Justice for Helen

by Marie McCourt

  Graciously, he added that there would be no costs for me to pay. And then he was switching off his radio, packing up his laptop.

  I remembered my manners so I tried to pull myself together. ‘I’d – I’d like to thank everyone for their help today,’ I sobbed, then I buried my face in my hands. Around me, chairs and tables were scraped away.

  I’d never felt so small, so belittled. We’d been thrown to the wolves.

  Informal hearing, my backside! Where was his compassion? Call himself a Christian?

  The judge’s words rang round and round in my head. How dare he compare my plight to that of someone curious to find out if a trinket had been buried with their great-aunt? I’d put myself through hell – and for what? He had already made his mind up before even walking into the church that day.

  * * *

  We had just fourteen days to appeal. Christmas was one week away. My head was spinning. Would we appeal against the decision or the circumstances in which the hearing was held? I didn’t know.

  Fiona trawled ecclesiastical law websites. We found countless other cases where full exhumations had been granted (not just endoscopic cameras inserted) and lists of pro bono barristers, community legal teams, public law projects.

  I can do this, I can do this, I told myself, preparing to fire off letters.

  And then I looked up at Helen’s portrait and crumpled. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ I sobbed. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  The strength which had kept me going for years abandoned me. I felt like a puppet whose strings had been mercilessly cut. My throat constricted so tightly, I lost my voice completely. I could only whisper hoarsely.

  John insisted we go ahead with our planned holiday to India and concentrate on getting me well. He nurtured me, made me rest, prepared nourishing food and coaxed me back to health. Finally, I was well enough to consider this properly but we were well out of time. And the longer we left it, the more our chances diminished. Plus, another chancellor, or even the Appeal Court, could come to exactly the same decision. I couldn’t put myself through that again. Besides, it could cost me a fortune.

  Reluctantly, I came to the decision: this had beaten me. For now. But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 14

  My faith is sorely tested

  T

  he humiliating rejection from the Consistory Court knocked the stuffing out of me, physically and emotionally. I felt as if I’d just done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Long after my voice weakly returned, my emotions were still bruised and my nerves exposed. (Which made it even harder to learn, more than twelve years later, that it could all have been solved so simply, with kindness and understanding.)

  Since Helen died, I have been blessed to meet with some considerate, compassionate people high up in our legal and political system. I have also encountered others who were, unfortunately, at the back of the queue when those qualities were being given out.

  If I can urge one thing from my story, it is this: be kind and be fair. Show a little empathy. Please understand that when grieving families challenge judgments or laws we are not acting out of spite – to create extra work or flag up mistakes. We are highlighting that the hell we find ourselves in is being compounded by a serious wrong that needs righting.

  A decision to challenge a law or judgment is not taken lightly. It is harrowing, daunting and costly in so many ways. But we do this because we have to. Not just for ourselves but for anyone else unfortunate enough to follow in our footsteps.

  Put aside past judgments and case law. Simply ask yourself, ‘Is this situation right or wrong? Is it fair or grossly unfair to the average law-abiding person in the street?’ And if it’s wrong and grossly unfair, let’s put it right and make it fair. For all our sakes. Believe me, we will all benefit. You never, ever, imagine that something like this can happen to you. But we are living proof. It can, it does and it will.

  Slowly, gingerly, I picked myself up and carried on, starting with a task I’d been putting off for ages – Helen’s bedroom. It had become a shrine, untouched for so long now. When I needed to feel close to her, I’d sit on her bed and gather her dolls (including Emma Kate) and soft toys into my lap, or I’d rearrange her little statuettes or drawer of pretty soaps. Touch the things she once loved.

  But no matter how much I vacuumed and dusted, the baby blue and cream décor that she’d so excitedly chosen now looked dated and tired: we needed to decorate.

  Her clothes are still in the wardrobe and Emma Kate is still propped up on Helen’s pillows, all these years on. But now the room is a fresh pastel green, with pretty curtains and cushions that I know she’d have loved.

