Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  I beseech thee to have pity on me with regards to the favour I ask of thee ...’ I took a deep breath and closed my eyes tightly. ‘...To please, please bring Helen home safely.’

  I finished with one Our Father and three Hail Marys.

  Back at home, I lit another candle, placed it in front of Helen’s framed portrait and repeated the prayer. My faith, as always, comforted me.

  ‘Helen will be found before the ninth Tuesday,’ I told Paul Acres confidently. ‘My prayer will be answered. You’ll find her, you’ll see.’ He never said a word. Just looked at me sadly. Later, intrigued, he would gently ask me about my faith in novenas. I never tired of explaining.

  It was years before I learned that prayers, no matter how fervently they are said, aren’t always granted in the way you want them to be. But, my God, St Martha has come through for me so many times in other ways. Every Tuesday, coming home from that mass, I’d have a tiny bit of good news or something essential would pop into my head: an answer to a question from the police or the location of a crucial piece of paperwork needed for their investigation.

  On that first Tuesday night, I learned that the reconstruction had led to more bus passengers coming forward, including the man who had sat next to her. The police had also been desperate to establish exactly what Helen had been wearing when she disappeared – down to the last tiny detail. I’d been really struggling to pinpoint the colour of her coat. It wasn’t brown, or beige or fawn, all colours suggested to me.

  The second week, driving home from my church novena, I suddenly said to John: ‘When we’re home will you have a look in Helen’s desk and see if you can find any receipts?’

  Later, he appeared with a file. ‘Here they are,’ he said, astounded. ‘All carefully filed in date order.’

  There was a receipt for her coat from Etam. I’d been with her when she’d bought it in Manchester, eighteen months earlier. ‘Taupe!’ I cried, reading the receipt. ‘That was the colour.’ There were also receipts from 8 February for her new blouse and trousers – all clothes she’d been wearing when she went missing.

  Another Tuesday, I remembered how Helen had been so upset when she lost one of her opal and sapphire earrings at a New Year’s Eve family party. ‘Get yourself another pair and that way, you’ll always have one spare,’ I advised. Lo and behold, in another file we found receipts for both pairs of earrings from the same jeweller – essential evidence when it came to Simms’ trial.

  Helen might have been messy when it came to her bedroom and tidying up after cooking, but when it came to paperwork and filing, she was meticulous: her desk was pristine.

  * * *

  By now, police and frogmen were searching the warren of old mineshafts – some flooded – that snaked around the area. The Coal Board provided intricate maps of known pits but some shafts were so old, they weren’t even marked.

  The headline on one story – ‘Needle in a Haystack’ – chilled the blood in my veins. Journalists used words like ‘daunting task’ and ‘vast area’ in their coverage. I swung constantly between hope and despair.

  With every day that passed, you could sense the growing frustration among the police too. ‘It’s disturbing, from the point of view of the family that we have not yet found the body,’ DS Davies said in one newspaper interview. ‘We still have high hopes of finding her . . . We would like to hear from anyone who has any idea of likely places where she could be located. Someone might have a brainwave. If so, please let us know.’

  The thought of coping with this for weeks, let alone months, years or decades, was impossible to imagine.

  ‘Why don’t you have a lie-down?’ my family liaison officer would ask. I’d shake my head, blankly. How could I sleep when my daughter was missing? I’d sit up at night, watching the window, willing her to return. In the mornings, I’d imagine I heard her pitter-pattering to the bathroom. At 5.50pm, her usual time for arriving home from work, I’d strain to hear Helen’s footsteps approaching the house, her key turning in the lock, her cheery call of: ‘Hiya Mum, it’s me.’

  Closing my eyes, I could almost see her kicking off her boots and dumping her bag in the hallway before draping her coat across the back of the settee (I’d wince, remembering the times I’d told her off for not using the cloakroom). Then she’d stretch out on her stomach across the oriental rug I’d won at a local auction house. Helen had been so delighted when it was delivered and dramatically unfurled. ‘It’s huge!’ she’d exclaimed as it filled the entire length of our living room. ‘Oh Mum, it’s lovely.’ She would ignore the armchairs and settle down on the rug to watch the news or flick through the local paper that she’d picked up on the way home, humming to herself.

