Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  First published in the UK by John Blake Publishing

  An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  80–81 Wimpole Street, London, W1G 9RE

  Owned by Bonnier Books

  Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden

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  First published in paperback in 2021

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-78946-291-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-78946-292-0

  Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-78946-325-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design by www.envydesign.co.uk

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Text Copyright © by Marie McCourt and Fiona Duffy, 2021

  The extract from Flowers in God’s Garden by Bernard O‘Mahoney (True Crime Publishing, 2012) is reproduced by permission of the author and the publisher.

  Copyright © Bernard O'Mahoney 2012; all rights reserved.

  The right of Marie McCourt and Fiona Duffy to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright-holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

  John Blake Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

  IN MEMORY OF HELEN

  On the day you were born you were my ray of sunshine.

  Since the day you were taken from us the world has turned grey.

  No more laughter, no more smiles but you have left so many lovely memories.

  MUM

  My big sister and best friend. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss you.

  In my heart forever – love you Sis.

  MICHAEL

  LOVED EVERY MINUTE – MISSED EVERY DAY

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1. A twinkle in my eye

  Chapter 2. A dream daughter

  Chapter 3. Where is she?

  Chapter 4. Please come home, Helen

  Chapter 5. Never coming home

  Chapter 6. The ‘no’ year

  Chapter 7. The trial

  Chapter 8. The verdict

  Chapter 9. Bring her home

  Chapter 10. Learning to live without her

  Chapter 11. The victims’ champion

  Chapter 12. Twisting the knife

  Chapter 13. ‘Tell me mum I’m here’

  Chapter 14. My faith is sorely tested

  Chapter 15. The fight begins

  Chapter 16. To Downing Street and Parliament

  Chapter 17. Stalemate

  Chapter 18. Elation . . . followed by ‘the unthinkable’

  Chapter 19. A race against time

  Chapter 20. To the High Court

  And now . . .

  Acknowledgements

  Contact Marie McCourt

  Support and useful organisations

  Novena to St Martha

  Introduction

  B

  ack in February 1988, I was your average, hard-working, devoted, mum. My dilemmas revolved around having pork or lamp chops for tea and whether I should risk those grey clouds by pegging the washing out. I watched the news. I read the papers. My heart went out to those who suffered tragedy, loss and heartache. But, for me, life was good. Money was always tight, but I had two wonderful, almost grown-up children, who were finding their way in the world. A daughter and a son, a pigeon pair. Faded family photos show us smiling. Laughing. Hugging. The sun was always shining back then.

  As they left school and made their way in the world, I looked forward to engagements, weddings and the arrival of grandchildren.

  Then the storm struck. Literally.

  One wild, windswept night, in February 1988, my beautiful twenty-two-year-old daughter, Helen McCourt, left work, as usual, but never arrived home.

  She came within a few hundred yards of the family home before disappearing.

  The search for Helen became one of the biggest missing person’s inquiries the country had ever seen. Overnight, I became that woman in the newspapers and on the news bulletins, wringing my hands and begging for help.

  I’ve been that woman ever since.

  Overwhelming, and groundbreaking, evidence – which has only ever been strengthened over time – proved beyond doubt that she had been murdered by the local pub landlord. The trial made legal history.

  Had I been able to lay my daughter to rest, I daresay my life would be very different. I’d have grieved and learned, over time, to live with my loss. But despite the heroic efforts of so many people Helen has never been found.

  This story tells of my quest to bring Helen home.

  And to secure justice for her . . . and for all missing murder victims.

  Chapter 1

  A twinkle in my eye

  L

  ooking back, it’s a miracle I made it onto this earth at all – let alone brought new life into it. Before I was even a twinkle in my mother’s eye, she came within a whisker of death during the Christmas Blitz of 1940.

  Liverpool, my home town, was badly bombed during the Second World War as the Germans tried to wipe out its precious docks. As the air-raid sirens wailed through the ink-black, frosty night on 21 December, my mum Sarah Gallagher, twenty, had quickly pulled on her winter coat, tied her headscarf under her chin, and – along with hundreds of other local residents – scurried through the gloom to the nearest underground shelter in Blackstock Gardens, Vauxhall, Liverpool.

  Fastening the buttons on her coat would have been a struggle. She was heavily pregnant with her first child – my older sister, Margaret. Like most women, she was coping alone. She’d married my dad, Michael, soon after war broke out; he was now serving overseas in the Navy. Heaven knew when she’d see him next.

  That night, the shelter was bursting at the seams; two trams had made an emergency stop nearby so that passengers could disembark and seek safety underground. But even amid such chaos there was a sense of etiquette. The raids had been going on for months now; locals had their own regular seats, with visitors squeezing in as best they could.

  Mum had settled down for the night in her usual spot when she heard her name being called excitedly. Her best friend, Mary, was down the other end of the shelter – along with her new baby! I like to imagine Mum craning her neck to spot her through the crowds. She and Mary had been thrilled to learn they were both in the family way.

