Take this seriously, please, John,’ I warned. ‘No messing about.’
John was a bit of a sceptic so it was rewarding to see his eyes and mouth widen in astonishment as the reading progressed.
A translator explained my murdered daughter was still missing. Di, an elderly woman wearing traditional clothing, nodded before pacing up and down the flagged floor, barefoot. Then she started speaking.
‘The man who did this is in prison,’ said the translator.
I nodded. ‘She has mentioned a man behind a desk. A big man smoking a cigarette. He made this man do it . . . ’
John and I have mulled over this information so many times. Was someone else involved? Is this why Simms had refused to speak for all of this time?
Still, Di paced. Up and down, up and down. Her skirts swished, her feet softly scuffed the stone. Pad, pad, pad . . . She described our village with its traditional stone walls. A church at the top of the hill, a graveyard.
My breath quickened. I knew exactly where this was going. ‘There was a grave open,’ she said. She described the exact location; the row it was in, how many plots along. ‘That is where your daughter has been hidden,’ she concluded.
We left too stunned to speak.
Back at home, I returned to this particular cemetery, stowing my dowsing sticks discreetly inside my coat. Checking no one was around, I got them out and started dowsing. As soon as I approached the grave, the rods swung together dramatically as if attracted by magnets and crossed over right above the grave.
Justice for Helen Page 21
