DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ***

  It was eight in the evening when Isaac and Larry drove into the car park at the back of Challis Street Police Station in Bayswater. Up on the second floor, the lights still burnt; burnt as they were going to for the next few weeks until the murderer of Marcus Matthews had been apprehended.

  Sergeant Wendy Gladstone was the first to welcome the two men as they entered Homicide. A veteran of the police force, it was Isaac who had brought her into the department. Even after thirty years in the south of the country, her Yorkshire accent was still strong. An earthy woman in her fifties, her enthusiasm was boundless, although her mobility was suffering because of her arthritis and her health was of concern. Bridget Halloran was also present.

  A few of the ancillary staff that a police department always has too many of, or increasingly too few as technology and cost-cutting take effect, beavered away in the background. Most had left for the evening; their work could be done the next day. However, Isaac was an acknowledged workaholic, even by his wife, though she had lasted the distance in their relationship when others hadn’t. An attractive man, he had had more than his fair share of women over the years, and while others had not been willing to accept the hours he spent away from home, Jenny had.

  Bridget handed over her preliminary report, a copy to each of the people in Isaac’s office.

  ‘A summation,’ Isaac asked. It was another late night, and Jenny had already been on the phone, understanding when he said he’d be home in a few hours.

  ‘Charles Ernest Stanford, 86 Knoyle Road, Preston, Brighton, East Sussex. The man is aged sixty-eight,’ Bridget said.

  ‘We were told he was a judge,’ Larry said.

  ‘It’s all in the report. He graduated from Oxford University. He was a barrister before becoming a Queen’s Counsel, taking the silk as they say. A judge at the age of forty-nine, a recluse two years later.’

  ‘Recluse? Is that known?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘There are no marks against him. He presided over a couple of controversial cases in his time as a judge; defended a few villains as a barrister, got some of them off. One of them had his case dismissed for murder on a technicality, the police putting forward false evidence. The freed man went on and killed another man two days after his acquittal. Charles Stanford copped a lot of flak in the media for defending him.’

  ‘The murderer?’

  ‘In Broadmoor for life. The man should never have been on the street in the first place. But if we locked up everyone who’s a threat to society…’

  ‘…there wouldn’t be enough prisons to hold them all,’ Wendy completed the sentence.

  ‘Does that explain Stanford?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The last case that he judged was another murderer, this time a woman on trial for murdering her husband. The woman was convicted, although the case and the judgement were controversial,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Give us the précised version.’

  ‘Yanna White, a Romanian immigrant, forty-three years of age, an internet bride. She had married Douglas White, a man twenty-one years older than her.’

  ‘A desperate misfit?’ Larry asked.

  ‘That wasn’t put forward at the trial. They had been married for thirteen years; two children, a girl of ten, a boy of eight. On the face of it, the family had been happy. That’s according to those who knew them: neighbours, work colleagues from where the husband worked as an engineer; from where Yanna White worked as a store manager.

  ‘Yanna Nastrut was degree-educated in Romania, and her English was flawless. She had been attractive when she had met Douglas; still attractive when she appeared before Charles Stanford. The media were against her from the start. Douglas White was not a misfit, as Inspector Hill referred to him. He was a man whose first wife and children had died tragically in a car accident.

  ‘In despair, five years after they died, he entered into the dating game again, but Douglas had aged, the weight was coming on, and he had never been a sociable man, more content at home with his family.’

  ‘So he turned to the internet?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘He signed up to one of the more reputable companies. They gave him three women that matched his profile, and he started an online correspondence with them, soon rejecting two of them, choosing Yanna. They met and married in Bucharest. Douglas White’s family liked Yanna; she loved them,’ Bridget continued. ‘She had grown up in a small village in Bacâu County, a poor area even by Romanian standards. A father that had beaten her, a mother who was distant and uncaring. In time, the father and her brothers had driven Yanna out and to the capital city. She revealed that much to Douglas’s family.’

  ‘Any history of sexual abuse from her father and brothers?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Yanna would never talk about it, not even in her defence.’

  ‘Why did she do it, kill Douglas White?’ Wendy said.

  ‘She hadn’t been sex-trafficked in Romania, all too common from where she’d come from. At least, she’d never answer to that possibility,’ Bridget said.

  ‘It would have helped her defence if she had been.’

  ‘She was the best witness the prosecution could hope for. Douglas White’s family came forward at the trial and spoke for Yanna, told the judge and jury that the woman was of exemplary character, that she loved her children, was a credit to both her and Douglas, and that the dead man had worshipped his wife and if she had killed him, then the reason would never be known.’

  ‘No question of her guilt?’

  ‘The knife was in Douglas’s chest, Yanna’s fingerprints on it. She signed a confession that she had killed her husband in a moment of weakness. Apart from that, it was up to the defence lawyer who only had character witnesses, no substance.’

  ‘Charles Stanford had no option but to sentence her for first-degree murder,’ Isaac said.