  Now Mary had given birth, Mum had to see her – and find out what it was like. She turned to a lady trying to get comfortable on the hard floor. ‘Would you like my seat till I get back?’ she said kindly. ‘I’m just nipping down to see my friend – she’s just had a baby!’

  With a protective arm held across her swollen tummy, she’d carefully stepped her way through the sitting, sleeping, huddled crowds. She never got there. Seconds later, the shelter took a direct hit.

  Because of wartime news blackouts, we’ll never know the exact death toll from that night; estimates range from 74 to 200. But the end where Mum usually sat was decimated. No one in that section, including the poor, grateful, woman who took Mum’s seat, survived. Entire families were wiped out in an instant.
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  I dread to think of the pandemonium that must have followed – the wailing, the crying, the suffering. Mum’s family were out of their minds with worry, frantically visiting every hospital in the city to find her. It was hours before my grandad Paddy (her father-in-law) found her in Sheil Road Hospital, where she’d been stretchered, unconscious. She was covered in so much dust and cuts that he only recognised her coat. I don’t even know the colour, but I imagine it to be distinctive. Bright red or crimson; a rare flash of hope in dark times.

  The hospital itself was under attack that night. As my grandad arrived, staff were moving patients down to the safety of the basement. ‘Come on, girl,’ said Paddy, helping Mum to her feet, ‘let’s get you out of here.’

  I never tired of hearing that story over the years. The enormity of realising that I owe my life, and my children’s and grand-children’s lives, to a newborn baby, has never faded.

  As a result of the bombing, Mum suffered flare-ups of Trigeminal Neuralgia (we called it German neuralgia!) – known as the most extreme pain a person can suffer. She used to cry with agony and said it was like someone pushing red hot needles into her face. She was also terrified of the dark and even when the war was long over, would sleep with the bedroom light on if Dad worked nightshifts.

  After that near-escape, Mum’s family insisted Liverpool city centre was too risky for a woman in her condition. She went to stay with her sister, Mary Brown, who lived in the outlying countryside. Margaret was born less than a month later, on 23 January 1941, at Whiston Hospital, Merseyside.

  Dad came home to visit every two years. We joke now that every time his ship pulled out of Liverpool, Mum was expecting.

  As bombing intensified, Mum – who was now pregnant with me – and baby Margaret were evacuated to a small village on Anglesey. I was born on 9 July 1943 in Bangor Hospital. Although I was christened Mary, I’ve only ever been called Marie – pronounced Marry. My younger sister, Pat, followed on 17 May 1945.

  When Dad finally came home for good, he got a job as a printer’s assistant at the printers JC Moores (John and Cecil), who ran the Littlewoods Pools. The family continued to grow, with a run of boys arriving thick and fast.

  Michael came first – followed by Tez, Peter, David and then Gerard – arriving at just seven months. I can remember the midwife coming to our house and wrapping him in newspaper to keep him warm. Sadly, as well as being very premature, I suspect there were underlying complications. He only lived for eight hours.

  My brothers were all born at home, during the night, and I don’t recall ever hearing a sound.

  Aunty Mary would wake us up the following morning and whisper: ‘Now, come on in, girls, and have a look at your new baby brother.’

  We’d stumble in, wide-eyed and messy-haired, and there would be Mum sat up in bed, cuddling the new arrival. I must have been about fifteen before I learned that, to have a baby, you didn’t just go to sleep and wake up with one in your arms.

  One cot did us all – although if a toddler was still using it (there was always one in the oven and one in the pram), the new baby would go in a cupboard drawer lined with a blanket.

  We lived in a small terraced house in Huyton – the girls in one bedroom, the boys in another. Downstairs consisted of a living room, a tiny kitchen and an outside toilet in what we called ‘the entry’ – or yard – just outside the back door. Bathrooms and indoor loos were a luxury few had.

  My own near-brush with death came when I was four. But, in those days, there was no such thing as counselling or speaking openly about fears and worries. You coped by pretending nothing had happened.

  Years later, a few days before my twenty-first birthday, Mum asked me to come into Liverpool for a meeting with her solicitor. Sitting side by side, on the bus, she said: ‘Now, you won’t remember this, but when you were four you were run over by a motorbike . . . ’

  Interrupting her, I said: ‘I remember that! They didn’t stop, did they? I can remember being dragged along, then the sound of the motorbike revving off into the distance – and you crying. I was in someone’s house and I could hear voices and you were saying, “She’s dying, she’s dying.” I was put in the back of an ambulance and it was all dark when they shut the door. And I remember thinking, “Oh, I must have died.”

  ‘Then, we were at hospital and I was being wheeled into one of those old-fashioned lifts. I can remember the metal criss-cross gates clanging shut behind me, and sensed we were going up, and I remember thinking, “Oh, I must be going to heaven now.” Then I can’t remember anything after that . . . ’

  As my voice trailed off, I realised Mum was looking at me, open-mouthed. ‘You remember all of that?’ she asked, clearly shocked.