  It’s still Helen’s room, it will always be Helen’s room.

  I also continued to keep the closest of tabs on him – her killer. This is another thing that only families in our situation understand. Much as you want to shut out, turn your back on, never give another thought to the one person who has caused you so much pain, you can’t. They will always, always be there. Either lurking on the periphery of your life, or when times are particularly bad, taking centre stage.

  You are on constant alert, looking out for updates on their appeals, their misbehaviours, their applications for parole. Where are they now? What are they up to? Who are they befriending, filling with poison and lies? It’s draining and it’s exhausting.

  I’d heard on the grapevine that Jane Hornby, the younger sister of Tracey who had had an affair with Simms first, was visiting him in prison. I also heard that Simms had produced two oil paintings while taking part in prison art classes.

  One he’d given to his mum. The other – of a young woman dancing – to Jane, who hung it above the fireplace in her shared flat.

  ‘Please try and get a photo of it,’ I begged my source. ‘There might be some clues in it as to where Helen is.’

  They did better than that. Twelve months later, when I’d forgotten all about it, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’ve got the painting for you,’ this person said.

  Apparently, Jane had moved out, leaving the painting behind. Her flatmate didn’t want it either.

  ‘It’s yours,’ my good samaritan said.

  There was no way it was coming into my home. I carried it into the garage then balanced it against the wall. With trembling hands, I peeled back the old sheet it was wrapped in.

  It was a fair-sized canvas – twenty-four inches across and thirty inches high. I peered at the picture, making out an image of a woman dancing the can-can. It was a direct copy of the iconic Toulouse Lautrec painting of dancer Jane Avril at the Moulin Rouge.

  Beneath the painting was a mini portrait of an evil-looking man and the inscription ‘Simo’ – that’s what Simms used to be known as among his cronies.

  Focusing on the woman’s face, a chill crept up my spine. As recognition dawned, I gasped. It was Helen, as plain and as clear as looking at a photograph. He’d given her brassy, blonde hair, but there was no mistaking the face – the piercing blue eyes, the full lips.

  As my eyes took in the rest of the image, I clapped my hands over my mouth in horror. One stockinged foot was high-kicking into the air. But on her other foot there was clearly a shoe.

  Only one of Helen’s boots was ever found.

  Had he recreated on canvas his last image of Helen?

  As my heart quickened, I leaned against the wall for support, taking deep breaths. Then I noticed purple and red markings under the dancer’s right eye. Are they smudges? I wondered, fetching my glasses. As the image became clearer, my stomach turned: they were blood and bruises.

  Forensic evidence had indicated Helen was hit at least twice in the face, causing blood to splash onto the walls. Bile churned in my stomach. ‘No, no, no . . . ’ I said. Grabbing the sheet, I covered up this monstrosity then turned it to face the wall. There, I thought. That’s what I think of you and your sick painting.

  I vowed it would never, ever come into my house. But as well as disgust, I
felt a sense of triumph – power, even – in now having this. Only Helen’s killer would have known these details – the injury to her face, the missing shoe. He’d confessed on canvas.

  When loading his brush with paint he could never have imagined his ‘masterpiece’ ending up in the garage of his victim’s mother.

  Shakily, I went inside and phoned Paul Acres, who had been Senior Investigating Officer on Helen’s case: ‘There’s something you need to see,’ I said. When he arrived, I directed him to the painting, then waited for him in the living room.

  I scrutinised him as he walked in a few minutes later, trying to read any reaction in his face. For a split second his eyes flicked up to Helen’s portrait on the wall before turning to me.

  I knew it.

  ‘It’s Helen’s face, isn’t it, Paul?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  Simms might have given her brassy blonde hair but there was no mistaking that face.

  I’ve had that painting analysed over the years; first, for clues as to where Helen could be. And, second, for my submission to the Parole Board that this man should never, ever be released.

