Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  ‘Give us something to do, we want to help,’ my brother Tez and John would say to the police. Usually they were given a spot off the beaten track, but they’d watch the police carefully and look and learn from their methods. They learned how to plan a search, how to ensure no area was missed, how to record results and tick off an area completely once they were sure it had been covered.

  After months of relentless work, I was heartbroken when the police searches were wound down. They had done all they could, they explained. The search would always remain open, but from now on, it would be a matter of ‘acting on positive information’ that came in.

  I understood, but the disappointment was unbearable.

  I turned to my brothers. ‘Please, please, can you carry on?’ I implored, tearfully.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ they promised. And they did. The police, God love them, continued to support the family – assigning officers to direct the team and analyse soil samples.

  The family went out every weekend without fail, searching from morning till night. I couldn’t go with them to begin with. First, I didn’t have the strength, emotionally or physically. But there was another reason: What if someone rings?

  There were no mobile phones, emails or social media in those days. The house phone was the only way police could reach me and I was going to be there to answer.

  Sitting there, willing the phone to ring became an obsession. The thought of not being here to respond straight away, to spring into action, to get the wheels in motion for bringing my daughter home was unbearable. I didn’t want her out there, God knows where, for a minute longer than she had to be.

  The house became a prison. Sometimes I felt it closing in on me but I couldn’t leave. ‘They may ring,’ I’d say simply.

  One day, John came home with a box under his arm. ‘Here you go,’ he said, getting to work with a machine and a tangle of wires. ‘It’s a phone with an answer machine. Now, you can go out.’

  Even now, thirty years on, the first thing I do when I return to the house is listen to messages. It could be a journalist, someone with information, an old schoolfriend of Helen’s ringing to catch up. Or it might be the police with those three longed-for words: ‘We’ve found Helen.’

  One Saturday night, I dug out my wellies and waterproof coat: ‘I’m going with you, tomorrow,’ I told John.

  It was time, I was ready.

  Setting off in the car with flasks and sandwiches, we must have looked like any other family heading for a day out. Except we weren’t going to picture-postcard spots or breath-taking areas of natural beauty. We were seeking out God-forsaken hell-holes: old mines, rat-infested sewers, stagnant ponds, litter-strewn ditches, lonely woods. Places off the beaten track . . . Places suitable for hiding a body.

  Those searches were to become a focal point of my life, a purpose for getting up each morning, a reason to keep going.

  Helen was gone, I knew that. No miracle was ever going to bring her back. But I had to find her, I had to bring her home.

  Chapter 7

  The trial

  A

  s with all events relating to Helen, the trial of her killer, at Liverpool Crown Court, started – and finished – on a Tuesday.

  The first anniversary of her disappearance had been just over a fortnight earlier. I’d organised a remembrance mass at St Mary’s, Billinge, and was touched and comforted when 400 people attended. Gazing up at the familiar stained-glass windows, I prayed this nightmare would soon be over. After conviction, there would be no point in the killer staying silent.

  Surely to God, he’ll do the decent thing and let us know where she is.

  For years, I’d imagined the joy of watching Helen walk up this aisle on her wedding day. Now, all I wanted was the relief of seeing her coffin being carried slowly to the front of the church on the shoulders of those who loved her.

  We’d have a requiem mass and her coffin would be blessed and sprinkled with holy water before being laid gently into consecrated grounds.

  For now, though, I had nothing.

  People often commented on the resemblance between Helen and myself, particularly our similar thick brown hair. I’d always kept mine short and neat, but after Helen went missing, I stopped caring. Over twelve miserable months my hair had grown long and unkempt.

  As the trial approached, I decided not to get it cut.

  I want him to look at me and see Helen.

  The trial had been due to start on the Monday but for some reason it was held over to Tuesday, 21 February 1989, which I took as a good sign.

  I used rollers to style my hair in thick, full waves, like Helen’s, then pulled on one of her smartest work suits. I wanted to make her proud – to do her justice and get her justice.