  I nodded. ‘As if it happened yesterday.’

  Mum had been taking the three youngest for a walk to my Aunty Mary’s, three miles away. Michael was in the pram, with Pat – who was a toddler – while I walked alongside, one hand obediently holding onto the frame.

  In Stockbridge Lane, in Knowsley, we needed to cross over. For some reason which I never understood – perhaps she was sorting out a grizzling baby or naughty toddler – Mum said to me: ‘Marie, you run across and wait for me on the other side. I’ll follow you over.’

  But I never reached the other side. The motorbike came from nowhere, apparently. I was caught by its back wheel and dragged along the road for a few yards before it broke free and sped off with an ear-splitting roar.

  I still have the scar on my right temple from the impact of banging my head on the road. I’ve no idea what happened after I was taken into hospital – whether I underwent surgery or had stitches, or how long I was kept in for. All I do know is that, after arriving home, no one ever talked about it. But I was obviously traumatised because, for the next eight years, I suffered horrendous night terrors. I’d be engulfed by the most bizarre, terrifying dreams, of hands trying to catch my feet so they could pull me down into hell. I’d wake up kicking and screaming hysterically.

  Our GP prescribed a type of sedative, called phenobarbitone, to help me sleep. Although it kept the terrors at bay, it also affected my memory and concentration. Most of my childhood memories are, at best, patchy, and at worst, non-existent.

  At the age of twelve, I can remember the doctor saying: ‘We’re going to have to wean Marie off these tablets, Mrs Gallagher. If she doesn’t come off them soon, she’ll be on them for life.’

  That afternoon, on the bus going into town, Mum explained that the young motorcyclist had realised I was badly injured, sped straight to the police station to summon an ambulance and returned, with officers, in a terrible state.

  ‘He thought he’d killed you,’ she said. ‘He always wrote and enquired how you were.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘He went to court and had to pay £400 for you to receive when you were twenty-one. That’s why we’re going to the solicitor today – for you to receive it.’

  I looked at her, astonished. ‘Four hundred pounds?’ I whispered. That was a huge amount of money back then. ‘Why didn’t you use that money, Mum? You needed that.’

  She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t my money, Marie. It was yours. No one knows about it, only your dad and I.’

  By then, I was engaged. Three months later, that money paid for our wedding and a week’s honeymoon in Jersey.

  But back to my childhood. Along with suffering from night terrors I was painfully shy and what you’d call a sickly child. If any lurgy was doing the rounds, I was guaranteed to pick it up. When I was eight years old, I was rushed to hospital in an ambulance with either scarlet fever or pneumonia. After recovering, I was sent to a convalescence home to build up my strength.

  I have a distinct memory of getting off the bus in Huyton with Mum and gazing around in wonder at how different everything looked. Flowers and trees must have been bursting into bloom while I was in hospital. It’s a memory that’s stayed with me, as clear as some of the memories I have of Helen . . . Pin-sharp and vivid.

  Our
primary school, St Columbus, was just across the road from where we lived in Bruton Road. There was a real community spirit – we’re still in touch with old neighbours now, a lifetime on.

  Once, when I was off school with yet another ailment, the teacher sent my two best friends, Kathleen and Elizabeth (who we all called Betty), to find out why. On my return, I was asked to stand at the front of the class and tell everyone why I’d been absent.

  Mortified, I made my way to the front of the desks, turned to a sea of expectant faces and, blushing furiously, mumbled, ‘Shingles.’

  Suddenly, the entire class erupted into raucous laughter while I stood there, bewildered. Even the teacher’s face crinkled as he urged everyone to calm down. It turns out that, after their visit to my house, Kathleen and Betty had returned and announced solemnly to the class that I’d had either jingles or dingles. They couldn’t remember which one. No wonder there were peals of laughter – but I was still curling up with embarrassment.

  Because of frequent illness and poor sleep, I missed a lot of schooling and ended up leaving at fifteen to work in the local biscuit factory. I’m the first to admit I’m a bit thick – especially compared to my brothers who were blessed with brilliant, analytical, minds and went on to have successful careers. However, I do know right from wrong and over the years, I’ve taken on, and stood my ground against, the most educated, intellectual, authoritative figures in my fight for justice.

  Mum had worked part-time at the same Huntley & Palmers biscuit factory and wasn’t impressed when I announced I’d got a position there. Without her knowledge, we’d been taken on a school trip there and invited to apply for work if we were interested. By the time she was shouting ‘You’re not working there!’ it was too late: I was starting the following Monday.

  Mum had her reasons. She knew it was hard, physical work and worried it would be too much for me. Initially, it was great. We were really looked after with a free bus there and back, a hot lunch in the canteen for 4p (with a pudding costing an extra tuppence) and I took home three pounds and ten shillings a week (£3.50 in today’s money) which was great money. Sadly, there were no cheap biscuits (or ‘brokies’ as they were called then) but I was more than content with my lot.