  ‘I love this rug, and I love this house,’ she’d sigh dramatically, glad to be home. I’d relish the image and smile, but now I dreaded opening my eyes to find the rug, empty.

  Doctors prescribed sleeping pills and tranquillisers in the hope of getting me to rest but I couldn’t even swallow water, let alone tablets. Someone suggested strawberry jam as it’s more slippery that way. With a conscious effort, grimacing and holding my eyes tightly shut, I’d drag my top lip over the spoon and the tablet would finally be forced down.

  But it didn’t work. Nothing did. How could I sleep while my daughter was out there, lost and alone? I’d lie there, limbs twitching, brain whirling, until I thought I’d go stark raving mad if I stayed there. A fog of exhaustion, of weariness, of misery, settled around me like a cloak. My bones felt as heavy as lead as I walked downstairs slowly. It was like wading through thick treacle.

  Looking back on those awful days, my heart goes out to Michael. At the age of nineteen, he’d lost his best friend, the sister he adored and his mum had become a zombie, a husk of her former self. I refused to cry in front of him – I didn’t want him to see me upset. Years later, he confessed that he’d adopted the same coping mentality. He’d spend hour after hour in his room, playing music – he’d turn it up so no one could hear him cry.

  Years later, his Victim Impact Statement revealed how much he’d been hurting:

  Helen was everything to me. We were extremely close and did everything together. She was the perfect big sister, always there . . . an integral part of my life . . . often waking me up so that she could sit on my bed and tell me everything she had done that day. We were both starting out in life, and I thought she would be there forever.

  In the weeks and months following her death I closed myself off from everyone – spending most of my time alone and not wanting any other company. I could not share my pain or grief with anyone as the only person I could open up to was Helen and she was no longer there.

  But for him the hardest moments came years later, on his wedding day, and, later still, when he became the proud dad to two beautiful children. Gazing down at his daughter, and the son who followed two years later, he’d wept for the loving, proud, funny aunt they would never know and for the nieces and nephews he should have had. He envied his wife’s close relationship with her sisters and the close, tight network of cousins at family gatherings. All of this had been snatched from him on that wild, wind-lashed night.

  At times, my family liaison officer would urge me to let go of all that pent-up pain, to shed a cathartic tear: ‘Why won’t you have a good cry, Marie?’ she’d ask. ‘You’ll feel better.’

  But I shook my head. If I cried, I’d weaken. I needed to stay strong and alert – Helen needed me. ‘I’ll cry when Helen is found,’ I said blankly. If I started crying, I was terrified I’d never stop. The questions were coming thick and fast and I needed to be able to answer them.

  What shampoo did Helen use? How long were her fingernails?

  The days and nights blurred into one. On Friday, 26 February, two and a half weeks after Helen had gone missing, I asked Father Ashton to say a mass in the house. ‘I’d like all of Helen’s friends and colleagues to come,’ I decided.

  Thankfully, we’d moved all the furniture from the living room into the
garage. As word spread, the house was bursting at the seams. Throngs of vibrant young people who had all loved Helen spilled out onto the hallway and stairs.

  Eyes would have been wiped as Father Ashton dedicated the mass to my daughter: ‘We are gathered here together to pray for the safe return of Helen McCourt.’ We were all united in prayer. I imagined hundreds of prayers floating up to heaven.

  God would listen, wouldn’t he?

  Afterwards, I helped Father Ashton pack away his chalice and Holy Communion plate carefully, then walked with him to the front door. He gently reassured me that God was listening. That I should keep praying. As I waved him off, Paul Acres arrived, with another officer. ‘Mrs McCourt,’ he began. ‘Is it possible for me to have a word with you . . . ?’ Then his eyes took in the crowded house, the sea of young people sitting on every step of the stairs, chatting and sipping tea: ‘. . . in private.’ The living room and dining room was busy, too.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ I said, weaving my way through knees and feet. Passing a queue of people for the bathroom, I opened the door to my bedroom and gestured inside to where a mountain of coats was piled on the bed. Then, taking leave of my senses, I uttered a line that mortifies me to this day: ‘There aren’t many men who get an invite into my bedroom, Paul.’

  Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I wanted to curl up with embarrassment. I suppose it’s an example of the impact trauma and shock can have, making you say things you’d never ever say in normal circumstances. A therapist would no doubt say I was trying to lighten the mood in a desperate attempt to shield myself from what I knew was coming. To his credit, Paul allowed a tiny smile before speaking.

  ‘Mrs McCourt, Manchester Police have found a handbag and some items.’ He paused, then said: ‘We believe them to be Helen’s.’

  The words swirled in the air, then floated away. ‘We have officers guarding the site and will be embarking on a thorough search of the area tomorrow with police divers,’ he continued. ‘At some point, we would like you to identify whether they are your daughter’s or not. Until that point, we would ask you not to share this information with anyone.’

  Breathing shakily, I lowered myself onto the coat-covered bed. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Finally, I nodded to show I’d understood.

  ‘We’ll be in touch tomorrow about you identifying the items,’ he said gently.

  I nodded again.

  They slipped away as quietly as they had arrived. John and Michael didn’t even know they’d been. Having given Paul my word, I told no one. Taking a deep breath, I went back downstairs and bustled around the kitchen.

  The house gradually emptied and Michael went to bed, until it was just Mum, my sisters and a couple of neighbours in the living room. The thought of them going, leaving me alone with these terrible, terrible thoughts, sent my adrenaline soaring. The bag the police had found might not be Helen’s, but Paul Acres seemed pretty confident.

  Had her purse and work identification card been inside?

  And if Helen’s bag had been found somewhere, after weeks of looking, something was definitely wrong. There was no way she’d have tossed it aside herself.

  I went from jittery to manic, chattering non-stop, pointedly ignoring tired yawns and discreet glances at watches. At around 11pm, John started dropping heavy hints: ‘Marie, it’s time to let these people go to their beds,’ he said gently.

  ‘They’re fine – you go to bed if you want to, John,’ I snapped. ‘Now, who’s for another cuppa? Or would you like a glass of wine?’

  No one had the heart to leave me sitting there all alone. As midnight struck, I was still talking ten to the dozen. John, who had gone to bed, came back downstairs and popped his head around the door. ‘Marie, you need to let these good people go home—’ he began.

  I don’t remember much about what happened next, but apparently, wild-eyed and hysterical, I’d leapt to my feet. ‘I want them to stay!’ I shrieked. Turning to them, I’d insisted, ‘You’re fine, aren’t you?’ Then I turned back to John: ‘See? They’re happy to stay.’

  They watched with growing horror as, in front of their eyes, I fell apart at the seams. My voice rose higher and higher until it was a persistent screech. As John stepped forward in a bid to calm me down, I’d lashed out wildly, growing hysterical. I could hear someone screaming continually. It took a few moments for me to realise it was me, but by then, I couldn’t stop.

  Everything is a blur from then on. I vaguely recall seeing my GP, Dr Bhaduri, in the room, reaching into his black medicine bag. Firm hands steered me onto the couch and there was a sharp pain in my thigh as I was injected with a sedative. Sinking into the cushions, a blissful darkness lapped around the edges of my vision, then washed over me . . .

  Suddenly, I was standing in a blindingly white room, gazing up into a corner where the walls met the ceiling to form a triangle. A sense of happiness I thought I’d never experience again flooded through my veins. Rapturous delight washed over me in waves. For there, smiling down at me, was Helen. She was dressed all in white and had never looked more radiant or beautiful. My brain whirred trying to make sense of it all.

  Helen! It’s Helen! She’s here! She’s safe! The nightmare’s over – it’s over.

  I smiled, laughed, beamed up at her. ‘Helen!’ I cried. ‘Thank God! Where have you been?’

  As she continued to smile down at me my relief quickly gave way to other emotions that every parent of a lost and found child will recognise: frustration, anger – even fury – at being put through such fear and heartache. ‘Why haven’t you called?’ I cried. ‘The police have been looking everywhere for you, Helen. A man’s been locked up.’

  She looked beseechingly at me. ‘Mum, I’m sorry. It was in the window and the plane was taking off and I had to be on it.’