  You see, by 2001 – three years before he even became eligible to apply for parole – we learned that the Parole Board’s Mandatory Lifer Panel would shortly be looking at Simms’ case to consider lesser security and eventual release.

  I wrote to the Parole Board, begging them not to release Simms until he revealed where my daughter was. Looking back at a Daily Mail interview, I’m shocked at my strength of feeling and the words that poured from my mouth.

  ‘Don’t Let This Killer Out to Dance on My Daughter’s Grave,’ was the resulting headline. It’s a macabre, but powerful quote that I have used many times since.

  As mentioned earlier, Simms had already applied to the CCRC, an independent body set up to assess whether convictions were safe. He was contesting the DNA evidence and claiming police told lies. However, from where I was standing, Simms hadn’t exactly been behaving in prison. The police were still trying to make regular visits to Simms to ask where Helen’s body was, but he was refusing to see them. Again, wouldn’t an innocent man at least try to co-operate?

  In the late nineties they were told that a planned visit to Wormwood Scrubs was unable to proceed due to ‘a disruption’ on the wing. Ian Simms had attacked a female prison officer, ‘rendering her almost unconscious’, police told me. I’ll never forget those four words. As a result, all female staff had been removed from the wing and Simms transferred to Long Lartin prison in Gloucestershire – and he would never again be guarded by a female officer.

  Then, in June 2003, an article appeared in the Scottish edition of the News of the World, saying Simms had attacked a fellow inmate in Durham’s Frankland Prison in a row over which TV programme to watch.

  He had slit the prisoner’s throat so badly with a homemade blade that he was ‘almost decapitated’. The inmate required eighty stitches and five pints of blood.

  In a panic, I rang probation services: ‘If other prisoners retaliate and attack him, I might never find out where Helen is,’ I said. ‘He’ll take his secret to the grave.’

  They investigated and reported back that the story was wrong – it wasn’t Simms who had carried out the attack but another prisoner.

  White-lipped with fury, I rang the News of the World editor: ‘You want to be careful what you are putting in your paper,’ I said flintily.

  But his answer floored me: ‘I can assure you we have no problem with that story, Mrs McCourt,’ he said. ‘We know what happened and every word is true.’

  Again, probation services promised to investigate. A few days later, I learned that Simms had been moved to another prison. That told me all I needed to know – it was him all right.

  That same year, I learned that Simms’ application to the CCRC had been thrown out. Not only were there no grounds for referring his case to the Court of Appeal, but as a result of rechecks, the forensic evidence was now even stronger.

  Back at the trial, the odds on the strongest samples of blood recovered from Simms’ clothing, in the pub and car, were 126,000 times to one more likely to have come from a child parented by myself and Helen’s father. These odds now stood at 9.5 million to one. (Later, in 2016, they would become a staggering billion to one).

  Despite all his approaches to courts and investigative journalists, his claims of having dossiers and evidence that would clear his name, Simms had never once been given even permission to bring a claim.

  ‘Maybe now he will come to his senses and realise that the only way to be released is to tell me where my daughter is,’ I told journalists.

  Simms, however, had other ideas. His solicitor released a statement saying, ‘There is no limit to the number of applications that can be made to the commission and my client is as passionate and determined as he ever has been to prove his innocence.’

  Here we go again, I thought.

  * * *

  Over the years so many people have asked, ‘Why? Why won’t he say?’

  Who knows? Or why indeed? Maybe he feared reprisals from inmates or worried about the reaction from his family when it became clear he’d been lying for so long. Maybe he swore blind innocence for so long that he truly came to believe it. Maybe he was hoping to get compensation for wrongful imprisonment if the body never turned up. Maybe he was covering up something even more sinister. More bodies, perhaps?

  Let’s remember that Ian Brady and Myra Hindley denied they had killed Keith Bennett and Pauline Read for more than twenty years before finally confessing to their murders. What made them keep quiet all that time? Murderers who hide bodies are not normal people. Who knows how their brains work?

