Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  Another medium from the Isle of Man also brought us to this grave. And shortly afterwards, a young man in his twenties also travelled for miles to tell me about a recurring dream: ‘It’s a really windy night and I’m walking along with my head down. Suddenly, I can hear a girl’s voice calling, “I’m here, I’m here.” Right at that moment, the pavement under my feet cracks open and a chasm appears.

  ‘As I look down, there’s a young woman deep down in this hole looking up at me.’ Then he turned to meet my gaze. ‘It’s your daughter. I’ve seen the photos and it’s your daughter,’ he said. ‘She’s sitting up and wearing a long black skirt.’

  I was baffled . . . until I remembered the bin bags that had gone missing from the pub. Had he wrapped her in them? Did they resemble a skirt?

  ‘She’s saying to me over and over, “I’m here”,’ he continued. ‘“Tell me mum I’m here.”

  ‘I think it’s a family grave,’ he continued, as the blood in my veins turned to ice. He offered to show me. I found myself looking down at the exact same grave the three other mediums had led me to.

  By now, my hopes were soaring. These were all signs. My daughter was there, she had to be. All we had to do now was get permission to look inside the grave.

  * * *

  While Fiona Duffy continued to consult experts in geophysics and ecclesiastical law, there was a separate issue I needed to raise with Jack Straw, Home Secretary.

  The Human Rights Act, incorporating the European Convention on Human Rights into UK law, had gone onto the statute book in November 1998 and was due to come into force in October 2000.

  Ever since Simms had been convicted, I’d written to the Home Office. I’d begged them to charge Simms with these other criminal offences, urged them to intervene, to change the law.

  If you remember, the previous Home Secretary Michael Howard had assured my MP, John Evans, that Simms would never be released without showing remorse and revealing where Helen was. But, in the light of these new laws, how watertight was this promise? At some point, parole judges would start to look at his case in readiness for his eligibility for parole in 2004.

  John and I had pored over the Home Office website regarding the release of lifers, searching for the word ‘remorse’. It wasn’t there. Anxiously, I’d fired off a letter to Jack Straw, asking for an urgent meeting. He responded, inviting me to a meeting in August 1999.

  He listened to my plight and extended his sympathy. I also handed over a video recording of a BBC2 documentary on bereavement called The Long Goodbye that Michael and I had just taken part in; he promised to watch it.

  ‘Simms won’t be released until he shows remorse and says where your daughter is,’ he said confidently.

  I sat forward in my chair. ‘But where does it say this in the law?’ I asked. ‘Please show me.’

  He repeated his assurances.

  Eventually, he stood up and edged his way towards the door. The meeting was clearly over. Defiantly, I remained seated.

  ‘Mr Straw,’ I repeated. ‘Please show me where I can find the word “remorse” – or a word like it.’

  ‘Mrs McCourt,’ he said, slowly and determinedly. ‘Simms will not be released until he shows remorse. And showing remorse means saying where your daughter’s remains can be found.’

  At this point, he opened the door. I gathered my handbag and walked towards him, determined to have one last try.

  ‘Mr Straw,’ I attempted again. ‘You keep using this word “remorse”. But where will I find it?’

  He tried to hide his exasperation. ‘Mrs McCourt, I have told you. Unless he shows remorse and tells us where your daughter’s remains are, he will not be released.’

  Then, for good measure, he added: ‘He will die in prison.’

  Reeling at the bluntness of his answer, I stared at him for a few moments, then nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Straw,’ I said, satisfied. ‘That’s all I needed to know.’

  I travelled back to Billinge cloaked in reassurance: until he did the decent thing, Simms was going nowhere.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, a letter arrived from Jack Straw’s office thanking me for my visit. However, there was no mention of the topic we’d discussed or that vital word ‘remorse’. Alarm bells started to ring.

