I turned and walked away unsteadily. The ball was in Simms’ court now. A story about my letter appeared in the weekend papers. All I could do now was wait, hope and pray.
* * *
Before this point, I hadn’t met anyone else who understood my pain, but that changed when I went to Manchester to be interviewed. Weeks earlier, I had gone to Manchester to be interviewed for a TV news programme on the impact of a child being murdered.
Two other mums – Ann West and Winnie Johnson – were also being interviewed. Both had lost a child, in the most brutal way, to Ian Brady and Myra Hindley – the so-called Moors Murderers.
Winnie’s son, Keith Bennett, twelve, was on his way to his gran’s when he was snatched by the evil pair in June 1964. Six months later, ten-year-old Lesley Ann Downey – daughter of Ann West – became the fourth and youngest victim.
The murders sent shockwaves across Britain, which are still felt to this day. Lesley Ann, a pretty little thing with jet black curls and a rosebud mouth, was lured from a fair on Boxing Day 1964. Shockingly, the evil, twisted pair recorded her pleading for mercy and calling for her mother as they tortured and killed her. The harrowing sixteen-minute tape reduced jurors, hardened police officers and even the judge to tears in the trial in 1966.
On being introduced, we embraced instinctively. I had seen these mums so many times in newspapers and TV news bulletins. I’d wept reading their painful words and seeing their tearful pleas. Now, I joined them on their platform.
As we stood, talking, it was as if our very souls were communicating. Finally, finally, here were two mums who could feel my pain and understand my need to keep searching for Helen’s body.
Both knew what it was to lose a child and not be able to lay them to rest.
Tragically, to this day, Winnie’s boy, Keith, is still lost on the moors. And even though Ann was able to have a funeral for Lesley Ann (her body was the first to be recovered on the Moors in October 1965), she still never found peace. She devoted her life to keeping a supposedly coerced Hindley behind bars and later, during the same year I met her, endured the desecration of her daughter’s grave for the third time. (John and I attended the internment to a new secret resting place in 1992.)
We swapped numbers and agreed to meet up privately. That TV programme marked the start of two very special friendships.
* * *
Since delivering that letter to Wakefield, I’d been like a cat on a hot tin roof, pacing the floor, staying inside, waiting for a reply. Finally, on Thursday, 14 March 1991 I couldn’t stand it any longer and agreed to meet with them both. I visited Ann first, then headed to Winnie’s.
I can still see Winnie now, sitting by the fire, smiling up at me sadly, as I entered. That familiar black and white picture of Keith adorned the mantlepiece. My heart broke for her.
We drank tea and spoke for hours, comforting each other, encouraging each other. Even though her health was failing, she, too, went out searching for her son’s body. ‘Don’t give up, Winnie,’ I urged. ‘He will be found. You just need to keep the publicity going. That’s the one thing that keeps driving me.
‘I’m determined that Helen’s case will not be forgotten. Keep doing interviews, keep doing stories with the papers. I’ll keep mentioning you. We can help each other.’
Finally, I was pulling back onto the drive at home. It had been a surreal day. I couldn’t believe I was now in the same awful position as poor Winnie Johnson.
Stepping into the hall, I stopped. There was a fist-shaped hole in the kitchen door.
Michael was sitting at the table with a face like thunder.
With a shaky hand, he held out three sheets of handwritten paper. On the table lay an opened envelope stamped HMP.
Simms’ reply.
The papers trembled in my hand as I scanned the childish writing.
Was this it? Was he finally going to tell me?
‘Mrs McCourt & family,’ it began. ‘For more than three years now, you have haunted me. Not me. You.’
My hand flew to my mouth in disbelief. I looked at Michael. He was gripping the kitchen table, his knuckles white.
I turned back to the page to read a diatribe of ridiculous, appalling lies. Simms accused me of lying in my statements, swore he was innocent and offered to send me a dossier of new evidence. He also accused me and my family of threatening a pregnant member of his family and hitting a seventy-five-year-old man.
