Marie McCourt - Justice for Helen: As featured in The Mirror: A mothers quest to find her missing daughter

First published in the UK by John Blake Publishing

An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

8081 Wimpole Street, London, W1G 9RE

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First published in paperback in 2021

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-78946-291-3

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-78946-292-0

Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-78946-325-5

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Text Copyright by Marie McCourt and Fiona Duffy, 2021

The extract from Flowers in Gods Garden by Bernard OMahoney (True Crime Publishing, 2012) is reproduced by permission of the author and the publisher.

Copyright Bernard O'Mahoney 2012; all rights reserved.

The right of Marie McCourt and Fiona Duffy to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright-holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

John Blake Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

IN MEMORY OF HELEN

On the day you were born you were my ray of sunshine.

Since the day you were taken from us the world has turned grey.

No more laughter, no more smiles but you have left so many lovely memories.

MUM

My big sister and best friend. Not a day goes by that I dont miss you.

In my heart forever love you Sis.

MICHAEL

LOVED EVERY MINUTE MISSED EVERY DAY

Contents

B ack in February 1988, I was your average, hard-working, devoted, mum. My dilemmas revolved around having pork or lamp chops for tea and whether I should risk those grey clouds by pegging the washing out. I watched the news. I read the papers. My heart went out to those who suffered tragedy, loss and heartache. But, for me, life was good. Money was always tight, but I had two wonderful, almost grown-up children, who were finding their way in the world. A daughter and a son, a pigeon pair. Faded family photos show us smiling. Laughing. Hugging. The sun was always shining back then.

As they left school and made their way in the world, I looked forward to engagements, weddings and the arrival of grandchildren.

Then the storm struck. Literally.

One wild, windswept night, in February 1988, my beautiful twenty-two-year-old daughter, Helen McCourt, left work, as usual, but never arrived home.

She came within a few hundred yards of the family home before disappearing.

The search for Helen became one of the biggest missing persons inquiries the country had ever seen. Overnight, I became that woman in the newspapers and on the news bulletins, wringing my hands and begging for help.

Ive been that woman ever since.

Overwhelming, and groundbreaking, evidence which has only ever been strengthened over time proved beyond doubt that she had been murdered by the local pub landlord. The trial made legal history.

Had I been able to lay my daughter to rest, I daresay my life would be very different. Id have grieved and learned, over time, to live with my loss. But despite the heroic efforts of so many people Helen has never been found.

This story tells of my quest to bring Helen home.

And to secure justice for her... and for all missing murder victims.

A twinkle in my eye

L ooking back, its a miracle I made it onto this earth at all let alone brought new life into it. Before I was even a twinkle in my mothers eye, she came within a whisker of death during the Christmas Blitz of 1940.

Liverpool, my home town, was badly bombed during the Second World War as the Germans tried to wipe out its precious docks. As the air-raid sirens wailed through the ink-black, frosty night on 21 December, my mum Sarah Gallagher, twenty, had quickly pulled on her winter coat, tied her headscarf under her chin, and along with hundreds of other local residents scurried through the gloom to the nearest underground shelter in Blackstock Gardens, Vauxhall, Liverpool.

Fastening the buttons on her coat would have been a struggle. She was heavily pregnant with her first child my older sister, Margaret. Like most women, she was coping alone. Shed married my dad, Michael, soon after war broke out; he was now serving overseas in the Navy. Heaven knew when shed see him next.

That night, the shelter was bursting at the seams; two trams had made an emergency stop nearby so that passengers could disembark and seek safety underground. But even amid such chaos there was a sense of etiquette. The raids had been going on for months now; locals had their own regular seats, with visitors squeezing in as best they could.

Mum had settled down for the night in her usual spot when she heard her name being called excitedly. Her best friend, Mary, was down the other end of the shelter along with her new baby! I like to imagine Mum craning her neck to spot her through the crowds. She and Mary had been thrilled to learn they were both in the family way.

Now Mary had given birth, Mum had to see her and find out what it was like. She turned to a lady trying to get comfortable on the hard floor. Would you like my seat till I get back? she said kindly. Im just nipping down to see my friend shes just had a baby!

With a protective arm held across her swollen tummy, shed carefully stepped her way through the sitting, sleeping, huddled crowds. She never got there. Seconds later, the shelter took a direct hit.

Because of wartime news blackouts, well never know the exact death toll from that night; estimates range from 74 to 200. But the end where Mum usually sat was decimated. No one in that section, including the poor, grateful, woman who took Mums seat, survived. Entire families were wiped out in an instant.

I dread to think of the pandemonium that must have followed the wailing, the crying, the suffering. Mums family were out of their minds with worry, frantically visiting every hospital in the city to find her. It was hours before my grandad Paddy (her father-in-law) found her in Sheil Road Hospital, where shed been stretchered, unconscious. She was covered in so much dust and cuts that he only recognised her coat. I dont even know the colour, but I imagine it to be distinctive. Bright red or crimson; a rare flash of hope in dark times.

The hospital itself was under attack that night. As my grandad arrived, staff were moving patients down to the safety of the basement. Come on, girl, said Paddy, helping Mum to her feet, lets get you out of here.