  ‘No option. The woman had sat silently through the trial, had shown no emotion, only showing sadness when her two children were mentioned.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They were taken in by the family of Douglas’s elder brother. Both of them are adult now and married; the boy’s an engineer, the same as his father, the girl is a qualified doctor. Neither will talk of what happened, only that they miss their parents.’

  ‘Yanna White?’

  ‘She was sentenced for her crime and imprisoned in Holloway. It’s closed now, but then it was a high-security facility for the more violent. She had never shown violence before killing her husband; none after.’

  ‘And where is she now?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘After three years in the prison, a model prisoner, although she rarely spoke and never interacted with anyone, she found an open door that led to the roof of the main building. She just walked off the edge of it, fell fifteen yards, breaking her neck on impact. She was dead. Douglas’s brother legally adopted the children, and they were told of their mother’s death. By then the eldest was fourteen, the youngest, twelve.’

  ‘A tragic story,’ Isaac said, ‘but what’s it got to do with Stanford?’

  ‘He had walked away from the law before then, six months after he had handed down judgement on the woman. There was no criticism of his handling of the trial, and on appeal, with mitigating circumstances, the woman’s sentence could have been reduced.’

  ‘Was there an appeal?’

  ‘Douglas White’s brother wanted to, but without Yanna’s cooperation, what could they do. She never saw her children again after the end of the trial. Just a brief hug as she was led away. She never shed a tear.’

  ‘She condemned herself,’ Isaac said.

  Chapter 5

  After Stanford’s home in Brighton, the home of Samantha Matthews came as an agreeable surprise. It was in one of the better streets in Hammersmith, once a suburb where those who couldn’t afford Kensington lived. But now it was affluent and the houses, mainly terraces, were well maintained and worth into the millions. Larry Hill knew this better than most, as his wife had dragged h
im around enough open house viewings in the area. He’d admit that his wife did keep their house spotless, their children clean and tidy, although when she wasn’t looking he’d often put their clothes on hangers in the wardrobe, pick up their dirty plates – they preferred to snack in their rooms – and even close the toothpaste tube in the bathroom for them.

  Larry was a contented man, and whereas promotion to chief inspector was once important, he just didn’t have the necessary drive. He knew his drinking was starting to get out of control again, but he knew he could not stop, nor did he want to.

  Not that he was an alcoholic, he’d not believe that. He had even gone three months with no more than a couple of pints of a night, so he couldn’t be addicted to the drink. It was just that he had a thirst that needed quenching, a love of the taste of beer, and enjoyment of the camaraderie and jovial banter that a pub offered. Not like his chief inspector, Isaac Cook, who was comfortable with one pint of beer on occasions, although most times he would have a glass of wine instead.

  ‘Someone’s already been around,’ the lady of the house said as she opened the front door, the smell of cooking coming from the kitchen at the end of the long hallway.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, Detective Inspector Larry Hill, Challis Street Homicide. May we come in?’ Isaac said as he and Larry showed their warrant cards.

  ‘I’ve done my mourning, six years ago, so don’t expect me to be the weeping widow.’

  ‘Mourning?’ Larry said. He looked at the woman, saw that under the apron she was dressed in designer clothes.

  ‘You’re right, it wasn’t. One day he’s there, scoffing down his eggs and bacon for breakfast, and then nothing. I thought it was another woman at first, but he wasn’t the type, never was.’

  ‘He’s been murdered,’ Isaac said as he and Larry sat down at a table in the kitchen. Samantha Matthews opened the oven, checked the roast beef and potatoes inside.

  ‘I take it you want a cup of tea?’ she said. She had put on weight over the years; a photo on one wall of the kitchen showed her as a young woman with a svelte figure and a pretty, not beautiful, face. The pretty face remained, and she looked like a decent woman, someone who’d be at the church helping out of a Sunday, playing cards with her circle of friends, drinking coffee at one of the cafes in the area. Yet she was the daughter of a violent man, the widow of a murder victim and minor villain. It was hard to see her in that light as she busied herself in the kitchen, preparing tea and freshly-baked cake for two men who would not be liked by either of the two men in her life, her father or her husband.

  ‘The last time you saw your husband, could you tell us about that,’ Isaac said.

  ‘He was a good father. He spent time with the youngest, asked her what she was going to do at school that day, not that he could have helped much. You see, Marcus wasn’t an educated man, yet I was fond of him.’

  ‘You’re obviously well educated.’

  ‘My father ensured that. My mother died when I was in my teens, but my father was always there for me. I can’t feel sorry that Marcus’s dead, not as much as I should; I’ve had six years to get over him and time has moved on.’

  ‘Your children?’

  ‘The oldest, Grant, is twenty-one, his own man now, living with his girlfriend. I’ve told him that his father has been found. He took it philosophically. He knows of Marcus and his criminal record. He’s not so keen on my father.’

  ‘Yet you don’t disapprove?’