  Her voice was so clear and calm. It sounded so rational. She and her friend, Hilary, had been planning a summer holiday in Spain. Helen had been flicking through brochures and scanning window displays (this would explain ‘it was in the window’) for suitable apartments.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you ring me when you got there?’ I demanded.

  She gave a slight shake of her head and her hair danced. ‘I couldn’t, Mum,’ she said, apologetically. ‘There are no telephones here.’ Then an expression of pure happiness washed over her face. ‘Oh Mum,’ she smiled. ‘It’s so beautiful here, I want to stay.’

  I felt a prickle of panic. ‘You’d better get home right now, Helen,’ I ordered. ‘Do you hear me? This minute!’

  Once again, she shook her head. ‘Mum, I can’t.’ Then she smiled dreamily. ‘It’s so beautiful here, Mum,’ she repeated. ‘You should see the flowers. The colours are amazing.’

  My throat constricted. With a growing sense of horror and panic I realised that her face was beginning to shimmer and fade as she floated upwards. ‘No, no!’ I whimpered. ‘Helen! Helen!’ I stood on tiptoes, plaintively reaching up to her disappearing image. If I could reach her, I could hold on. I had to stop her. But as she slipped further away, my cry became a scream: ‘Helen! You can’t leave, come back!’

  I was desperate now. ‘What about me and Michael?’ My voice became a screech as she floated away. ‘What about me and Michael? We need you to come home!’

  I was gazing up into an empty space. She’d gone. Shuddering sobs racked my body. Opening my eyes, I realised I was back on our silvery-grey settee, flailing and screaming. Mum, Margaret and Pat were hovering helplessly nearby. Margaret had buried her face in her hands and Pat was consoling her. Tears ran down Mum’s face as she dropped to her knees beside me. I will never, ever forget her stricken face as she gathered me in her arms: ‘Oh Marie, Marie,’ she soothed.

  I crumpled into her as she rocked me back and forth. ‘I saw her, Mum,’ I gasped. ‘I saw our Helen. And she’s gone. She’s gone!’

  It was as if a dam had been opened. As the last fragments of hope I’d been clinging to drifted away, out of reach, the tears I’d been hold
ing back for weeks finally flowed. In that instant, I knew that my daughter would never be coming home alive.

  Chapter 6

  The ‘no’ year

  M

  y drug-induced dream had left me drained and exhausted. One thing was for sure: no matter how upset or distraught I was to become, I was never sedated again.

  Years later, I’d described this particular dream to one of the many mediums I met over the years. The search for Helen led to many people, mediums and otherwise, contacting the police with messages and suggestions as to where Helen’s body might be; there were so many, Merseyside Police actually set up a separate desk to deal with the phone calls and letters. Despite my strong Catholic beliefs, I became open to anything that might help me find my daughter.

  This particular medium told me I’d had a very spiritual encounter; the white room and Helen being dressed all in white represented purity, while the ‘tri-shaped’ corner of the room she appeared in symbolised the Holy Trinity – Father, Son and Holy Spirit. ‘She was letting you know she was all right,’ she explained gently. I nodded, gaining comfort from her words.

  The police had spent Saturday, 27 February 1988, the day after our house mass, scouring the area where the handbag had been found – on the banks of the River Irwell, in Irlam – and found clothes.

  A woman’s clothes.

  On Sunday, Paul Acres asked if I would be able to visit St Helens police station, with my family liaison officer, to identify the items.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you, girl?’ Mum asked softly.

  I looked up. ‘Will you be OK to?’ I replied.

  She nodded. ‘I’d rather be with you than here waiting.’

  * * *

  Paul Acres greeted us at the door to the station and led us into a side room. There, labelled and spread out in polythene evidence bags, were damp, crumpled items of clothing.

  ‘We’ve tried to dry them out as best we can,’ someone murmured.

  Taking a deep breath, I focused on the items within the plastic. Despite being streaked in mud and dirt, they were instantly recognisable. My legs felt weak and I clutched the table for support. There was Helen’s smart, taupe coat, her navy-blue handbag, work identification card and purse, maroon scarf, those distinctive green mitts she’d loved – and one brown suede boot. I winced at the final item: her underwear.