  Walking towards Liverpool Crown Court, I focused on the ground as press cameras flashed and whirred. Seeing cuttings now, I’m shocked at how gaunt and drawn I looked. Misery emanates from every pore.

  My heckles rose as our bags were searched and we were patted down by security guards: ‘We’re not the criminals,’ I hissed indignantly to my sisters and Mum.

  As a key witness, one of the last people to speak to Helen and the person who reported her missing, I wasn’t allowed into the court itself until I was called to give evidence. But I was determined to be present from the outset – and I wasn’t the only one.

  The placed was rammed.

  Not only were murder trials without a body still incredibly rare but the prosecution would be presenting a brand-new scientific discovery as a vital part of its case.

  Nowadays, we’re all familiar with DNA profiling and genetic fingerprinting, but back then, these were breakthroughs. A conviction, using DNA evidence in the absence of a body, would make legal history. No wonder people were interested.

  Helen’s dad (who also attended the trial each day) and I had provided samples of blood for analysis. I had also handed over Helen’s baby teeth from her keepsake box and her Velcro rollers to which the odd strand of hair still clung. How it would all fit together we had no idea.

  I missed the jury selection, Crown Prosecutor Mr Brian Leveson (now Sir Leveson) setting out the case for the prosecution – and the first glimpse of him, Simms. The man accused of my daughter’s murder standing in the dock, listening to the charge, entering his Not Guilty plea.

  I’d hoped for a blow-by-blow account when my family finally streamed out, but they were exhausted and drained. My mum, flanked by Pat and Margaret, had dark shadows under her eyes as she tried to give me a cheery smile. My heart twisted. This had only just begun. The trial was expected to last for three weeks, calling more than 100 witnesses.

  That evening, John and I went to mass as usual. Give us strength to get through this, St Martha, I implored silently. Help me get justice for Helen.

  On day two of the trial, the judge arranged a visit to the George and Dragon so the jury could see the complex layout of the pub. Family members were among a small crowd that watched silently as the judge, jury and defendant himself arrived. The evening papers were filled with dramatic images of Simms being led back into ‘the pub where time has stood still’ flanked by prison guards.

  After lunch, the court resumed. ‘Mary McCourt,’ called an usher, using my official name. This was it. My shoes clicked along the polished floor as my trembling legs carried me to the witness box. Placing my right hand on the Bible and vowing to tell the truth before bewigged barristers, solemn solicitors and officious clerks felt surreal – like being on a film set.

  Before answering questions, there was something I needed to do. Taking a deep breath, I turned towards the dock until he came into view: Simms. The accused. I was shocked at how different he looked from his committal, just six months earlier.

  His once-full head of hair was visibly receding and his thick, bullish neck – sinewy from years of weight training and martial arts – had become skinny and scrawny. He looked so much older than his thirty-two years and lost in a dark suit that was
clearly too big for him. But he still had the same distinctive moustache – he looked like a little Hitler.

  I stared, unblinking, silently urging him to look at me. But he didn’t. Not once throughout the entire trial. He fixed his gaze straight ahead to where his counsel was sitting. Occasionally, he’d glance across at the jury – doubtless weighing them up, wondering what they were thinking. One attractive blonde woman seemed of particular interest. Or he’d look down, scrutinising his hands or feet.

  Over three weeks my eyes must have burned a hole in the side of his head. Look at me. Look at me, I willed silently. I wanted him to see Helen. I wanted him to break down and admit what he’d done, say where he’d hidden her and put a stop to this torture once and for all. But his eyes never once met mine.

  ‘Mrs McCourt . . . ’ Mr Brian Leveson began.

  We’d started.

  In a trembling voice, I answered his questions. How every mum is biased but Helen really was an extra-special girl – caring and considerate and never giving us a moment’s worry . . . Until the night she went missing. Step by step, I relived that awful evening – how we’d searched frantically before reporting her missing.

  I recoiled slightly as a taupe garment, inside clear plastic wrapping, appeared.

  ‘Do you recognise this, Mrs McCourt?’ Mr Leveson asked gently.