  In 2004, Simms became eligible for parole. Back then, families weren’t routinely informed as they are now (although some would argue that there are still huge improvements to be made) but I eventually learned in June that it had been a paper hearing and he had been turned down. Two months later, I was shocked to learn that he had asked for an oral hearing with the entire Parole Board.

  Oh, has he now?

  I’ve no idea whether that even happened. There’s a lot of confusion around those early parole dates because he was applying to the CCRC at the same time arguing for an appeal. Looking back, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. I gather that in 2005, his second appeal to the CCRC was turned down and, in November 2006, a scheduled paper parole hearing was due to take place. I had to wait a week to discover that it hadn’t gone ahead as there weren’t enough officers available. Heaven only knows what that meant. In 2007, I gathered that yet another paper hearing had been turned down. He wouldn’t be eligible to apply again for at least another two years. Once again, I hoped and prayed that this would be the catalyst for him – it wasn’t.

  Still, I campaigned, told my story and helped victims. Soon afterwards, a woman called the SAMM Merseyside helpline informing me that I had been nominated for— ‘Can I stop you there,’ I interrupted. ‘This is a helpline for bereaved families. You are preventing a needy call from getting through.’

  ‘No, wait, please,’ she said. ‘I’m genuine. You’ve been nominated for an award.’

  I was stunned to be told I’d been shortlisted for the Inspirational Woman of the Year award run by Wellbeing of Women (a women’s health research charity) and the Daily Mail.

  Tears ran down my face as she read out John’s entry. ‘She deserves this award for the work she does with victims’ families – despite her own loss with Helen – the amount of time she gives to other families in a similar situation and for the unstinting twenty-four hours a day she will be there for others.

  ‘She helps people see there is light at the end of the tunnel. She is my strength as well.’

  John and I went to a gala dinner at the Dorchester in London for the final. I didn’t win overall, but I was presented with the North-West Woman of the Year award by Dame Esther Rantzen. And I won £100 vouchers to spend in Marks & Spencer. It was yea
rs since I’d been shopping. I’d stopped after losing Helen . . .

  I’ve gone on to win more gleaming glass plaques over the years – including an Outstanding Achievement award from the Liverpool Echo; a Victim Care Award from MAMA; a Pride of St Helens Award from the Liverpool Daily Post and, the one I’m most proud of, The Queen’s Award for Voluntary Service (the equivalent of an MBE) which was presented to SAMM Merseyside. John and I have also attended two of the Queen’s garden parties both for my work with SAMM Merseyside and my campaign for Helen’s Law. On each occasion, dressed in our finery, John has taken great delight in hailing a black cab outside Euston Station and saying ‘Buckingham Palace, please’ to the driver!

  Still we went on campaigning, searching, hoping, living as best we could. Helen would have been delighted to see Michael settle down, marry and have two beautiful children. They have brought such joy into my life.

  For years, I hadn’t even put a tree up at Christmas. But suddenly, we were erecting a giant, light-up Santa on the garage roof especially for the little ones. The neighbours must have thought I’d gone mad.

  SAMM Merseyside’s annual memorial service in Liverpool Cathedral was also a well-established December feature. Hundreds of families came along to hear their loved one’s name read out and see a candle lit in their honour. It was a lovely way to remember them at such an emotional time of the year. We tell all our families, ‘There’s a land of the living and a land of the dead. The bridge between them is love. It is our only survival.’

  The following year, 2008, marked the twentieth anniversary of Helen’s murder. I went to see our parish priest with a special request and was thrilled when he granted permission. Simms might have denied me Helen’s funeral but he couldn’t stop me putting her name in the churchyard where she belonged.

  For Helen’s birthday that year we unveiled a marble seat in St Mary’s churchyard. Carved from a single block of marble granite, it’s beautifully simple, with an inscription on the back: