Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  I’d insert something personal of Helen’s – a strand of hair from her hairbrush or a baby tooth I’d kept – into the little boxed chamber near the handle. I’d then walk along holding the rods out, horizontally, in front of me. If they detected a similar substance, underground, the rods would cross. So many times, the rods would jerk and cross dramatically and we’d eagerly start digging.

  Early in 1990, we were exploring a stretch of canal in Woolston when a man called down from the bridge: ‘Why haven’t you got gloves on?’ he asked John. ‘Have you never heard of Weil’s disease?

  ‘A deadly disease?’ he continued, seeing our blank faces. ‘Carried by rats in water?’

  Pointing to a cut on John’s hand – an entry point for infection – he insisted that John down tools and go straight to the local hospital for blood tests. ‘But if you have got it, you’ll be dead by the time the results come through,’ he added.

  Brian Houlton, a Manchester Ship Canal expert, scrambled down to introduce himself. From that moment, he came on board. In addition to his invaluable knowledge of tidal flows, he was also an expert dowser. We spent hours exploring sites together.

  There were so many efforts, so many hopes – which all came to nothing. There is old video footage of me, walking alone through fields, biting my lip in concentration. You can see I’m desperately trying to pick up signals, anything, that would reveal where she was.

  Each Sunday evening, as the sun started to sink, the despair and disappointment I’d kept at bay would start to wash over me.

  Another week without her.

  Driving home in silence I’d catch glimpses through curtains of families tucking into a late Sunday dinner – ordinary families living ordinary lives. Just like we used to. The raw envy would almost choke me. While they were pouring gravy and tucking into steaming roasties, I was out searching for my daughter’s body.

  Later, with our filthy clothes on a hot wash and our sodden boots drying out on newspaper, we’d dab ointment onto insect bites and scratches and wearily update our maps and records.

  Helen’s bosses were brilliant – donating an old computer and filing cabinets so we could keep proper records.

  Our dining room came to resemble a police incident room. Huge maps on walls became criss-crossed with string and peppered with coloured drawing pins. We devised intricate indexes and references.

  Since that first morning following Helen’s disappearance, tuning into the local news became a vigil. Even today, it’s the first thing I do on waking and the last thing I do before going to bed. I strain my ears for just one story: has a body been found?

  Sadly, it happens more times than you’d imagine. On each occasion, my heart literally stops beating. With trembling hands, I’ll dial the number of the officer in charge of the case and I’ll remain on tenterhooks until they call me back. It can take hours, it can take weeks, depending on how long the body has been there. But the answer is always the same: ‘Sorry, Marie, it’s not Helen.’

  Once, torrential rain prevented us from continuing a search at a local lake called Pennington Flash in Leigh. Later that day, while driving, I almost crashed the car on hearing the news that the body of a young woman had been found by fishermen that afternoon. It wasn’t Helen. I thanked God for sparing me from finding that poor, poor girl – and then I cried for her family.

  On one dig in 1995, I almost fainted when we unearthed bones. But expert analysis identified them as animal, rather than human.

  As a devout Catholic, I’d always dismissed the idea of mediums or psychics but my desperate need to find Helen opened up my mind. After all, I believed in the afterlife and heaven. Was it really so far-fetched that Helen might try to send a message to help me find her? And if she did, how could I turn my back on her? If anyone approached me with any information, I listened to them – mostly.

  Back in the early stages of the trial, a woman approached me outside the packed courtroom.

  ‘I know where she is,’ she said quietly. ‘I know what he did with her.’

  I stared at her, bewildered.

  ‘She’s in the incinerator,’ she continued. ‘At Billinge Hospital. He worked there for years, he’s still got a key.’

  It took a few seconds for her words to fall into place. Nausea swirled in the pit of my stomach. I shook her hand off my arm and backed away, wide-eyed.

  ‘Can you get me into the court? I just need to look into his eyes and I’ll know for sure,’ she continued, earnestly. ‘But she’s there,’ she said, louder now. ‘He put her in the—’

  I clapped my hands over my ears. ‘No,’ I cried. ‘Don’t. Don’t! I don’t want to hear it.’

  In a flash, Mum was steering me away.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she cried.

  I was too upset to tell her.

  That rumour, along with others, cropped up again and again. Simms had worked there as a chef before moving to Pilkingtons but police assured me the incinerator had been checked thoroughly, only allowed for ‘small items and medical waste’, was securely locked and the ashes were stone-cold. Plus, I reasoned (when I was finally able to think about it rationally), he’d have burned the evidence, too. It made no sense to get rid of his victim’s body so well, but scatter her possessions and his own blood-stained clothes in a panic.

  Over the years, countless mediums have provided information. Jean Cull, from the Midlands, who had been instrumental in locating the body of Black Panther kidnap victim Lesley Whittle in an underground drainage shaft, in 1975, assisted the early police official searches.

  She sensed there were chains and an item connected with Helen in Fiddler’s Ferry Lock, a stretch of the St Helens canal between Widnes and Warrington. Police divers investigated and found chains and a bedsheet. Unfortunately, while being recovered, the dripping bedsheet somehow ended up in the fast-flowing River Mersey, which ran adjacent to the canal. In an instant it was gone – along with all the clues it might have held.

  The police officer involved in that search, Mike McDermott – another wonderful officer who became a close friend – was convinced the lock was key. But I couldn’t see it. Why were Simms’ car and clothes caked in mud if he’d simply immersed her in water? Would he really risk dumping her in a busy canal when there was a chance she could float to the surface? Also, while searching for Helen, police had recovered two bodies from the same canal. If they were found, why wasn’t she?

  In October 1995, police investigated a stretch of the Manchester Ship Canal at Woolston after a chance conversation a local police officer had had with a workman on holiday. The workman had mentioned that, while laying pipes at this site, in February 1988, an area of land had been disturbed overnight.

  I remember holding my breath, watching the metal claw of a JCB bite effortlessly into the soft banks of black silt – like a knife through butter. Was this it? Was our search over? Again, disappointment followed. After three days, the search was called off.

  We explored every inch of a dank tunnel near a disused railway after being led to it by a local medium. Yet another, from London, asked me to take, and send, photos of an area she felt drawn to.

  She returned them with intricate instructions. Standing on a high point of a field and using background landmarks, I called out instructions to the team – ‘Left a bit, right a bit’ –until they were on the exact spot she had circled. ‘Stop!’ I instructed. ‘You should be near a metal grid leading to a draining tunnel.’

  I ran across to find a stunned Tez standing on a metal grid, which led to a drainage tunnel. Each time, hope – excitement even – would flare inside us all. Our hands would tremble as we set to work.

  Could this be it? The spot where Helen was?

  Afterwards, we’d go over the clues again and again.

  Could the message have been mixed up? Was it the wrong field? Were we desperately close?

  There were times when the disappointment was just too much. One Sunday, one of the sniffer dogs ran excitedly into a pond, barking fur
iously.

  We spent an entire day emptying it – scooping out gallon upon gallon of stagnant water. I worked feverishly, encouraging everyone to keep going – I had a good feeling. Finally, as dusk fell, the muddy bottom came into view. In the fading light, my eyes darted around for the shape, the outline, of a body. I was still looking long after the others had stopped. John tried to coax me out, but a wave of despair consumed me. Suddenly, I was on my knees. As cold mud seeped into Helen’s jeans, I lifted my face to the sky. And I wailed.

  John raised me to my feet and steered me away. I couldn’t look at anyone – couldn’t bear to see the pain on their faces. No one uttered a word as they packed up miserably.

  It was gruelling physically, too. Looking back, I’m horrified at the danger we put ourselves in every single week. One weekend, we nearly lost my nephew, Tony, in a river.

  On another, Michael insisted on inspecting an old mine’s 25ft-deep ventilation shaft that we had spent three weeks clearing. I watched, uneasily, as ropes and harnesses were clipped around him and a helmet secured under his chin. As he sank into the dark hole, terror struck.

  I’ve lost one child. I can’t lose another.

  ‘Michael!’ I cried instinctively, trembling. He was mortified at the emotional reception he received on emerging. ‘Mum, you have to let me do this,’ he insisted, later. As much as I wanted to protect him, his need to find Helen was just as strong.

  Then there was that risk of Weil’s disease in all that dirty water we found ourselves in. Thankfully, John was fine. But it was yet another example of the awful lengths we went to in order to find Helen. Simms could have ended it at a stroke – he chose not to.

  Looking back, I’m staggered we continued for as long as we did. ‘But we could all see what it meant to you,’ Tez said recently. ‘Your face lit up each Sunday morning when we congregated. It was a passion for all of us – we were all so determined to find her and bring her home.’

  And it wasn’t just family. On dark nights with a full moon and high winds, just like 9 February 1988, police officer Mike McDermott would venture out alone to remote places – hoping to stumble across the spot. He would walk around by torchlight, imagining himself in Simms’ shoes.

  What was going through his head? Where did he take her?

  As DCS Eddie Alldred told one journalist: ‘A lot of police officers have become emotionally involved with the family and they feel the job is only half done. They’re as keen as anybody else to find Helen’s body.’

  We have searched so many places over the years, but we’ve always been drawn back to one place – Rixton.

  Prosecutor Mr Brian Leveson had told the court that, out of more than 600 samples of mud taken by forensics, those from Rixton had come closest to matching the mud found on Simms’ clothes and car – ‘There were still differences, but find the site and it could well be that the body of Helen McCourt will also be found,’ he’d said.

  No matter how awful the weather was, when we arrived there, the rain would dry up and the sun would struggle through the clouds. And, after a long day’s searching, when someone suggested packing up, a gust of wind would suddenly swirl around us from nowhere – almost urging us to stay.

  Is that you, Helen? I’d ask, gazing across the sprawling wetlands. Is this where you are?

  Yes, it was such a shame that the spade, recovered by divers, was mistakenly picked up and used for digging – contaminating any evidence it might have revealed. Initially, I was distraught and furious in equal measure. After all, without a body even the tiniest amount of evidence is like gold dust.

  Over time, I learned to let it go. We are all human. Anyone can make a mistake. It’s what we learn from mistakes that counts. I have nothing, I repeat, nothing, but praise and gratitude for every single person who helped secure Simms’ conviction and who helped in the search for my daughter.

  Eventually, by 1997, we were running out of places to search. The landscape was also changing beyond recognition. Tiny saplings were becoming sprawling trees. Housing estates were springing up. But to this day, we still go out if new information arises.

  While writing this book, I came across stacks of old videos from news programmes and documentaries. Watching them all again was heartbreaking.

  You can see the pain etched in my still-young face: ‘I need Helen to be found,’ I told one reporter. ‘It’s part of the grieving process. Until I have that, how can I begin to start getting over this? How can I begin to get on with my life?’

  Then, with a helpless shrug, I answer my own question: ‘I can’t.’

  More than thirty years on, nothing has changed. I’m three decades older but still living a perverse, awful Groundhog Day. Every morning, I wake to the same, tortuous questions: Will it be today? Will I find Helen today?

  In other tapes, we’re all gathered in my conservatory, earnestly chatting and sharing photos. We could be discussing our next family holiday. Instead, we’re talking about next week’s search.

  There’s my poor mum being shown how to look into a microscope and examine close-up samples of clay that came from Simms’ jeans.

  ‘Do you see the tiny pieces of clinker, Mum?’ I’d explain patiently. ‘If we can find the exact match of clay, we’ll find Helen. See?’

  In another interview, I reveal: ‘The search is constantly going on. It’s going on in my head twenty-four hours a day. I wake up and realise I’ve spent all night searching in my dreams. Once, I dreamed we had found her. Someone shouted, “We’ve found her. She’s over here.” That’s a dream I hope will come true.

  ‘Another time, I dreamed she was still alive. But that was in the early days. I don’t dream that anymore.’ My voice trails away sadly.

  In another film, there is Margaret and my youngest brother, David, both digging. Both are long dead now – I don’t think either ever got over Helen’s murder.

  The camera pans back to me: ‘Until I find Helen, this is my life,’ I say simply. ‘People have asked me not to go out searching. They say, “She is safe in heaven. It’s only her body and that doesn’t really matter.”

  ‘But it does to her mum.

  ‘When you have laid a loved one to rest,’ I explain, ‘you can talk to them in your heart. But I can’t do that.’

  More footage shows us unblocking a tunnel at the end of a stream, inspecting a drain overflow, scouring the arches beneath a railway bridge. It’s horrible, relentless work, but it’s what we did, over and over.

  Then the camera zooms in on Mum. It’s a pitiful scene that chokes me to this day. Oblivious to the cameras recording her, she is totally engrossed in the job at hand. Jabbing and scraping at the ground with one of our tools. Trying to find the body of the granddaughter she adored.

  Chapter 10

  Learning to live without her

  ‘S

  he won’t go, you know,’ I heard Mum say as I opened the living room door.

  She was inside with John, who was clutching an envelope and looking slightly wretched. ‘Who won’t go where?’ I asked blankly.

  ‘You, love,’ Mum said. ‘John’s bought tickets to Rome, but I’ve said he’s wasting his money.’

  John sighed, defeatedly. ‘I was trying to get you an audience with the Pope . . . ’ he began. ‘But it’s OK, I’ll try and get my money—’

  ‘We’ll go,’ I said, interrupting him. They both looked stunned. Apart from the searches, I was refusing to leave the house – let alone fly to Italy.

  But a chance to tell Pope John Paul II about Helen? His prayers would make a difference surely.

  It was September 1989. Helen had been dead for nineteen relentless months. In a way it seemed like she had been gone forever. There was a huge chasm in our home, our lives, our hearts. And, in another way, it was no time at all. Sometimes, I could imagine her in the next room, pottering about, singing to herself. The realisation that she was out of our lives and never coming back would hit me like a sledgehammer. Sometimes, it left me doubled up, struggling to
breathe, clutching my chest to ease the physical, unbearable pain. I missed her so much but there had been no more visions, no more dreams. For me, at least.

  On Helen’s first anniversary, in February 1989, we’d had a house mass for all the family. On arriving, my Aunty Maro (short for Mary – our family was full of Marys!) had darted straight into the downstairs toilet. In her rush, she hadn’t closed the door properly and could only watch, helplessly, as it slowly yawned open. Praying no one would decide, at that moment, to come out of the living room, she looked up and then froze.

  Helen, her great niece, was walking down the stairs towards her, smiling, with one hand trailing on the banister. ‘She was as real as you are to me now, Marie, girl,’ Aunty Maro had told me later in a trembling voice. ‘And then she was gone.’

  Aunty Maro, who was elderly by then, died shortly afterwards. Was Helen letting her know that all would be well?

  I envied Aunty Maro her encounter with Helen. The only time I ever saw my daughter’s face now was when she gazed back at me from the pages of newspapers. To my great relief, journalists were still eager to keep covering the story of my quest to find Helen. I gave countless interviews, pleading for help in finding her.

  In the months after Helen’s murder, the George and Dragon had become a boarded-up eyesore – a constant, grim reminder of the horrors that had occurred within its walls. But in the summer of 1989, the brewery announced a £250,000 revamp and reopening.

  ‘I’ve always accepted that the pub would have to reopen again,’ I told reporters pragmatically. ‘It’s not the pub that was evil and wicked, but the landlord – and he’s now locked up.’

  Simms had only had the pub for eleven months before killing my daughter. Why should villagers be deprived of a pub that was decades old? Besides, Helen had loved that place. She’d had drinks there for her eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays while I got the party buffet and cake ready at home.

  I did ask for a name-change and appearance alteration, however. The pub reopened at the end of August as The Pavilion. Over thirty years, there have been numerous revamps – it’s currently The Billinge Arms.