All I want is to bury my precious daughter.
By Marie McCourt, 73, from Billinge, St Helens, Lancs
The lamb chops sizzled under the grill. Just how Helen likes them, I thought.
It was 5.15pm on 9 February 1988 and my 22-year-old daughter was due back from her job atan insurance firm.
Gale-force winds had been blowing all day. I’d be glad to have her in safely.
But two hours later, her dinner was ruined.
‘Maybe she’s been delayed,’ said my partner John.
But Helen would always ring from a phone box if late.
I called her office in Liverpool. Then her colleagues, friends, train and bus companies...
Helen had left work as usual. And her journey home was unaffected by the storm.
‘Something’s wrong,’ I said.
John got the car out. I craned my neck as we followed her route, but the streets were deserted.
At 9.30pm, I reported Helen missing to police.
‘She’s probably out having a drink,’ the duty officer said.
‘Please help,’ I begged. ‘I think she’s hurt.’
He issued a description of Helen to squads starting night shifts.
Back home, I sat up all night – my mind filled with awful images.
この記事は Chat の January 05 2017 版に掲載されています。
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この記事は Chat の January 05 2017 版に掲載されています。
7 日間の Magzter GOLD 無料トライアルを開始して、何千もの厳選されたプレミアム ストーリー、9,000 以上の雑誌や新聞にアクセスしてください。
すでに購読者です? サインイン
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