‘I cannot and will not forgive that,’ he said. ‘The lord [sic] says an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’
He said I must stop ‘playing to the gallery’ (that is, talking to the press) and repent my sins as he had repented his.
On and on, he went – telling me to read depositions, accusing one of the experts of lying in court.
In his next line he urged one of my brothers to repent his sins next time he was in church. ‘He will repent when I see him,’ he added menacingly.
He insisted I look at the case papers and once again pleaded his innocence, adding: ‘The time is almost here. Let there be peace or there will be grief.’
He concluded: ‘God forgive you for accepting payments from the media for each article (£2,000 isn’t it?).
‘I won’t,’ he added, smugly. For his concluding line he vowed: ‘On my release I will have justice.’
The word ‘justice’ was underlined three times.
Appalled, I sank into a chair, speechless.
As an afterthought, or PS, he’d even added: ‘BMW isn’t it?’ – in a barbed reference to the plush car I was supposedly driving, bought with media payments.
Something else in the torn envelope caught my eye. It was the original envelope I’d enclosed my letter to him in. He had crossed through his address at Wakefield Prison and chillingly, written beside it, ‘not for much longer, Mrs McCourt. Everything is about to come out. I have been quite [sic] for much too long.’
John arrived home from work to find us both sitting there, in a shocked stupor.
To this day, I thank God that I was out when Simms’ reply came. I’m not known for violent rages but I may well have smashed the house to smithereens.
I think we got off lightly with a punched door. It was only the second time in his life that Michael had lashed out over what had happened to his sister (the first was his outburst in court).
I needed help in dealing with this. An expert from Ashworth High Security Psychiatric Hospital, a Mr Grey, agreed to visit me at home.
In silence, he read the letter.
‘How do you feel about this?’ he asked gently.
‘It’s nasty and threatening and I can’t believe he’s written it,’ I replied. ‘People keep telling me to keep writing and see if it will break him down but it was the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write. And I don’t ever want to write to him again.’
‘Why?’ he asked.
I grappled for the right words. ‘I feel that he would be like a cat playing with a mouse,’ I said, finally.
He nodded. ‘That’s exactly what he will do,’ he said. ‘Go by your feelings.’ Then, as an afterthought, he added: ‘You do know he’s a psychopath?’
I’d suspected it, but it was reassuring to hear it from an expert.
‘If you do change your mind and want to write, wait another seven or eight years – when he’s approaching his tariff review. If you’d like my advice, please ring and ask for me,’ he told me.
I did ring a few years later for advice. His wife was lovely. ‘I know all about it,’ she said kindly when I explained why I was calling.
Sadly, Mr Grey had died eighteen months earlier.
* * *
Two months after receiving Simms’ letter, I almost fainted on seeing the front page of the St Helens Reporter: ‘I Pray Helen Will Be Found,’ screamed the headline. He’d only written to the editor of a local paper, who had made it the ‘splash’ for that week.
‘I want her found more than, or as much as anyone else, and have prayed every day f
or the last three years for her to be. But god [sic] knows that I don’t know. I am not responsible for Helen McCourt’s disappearance.
‘I am no killer and certainly not evil.’
I drove straight to the office and confronted the editor. ‘Have you any idea how hurtful this is, what that man is putting me through?’ I stormed. ‘You didn’t even give me the right to reply.’ He was very sheepish and had no idea how to answer me.
Years later, I would mention this incident when I gave lectures to journalism students. It was important to me that reporters were aware of the huge impact, both good and bad, that stories can have on victims’ families.
In 1995, I befriended Seamus McKendry, son-in-law of the then missing, presumed murdered, IRA victim Jean McConville, and founder of the pressure group Families of the Disappeared in Northern Ireland. Seamus very kindly wrote to Simms ‘beseeching him’ to end my torment: ‘Would it not be better to be remembered as someone who offered a little compassion rather than callous silence?’ he asked. ‘Helen’s death came from a moment of weakness. It is now time for courage.’