  I don’t blame Jack Straw, I think, at the time of our meeting, he genuinely believed that the Home Office still had these powers to grant or refuse release. But the Human Rights Act was having huge implications on our laws. In just three years’ time, in 2002, following a ruling by the European Court of Human Rights, the High Court would strip the Home Secretary of two powers: to set minimum terms and to overrule a recommendation by the Parole Board to release a lifer.

  It would mean the unthinkable was about to happen: Simms would be eligible for parole. And it was only a matter of time before he got it.

  Meanwhile, the grave highlighted by the mediums was taking up all our attention. Witness statements placed Simms close to the graveyard. There were no other graves open at the time. The gates had been open, allowing access for a car. Simms’ clothes and car had been muddied. And a spade from the pub had been dumped.

  By poring through research, we came across a case that heartened us in our bid to seek permission to investigate. In 1997, members of an indigenous tribe in Australia had arrived in Liverpool, demanding the return of a 150-year-old skull belonging to their ancestral leader.

  Almost two centuries earlier, Yagar had been murdered by an Englishman and his head taken. After years of searching, it had been traced to a grave in Everton.

  Astonishingly, by using sophisticated Ground Probe Radar (GPR) equipment, experts managed to locate the head, remove it without disturbing any other bodies in the grave and return it to the rightful owners.

  Through speaking with experts and professors involved with the case we found a sympathetic specialist willing to help.

  Peter Simkins, of Oceanfix International in Aberdeen, agreed to travel down with his GPR equipment and ‘scan’ the grave for signs of an extra body. The device would travel across the grave and give readings directly to a laptop.

  ‘We should know there and then,’ he said.

  Getting all the necessary legal agreements, permission from the family and supervision arrangements with the police took an age, but eventually, we were good to go. And then disaster struck.

  On studying photos of the grave, Peter realised there was a raised border which would limit how far the machine could ‘travel’ to give an accurate reading. The chances of success had plummeted. At the crack of dawn, one morning, before anyone was awake the operation still went ahead but, as predicted, Mr Simkins couldn’t ‘see’ inside as he’d hoped. However, conditions were ideal for an endoscopic camera to be inserted via a small borehole, he said. This would give us a definite answer either way, but as it involved penetrating a grave – even in a very small way – it was far more complicated. We needed the approval of the Church of England.

  It took the best part of a year just to gather the information and evidence needed to apply to the Consistory Court of the Archdiocese of Liverpool, an ecclesiastical court. I was told the chancellor – a retired judge – would consider my application and make a decision.

  Everyone we had to approach was in favour. The Home Office granted an exhumation order in June 2001.

  The coroner gave written permission. The family, once again, gave written permission and the police were happy to oversee the project.

  I’d been dreading the display, for a whole month, of a public notice at the back of the church with full details of our application, including my name. The court insisted this had to be done to rule out any possible objection. Surely, someone would read this and put two and two together? But no one noticed, objected or alerted journalists.

  The court also suggested I have legal representation. Bella magazine paid for a consultation with a specialist barrister, who was happy to represent me. ‘There has to be a good and proper reason acce
ptable to right thinking members of the public for an investigation or exhumation,’ he said. ‘Focus on factual evidence rather than the mediums,’ he advised.

  I had to provide a whole bundle of information from over the years: Simms’ various appeals and his current application to the CCRC, my letter to him and his appalling reply, maps, details about the grave itself, permission from all parties, articles demonstrating my anguish. Finally, the date came through: 18 December 2001 – a week before Christmas. At the eleventh hour, we learned the cost of legal representation was far higher than we’d anticipated.

  I had to either pull out or go ahead, representing myself. It was a terrifying prospect, but the court office assured me it would be informal. And I had my team behind me.

  Come on, Marie, girl, I told myself, you can do this.

  * * *

  The hearing was held in the church itself, with tables and chairs set up just in front of the altar. The church was freezing – we all kept our coats on.

  The Chancellor introduced himself as Judge Richard Hamilton. ‘You can address me as “sir”,’ he said.

  So much for informal.

  Then he invited me to introduce my case. I’d had it all prepared but as soon as I mentioned Helen’s name, I started to cry. ‘It’s the need to give her a burial and have a headstone to say who she was, that she lived and that she died,’ I said tearfully, fumbling for a tissue. ‘I need to find Helen’s body or her remains . . . That’s all they would be now,’ I added sadly. ‘And give her this last, final human dignity. It’s the only thing, as a mother, I can do for her now.’

  I explained there were rumours that Simms had placed my daughter in an open grave and how he’d boasted of hiding a body so well it would never be found.

  Then the questions came. I answered them as best I could, but I’d never needed a barrister more. For a while, I sensed the Chancellor skirting around the issue. And then we came to it.

  ‘How many mediums have you consulted with, Mrs McCourt?’ he asked.

  My heart sank. I’d wanted to concentrate on the actual evidence behind our application, but I had to answer honestly.

  I hesitated. Did he mean those who’d had dreams? Those who called themselves healers? Clairvoyants, psychics? Did he mean in person, over the phone or by letter?

  He was waiting for an answer. I honestly didn’t know. There had been countless approaches over the years and I didn’t want to underestimate.

  ‘Erm,’ I stammered. ‘Thirty to fifty?’

  I tried to read the expression that flashed across his face. Surprise? Disbelief? Disappointment? All I knew was that we were off to a bad start. And things were about to get a whole lot worse.

  Judge Hamilton then suggested I call my first witness. This was ridiculous. We were in a chilly village church, not the Old Bailey.

  I listened hopefully as Peter Simkins, then Detective Super-intendent Nick Housley, who was now involved with the case, stepped forward. They were brilliant, offering information and answering questions in detail.

  Yes, the camera would give an accurate answer. Yes, the family who owned the grave were in favour. And, yes, the only way of knowing once and for all if Helen was there was for Simms to confess or the grave to be looked into.

  We were all shivering so much that the Chancellor suggested moving to the back of the church, where it was warmer. But no sooner had we started up again than another interruption came: the choir needed to practise their carol singing.

  In the church.

  After some discussion, it was announced that, after lunch, the hearing would reconvene – in a local pub.

  I stared in disbelief. Was this a joke? Did he realise my daughter had been murdered in a public house just a few hundred yards away? Before I could object, a barrister for the church then stood up. ‘What is the likelihood of Helen being buried in the grave?’ she began. ‘Mrs McCourt would say several reasons . . . ’

  I looked around incredulously. It was like a barrister addressing a jury in a trial. And the person in the dock was me!

  ‘We do know Helen’s blood was in the car. Why would it be there unless she was moved after her death?’ I turned to look at DS Housley in despair.

  Why was she going over all this old evidence?

  Judge Hamilton then read out a statement from a cemetery expert, who we had been led to believe would be present.

  ‘Physical evidence militates against the body being there,’ the Chancellor concluded.

  I spent the lunchtime adjournment consulting frantically with my team: ‘Where can I get a copy of that statement? Have I missed anything out? What do I need to add?’ I asked. I also questioned the suitability of the hearing resuming in a pub, but was assured it was a private room and quite suitable.

  It wasn’t. The entire floor of the pub was open-plan. In the next bar, the clear clunk of pool balls on baize indicated a game was under way. Pints were pulled, jokes made.

  There were also times when complete silence fell. When every word being uttered in this supposedly confidential court was crystal clear. I shifted anxiously. This was sensitive information involving a convicted murderer. Names were being freely mentioned. What if anyone overheard? What if word got back to any of Simms’ cronies?

  After a lengthy analysis of soil from the judge, I was invited to give my closing statement. By this time, I was a nervous wreck – I just wanted this to be over.

  ‘I do believe that the circumstantial evidence warrants this action, not just for my sake but for the family the grave belongs to. This needs to be looked into so that once and for all, our minds can be put at rest. Thank you.’

  I sighed with relief: we’d done it. I waited for him to tell us that he was now adjourning and would come back in time with a judgment.

  To my surprise, he opened up a laptop and fiddled with an old-fashioned tape recorder. A copy of the Big Issue appeared on his desk.

  ‘I am now going to deliver my judgment,’ he declared.

  What?

  He then proceeded to read out a lengthy statement. (I was sent a copy afterwards. It was three pages long.) He couldn’t possibly have written this during the adjournment. It meant that he had arrived at this court with his mind made up and simply added a line or two over his lunch.

  ‘If I were to say this was one of the most remarkable cases ever to come before a consistory court no one would accuse me of exaggerating,’ he pontificated. ‘It arises out of a murder case which was in itself remarkable, in that the defendant Ian Simms was convicted of murder upon circumstantial evidence because the body was not found.’

  I reeled as if I’d been slapped.

  Remarkable? Try ‘horrific’, ‘awful’, ‘tortuous’.

  I imagined him holding court at his next dinner party: ‘Do you know I presided over the most remarkable case recently . . . ’

  And ‘the body’?

  ‘That’s my daughter,’ I wanted to scream. ‘Her name is Helen McCourt. And her murder has destroyed me.’

  On he continued, going to extra lengths to cast doubt on Simms’ conviction: ‘If Ian Simms was not guilty of the murder, there is no telling where the body of Helen McCourt is.’

  What did he mean, ‘if he’s not guilty’? I’m not here to question how safe the conviction is, I’m here to find my daughter’s body.

  From then on, he referred to Simms as Mr Simms. Since being convicted, my daughter’s killer had only ever been referred to by his surname. It’s well known that convicted criminals lose their title so I objected to hearing him called ‘Mr’.

  At one point, he broke off to fiddle with his tape recorder before continuing.

  It was clear that he was unhappy that we’d already carried out a GPR investigation on the grave, even though we’d been granted full permission from everyone concerned.

  ‘For the benefit of future cases,’ he said. ‘I am going to suggest that any investigation of graves on consecrated land should take place through a specific field of the consistory c
ourt.’

  That’s us told.

  Finally, with relish, he came onto mediums.

  ‘This is a case which comes linked with the evidence of a medium. And that’s a very important matter for a court such as this to consider.

  ‘I was surprised to learn from Mrs McCourt that she has consulted no less than fifty mediums in the past apart from Mrs Rogers.’

  My blood pressure rose.

  I said thirty to fifty – and only because you pushed and pushed for a figure.

  ‘I am not going to set out any diatribe against mediums,’ he said, but then proceeded to do exactly that, referencing the Fraudulent Mediums Act 1951.

  ‘I have found no case which suggests that the evidence of a medium is properly to be received by an ordinary court of law, and the very fact of that criminal act, still on the statute book, suggests that I should not do it.’

  On and on he went. ‘I was interested to read this month in the Big Issue a review of Rita Rogers’ latest book, Mysteries.’

  I was so distressed at this point that I can’t remember if he actually opened the magazine or continued to read from his screen.

  ‘The reviewer says,’ he quoted, ‘“either she is a charlatan or mentally deluded in some way or – here’s the biggie – it’s true. Hmmmm.”’ Then he gave a theatrical pause. ‘I think that puts it very well,’ he added.

  I looked around, bewildered.

  Puts what very well?

  Misery welled up inside me. I couldn’t hold it back any longer, I started to cry. Behind me, someone placed a hand comfortingly on my shoulder. Now the tears had started, I couldn’t stop them. As I breathed in, I gave a loud involuntary sob – my heart felt like it was breaking.

  In his opinion, the judge concluded, there was a 99 per cent chance or probability that Helen’s body was not buried in Billinge and suggested that allowing my application would ‘open the floodgates’ for others who might want to look inside a grave or a coffin.

  I slumped forward in the chair, my head hanging despondently.

  Please – make it stop.

  ‘Except for the very strongest reasons and very solid prospects of success, such applications cannot be granted. It is with great regret for Mrs McCourt’s situation that I [ . . . ] cannot allow her petition here, which is dismissed.’