  Our trip to the Trafford Centre to buy it . . . Helen’s new winter coat in 1986 seemed like yesterday. I nodded. ‘That’s Helen’s winter coat,’ I whispered. ‘It was her favourite. She . . . she loved it.’

  Seeing it now, so dirty and dishevelled, after lying in a river for three weeks was soul-destroying. Mr Leveson mentioned a missing button, a tear in the lining under one arm. Deep in my brain, a disturbing memory stirred, then slotted into place.

  In the committal hearing I’d attended the previous August, a barrister had briefly summarised what the Crown believed had happened that night – that Simms had lured my daughter into the pub, dragged her upstairs into his living quarters and murdered her before hiding her body. Just hearing those words was horrible. But now, seeing the damaged coat, it was all too real.

  Without warning, my stomach lurched violently.

  The coat was damaged – while she was being dragged.

  Terrible images and thoughts flooded my mind. Was she aware of what was happening, or, worse, what was about to happen? Did she, oh dear God, did she call out for me?

  Helen was five foot four, not even eight and a half stone and a gentle soul, a slip of a thing. Simms was a powerfully-built kickboxer and bodybuilder – five foot ten and over thirteen stone. We also learned afterwards of his violent temper, his Jekyll and Hyde personality and how he revelled in the nickname ‘Psycho Simms’.

  Helen never stood a chance.

  My breath juddered. I bowed my head and watched fat tears splash onto my skirt. A tissue and a glass of water were placed in front of me.

  ‘Would you like to adjourn, Mrs McCourt?’ someone asked.

  But I shook my head firmly. Gripping the damp tissue, I shakily sipped water through parched lips. I had to get through this.

  For Helen.

  I identified that sad little opal and sapphire earring again and Helen’s favourite green mitts, a red comb, a pearl coloured hair slide . . .

  Mr Leveson also asked me about the incident in the pub two nights before Helen had gone missing.

  ‘Helen wasn’t the type of girl to get into arguments,’ I insisted. ‘She said it was all a misunderstanding, but she was adamant she wouldn’t be going there again. There’s no way she’d have gone into that pub on the Tuesday of her own accord,’ I added, fixing my stare at Simms. ‘She was never late.’

  Finally, I was allowed to step down. The prospect of being cross-examined the following morning by Simms’ counsel filled me with dread.

  More than thirty-two years on it’s all a blur, but I remember at one point, John Kay QC pondering whether Helen’s coat was already damaged before that night.

  ‘My daughter took pride in her appearance,’ I said coldly. ‘She would never have gone out in a torn coat. And the buttons were always fastened. I’d have noticed if one was missing.’

  He asked me about the earring that I’d been asked to identify. I explained how they were Helen’s twenty-first birthday earrings; she’d bought a replacement pair after losing one. Since then, there had been three in her jewellery box – she wore two and always had a spare.

  I confirmed Helen had been distraught after breaking up with her boyfriend, David, in September 1987 and started frequenting the George and Dragon, drinking more than usual. Yes, she’d occasionally stayed behind for lock-ins, returning home in the early hours. No, I wasn’t particularly happy about it, but it was just a phase. By November, things were back to normal.

  At last it was over. ‘No more questions,’ he said.

  Drained, I stepped down from the stand and gratefully joined John and my family in the gallery. Opening my handbag, I rooted inside until my fingers clasped around what I called my ‘holy cards’. One was my well-worn novena to St Martha, the other was a gift passed on by my Aunt Bibby – who was a Carmelite nun: ‘One of our sisters made this for you, Marie,’ she’d said.

  It was a delicate pencil drawing of Our Lady reaching her arms comfortingly towards a kneeling child. Tears of compassion were streaming down her face. Underneath, in beautiful calligraphy, were the words, ‘Mother Mary, Pray for Me’.

  ‘Keep this with you,’ Bibby said, gently. ‘Look at it every time you feel low.’ Helen had adored Bibby – and had been so looking forward to seeing her ‘take the veil’ in July 1988 (five months after her murder).

  Those ‘cards’ gave me the strength to attend day in, day out, and listen to every harrowing detail.

  Afterwards, in my support work with other families, I would lend that precious Mother Mary card out for court hearings. ‘Hold this, it will give you strength,’ I’d say gently. Unfortunately, after one such loan, it never came back. I was sad, but took comfort in the fact that its new owner needed it more.

  * * *

  The evidence against Simms was, as the prosecution had stated on the first day, overwhelming. Very occasionally, in my long quest for justice, I have encountered the odd person who ventures that, perhaps, Simms doesn’t know where Helen is because he didn’t do it. Maybe the jury got it wrong. Maybe his conviction was a tragic miscarriage of justice and the real killer is still out there. I would urge anyone with the slightest doubt of Simms’ guilt to read the next two chapters and see if you still feel the same.

  Rather than recount the trial, day by agonising day, witness by endless witness, I’ll try to take you through the prosecution evidence in chronological order. There was so much forensic information that jury members were issued with files of evidence – with overlays of plastic sheets, maps, diagrams and studies – to help them follow.

  Firstly, there was the incident in the pub on the Sunday night, which I found out more about as the trial progressed. It turns out Helen had photos in her bag from the pub’s New Year celebrations and was showing them to a lad she knew from the village. One picture showed her good friend, Karen, with whom she’d been on holiday to Majorca the previous year – along with a group of girls. But unbeknown to Helen, this lad had actually gone out with Karen while they were at school. Staring across the pub at them now, with a face like thunder, was his current girlfriend . . . who had been drinking all day. (Simms had even lent her a tenner when she ran out of money).

  When the girlfriend, who we’ll call Susan, weaved across the pub towards them, Helen’s friend hissed at her to put the photos away. But it was too late. The girl saw them, got upset and accused Helen of ‘stirring’ things. While trying to grab the pictures, she spilt her wine over Helen.

  (I have to stress here that Helen was anything but a trouble-maker. Don’t forget, she hadn’t gone to the local school with any of the villagers so had no idea who’d gone out with who back then).

 
When Helen slipped away to the ladies’ toilets to sponge down her skirt, this girl stormed in after her. Helen’s alarmed friend immediately ran to the bar for help saying: ‘Susan’s going to kill her – Helen’s not a fighter’. Ian Simms hurried in and found Helen, crying, holding a furious Susan’s wrists to stop her lashing out.

  Grabbing Susan by the shoulders, Simms had ordered Helen out of the toilets and told her she was barred. My daughter left the pub crying. Simms shouted at her and humiliated her in front of everyone like that and she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. Even now, all these years on, my heart twists at the thought of her sobbing as she walked home – then drying her eyes before coming inside and pretending everything was OK. On the Monday evening, she’d vowed never to step foot in that pub again – and I believed her.

  And so we come to 9 February 1988 – the last hours of Helen’s life.

  If you remember, she had left work half an hour early that day, at 4pm – keen to have her tea, then have plenty of time to get ready for a date with Frank, her new boyfriend, at 8pm.

  She’d read some of a Mills & Boon book (they were small and fitted into her handbag) and eaten a bag of crisps on the 4.16pm train from Lime Street to St Helens. Then, en route to the bus stop, she’d popped into Superdrug to buy a few bits before catching the 362 bus to Billinge.

  At 5.15pm, she’d got off at her usual stop and was seen by two witnesses walking, head-down, into the gale-force winds, clutching her shopping in one carrier bag and her work shoes in another. The sun had set six minutes earlier so the village was dark.

  She was never seen again.

  Her short route home would have taken her directly past the George and Dragon pub – just 483 yards from our home.

  Ian Simms admitted from the outset that he was alone inside from 4.20pm to 6pm. (Back then, pubs closed at 3pm and reopened in the evening.) Upstairs in the pool room, which was open to customers, Simms had fitted blackout windows and thick drapes so that he could hold secret lock-ins. They also gave him the advantage of being able to look out, unseen. One bar worker testified that, while getting the upstairs bar ready one afternoon, he’d been startled to see the curtain suddenly move. Pulling it back, he found Simms standing there . . . silently watching schoolgirls getting off the bus.