In his reply, Simms made even wilder denials and accusations about my supposed behaviour. ‘I am an innocent man,’ he declared dramatically, adding that he had been subjected to treatment that the public would be ‘horrified to learn about’. He also included a poem railing angrily against the judicial system and ‘democracy’.
‘Have you ever had your heart ripped out for something you know nothing about?’ he wrote. ‘Listen to my story for it could happen to you.
‘Oh, where is the justice?’ he clamoured. ‘Could anyone show some to me.’
Years later, I learned that the Mother Superior of the Carmelite Monastery in Birkenhead, where Aunt Bibby (who became Sister Mary of the Angels and Trinity five months after Helen’s murder) was a nun, also wrote to Simms. The nuns would all collectively pray for Helen whenever I visited.
I never got to see his reply; no one did. All we knew was that it was ‘so distressing’ she sent it to the Prison Governor, insisting Simms never be allowed to contact her again.
‘Marie, please don’t write to him again,’ Aunt Bibby begged.
I didn’t.
Chapter 11
The victims’ champion
I
t was becoming crystal clear that Simms had no intention of telling us where Helen was. So, if he wasn’t going to speak, I’d have to make him – by any means possible.
Soon after the conviction, in March 1989, I made an appointment with a barrister who specialised in family finances.
‘Can I sue him?’ I asked.
Let me stress here that I did not, under any circumstances, want a penny from Simms. But money was his God. He was renowned for being mean. This was the man, remember, who would remove the door handle from the pub’s stockroom so no one else could gain access.
And on the afternoon of Helen’s disappearance, he’d torn a strip off his manager, Ken Booth, for not alerting him when the Labatt representative arrived at the pub. He’d told the court that he was ‘steaming with’ Kenny ‘because he had not told me about Labatt’s which meant a loss of money’.
So, I reasoned, I could reach him through his pocket. Hard. However, I was conscious that his wife, who had now filed for divorce and moved back to her childhood home, had two small children to bring up. They were victims in all of this, too. I wanted to ensure they’d be OK financially.
* * *
Nadine’s mum looked stunned to find me on the doorstep.
‘I haven’t come here to cause bother,’ I assured her.
She invited me inside to speak with an equally surprised Nadine.
‘I’ve been advised to sue your husband but I want to make sure you’re OK, first. He’s going to be in prison for a long time and you’ve got the pub to sort. Can you just do me a favour and let me know when you’re sorted? That’s all I ask.’
She nodded. Then she said quietly: ‘I’m so very sorry. I wanted to go out searching at the time. I felt I should, but . . . ’
I was touched. ‘No, no, you didn’t have to do that,’ I said.
‘One of the reasons that stopped me was that I thought your family might not be happy with me being there,’ she added.
I shook my head firmly. ‘My family are easy-going. There wouldn’t have been anything like that.’
She nodded. ‘But it could have been a distraction you didn’t need,’ she continued.
I thought about it: she was right.
‘Thank you,’ I told her.
She wrote to me afterwards thanking me for considering her and the children. Later, I heard that she had moved away from the area and remarried. I gather both of the children took their stepfather’s surname and neither visited their dad in prison.
A few months before that chat with Nadine I’d paid a visit to Simms’ mum – and mistress. In May 1989, I was driving home from Friday evening mass when I saw Tracey Hornby’s car parked outside Simms’ mother’s house. Before I had time to think, I’d pulled over and knocked on the door.
A tall lady answered.
‘Mrs Simms?’ I asked. ‘I’m Helen McCourt’s mother.’
She gave a nod. ‘I know, Mrs McCourt,’ she said. ‘Won’t you come in?’
I don’t know where I got the strength but I stepped inside. Tracey was sitting on the couch. The television was on.
‘Take a seat, Mrs McCourt,’ his mother said, gesturing to an armchair, but I remained standing. ‘Mrs Simms, I have only come to ask you one thing,’ I said. ‘Please, please, will you tell your son to tell me where we can find Helen’s body. The evidence against him was overwhelming.’
She looked down. ‘I believe some of the evidence was biased,’ she said. ‘And some of it was lies.’
‘Who told you that, Mrs Simms?’ I asked, politely. Then I pointed towards Tracey, who was watching TV – or at least pretending to. ‘Her?’ I spat the word.
Tracey turned her head but said nothing.
‘Because she wasn’t even in court to hear the evidence,’ I pointed out.
‘No, but my mother was there,’ piped up Tracey.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said coldly. ‘We all know that your mother and sister were there.’ (According to Tracey’s post-trial tabloid exclusive her younger sister, Jane, had had an affair with Simms first.)
I turned back to Mrs Simms. ‘All I want is for him to tell me where my daughter’s body is so I can give her a proper funeral.’
She nodded. ‘Oh, I will, Mrs McCourt.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, then added, ‘If he refuses, tell him that I will be seeking a barrister to sue him for every penny he’s got.’
She blinked.
‘There’s no money,’ she said.
‘Isn’t there?’ I asked. Then I held my hands out dramatically to gesture the room we were in. ‘You have this, don’t you? And I won’t wait too long, either.’
As I headed for the front door, she followed me.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs McCourt,’ she said.
In that moment, she looked stricken.
I sighed; the fight had gone out of me. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, wearily. ‘But please tell him I am not going to wait much longer.’
The following week, there was a ‘For Sale’ sign outside the house.
(By 1991, Tracey was still visiting Simms in prison, still telling newspapers what a ‘kind man and wonderful lover he is’.)
The next time I heard about Simms’ mum was in sadder circumstances: the probation service rang to say she was gravely ill. Would I agree to him attending her funeral?
What – while he continues to deny me my daughter’s funeral?
I chose my words carefully. ‘He can visit his mother while she’s ill,’ I said. I knew more than anyone the importance of saying goodbye. ‘But no, I do not give permission for him to attend her funeral.’
When I heard that his mother had died, I rang the prison. ‘Will he be attending the funeral?’ I asked
.
They sounded surprised. ‘We didn’t even know she was ill. Are you a relative?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’m the mother of his victim.’
There was a long pause. ‘He hasn’t applied to visit his mother and as for her death, we know nothing about it. Can we get back to you?’
Later, they rang and said: ‘We’ve had no requests and, in any case, it’s too late to arrange. So, no, he won’t be attending.’
I gripped the phone. ‘I hope what you are telling me is true,’ I said. ‘Because I know where the service is and if I see any sign of a prison van, I’ll be straight on the phone to the press to get down and take pictures.
‘I don’t want to do that,’ I added. ‘Her family have the right to have a quiet funeral, but I also have the right to bury my daughter. A right that he has denied me.’
There was no need for any intervention. He didn’t attend the funeral. Nor, apparently, did he visit her while she was ill. I’ve often asked myself, what sort of person doesn’t go to see their sick mother?
I’d already decided that suing him would be a last resort. I didn’t want his blood money, I just wanted him to say what he’d done with Helen.
Well-wishers urged me to give up the searches. ‘It’s too upsetting for you,’ they’d say. ‘Your daughter’s in heaven. Let it go.’
I’d shake my head firmly. They’d never understand. How could they? How could I go about my life knowing the child I’d brought into this world was lying dumped in an unmarked grave somewhere? Bringing her home was more than just an urge now. It was a primeval need, an instinct, that became stronger by the day.
A professor in bereavement explained it to one journalist: ‘When a body can’t be seen, a person is unable to come to terms with the fact that a death has occurred,’ she said. ‘Searching becomes a substitute for grieving.’
I refused to go on holiday, or even a day out. ‘I can’t – this could be the day we find her,’ I’d plead. Every morning, without fail, my first whispered words were: ‘Please God, let it be today.’
By now, equipment hire, maps, photocopying and petrol had pushed the cost of our searches to £40,000. ‘But I will sell my house if I have to,’ I vowed.
Justice for Helen Page 18