  ‘The men who walked through the door at night were family men, men who loved their children and provided for them. I didn’t disapprove or approve. It was for the women to not ask questions or lecture and demand. My mother accepted that fact, and so do I. Don’t expect me to offer further comment; my father did time for a robbery back when I met Marcus. After that, he was never in trouble with the law again, although he was in court a few times for one reason or another, never convicted.’

  ‘He has a reputation as a violent man. A man who, it has been suspected, has killed, given orders to others to kill on his behalf. Does that shock you?’

  ‘I’ve heard it all before. He was a hard-nosed businessman who did business with other hard-nosed men back in the past. Sure, some of his businesses were skirting the edge of legal: gambling clubs, one or two strip joints, a couple of pubs, but none of them was illegal.’

  ‘Not socially accepted ways of making money, were they?’

  ‘People don’t care if you’ve got money, and my father has, so have I. No one asks questions around here or sticks their nose in the air as I walk by.’

  ‘If they did?’ Larry asked. He hadn’t said much so far, preferring to eat the cake on the table in front of them, the third slice so far.

  ‘They don’t, that’s all I know,’ Samantha said. ‘Let me go back to the day he left.’

  It felt strange to Isaac. In another time she would have been referred to disparagingly as a gangster’s moll, yet Samantha Matthews was the perfect hostess.

  ‘He left the house that morning. He said he’d be back by five in the afternoon. I had no reason to doubt him. I was angry when the days and the weeks went by with no sign of him.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘My father was better than anyone at finding missing persons.’

  ‘The police?’ Larry said.

  ‘What could you do? Issue a missing person’s bulletin. Marcus was not on your list of someone important, to be found at all costs, and you know I’m right.’

  ‘Sadly, I’d have to agree with you,’ Isaac said. ‘Very little would have happened, no team of police officers checking known haunts, asking questions in the street.’

  ‘At least you’re honest. My father looked high and low, got people asking questions, sticking their noses in.’

  ‘In time?’

  ‘The weeks stretched to months, and I got used to the fact that he wasn’t coming back. Life moves on whether you want it to or not. I resigned myself to the situation, had the occasional fling, but nothing more. The only one who never came to terms with it was our daughter, the youngest. Annie was only ten years old when Marcus disappeared. She’s sixteen now, and I haven’t told her yet that her father has been found. She’s a sensitive child. I’m not sure how to broach the subject, and there’s bound to be waterworks from her, sorrow from me. I’m sure we’ll huddle in a corner together and cry our eyes out. Strange, isn’t it. Marcus was nothing special to look at, not good at anything much, and if it hadn’t been for my father, he’d have struggled to find decent employment, and we’d not be living here in this house. Yet we all loved him; even Grant and our other son, James, and he’s more than a handful, more like his grandfather than Marcus.’

  ‘What is it with James? He’s eighteen now, any trouble with the police?’ Larry said. He was looking at an empty plate now, having scoffed down the last piece of cake. Isaac had looked over, knowing that once again he and his detective inspector would need to have a serious talk.

  ‘My father was violent in his younger days, and well, you know that. He spent time in the cells for brawling as a youth, and then in his twenties it was drunken fighting outside the pub of a night time. Petty by today’s standards and your contemporaries back then didn’t have the rules and regulations they have now. He was a troublemaker, I’ll admit to that, so would he. He’d even admit that the police taking him round the back of the station and thumping some sense into him did him good, made him see the errors of his ways.’

  ‘Or made him wise enough to make sure that his violent outbursts were committed away from prying eyes.’

  ‘You’re not here to talk about my father,’ Samantha said brusquely, her pleasant demeanour temporarily absent.

  ‘We aren’t, not yet,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Samantha replied.

  ‘We know that whoever killed your husband would have been an agile man, at least agile enough to climb the stairs up to the top of the house where he had died. We’ve c
hecked, and your father had a broken leg at the time.’

  ‘My father wouldn’t have harmed Marcus, no matter what.’

  ‘Because he liked him?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have done anything to make me sad or angry. My father and I were always very close, even more so after my mother died.’

  ‘When did your mother die?’

  ‘When I was thirteen, cancer.’

  ‘And your father looked after you from then?’

  ‘We always had someone or other in the house to look after me. Good women from a reputable agency, but it was my father who was always there for me. He never missed out on spending time with me, helping me with my schoolwork, attending open days, making sure that I went on all the school trips overseas.’

  ‘And then you get tied up with Marcus, a man of no great worth and certainly not educated or cultured to your level.’

  ‘He had hidden depths, did Marcus.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He had a kind heart. We met one night after he had lost his job and his driving licence, and I was upset after a broken romance. My father was in prison, the last time as you know for that robbery.’

  ‘If your father had not been in prison, would you and Marcus have spent time together?’

  ‘It’s unlikely. My father always ensured that whoever I went out with was of my class, no criminals or ne’er-do-wells for me.’

  ‘Considering your father’s reputation, that’s a surprising statement.’

  ‘As I said, my father is a businessman, but one with a criminal record. He knew what that entailed, the sort of men that he associated with. He didn’t want that for me. And as for those that I went out with before Marcus, the sort of men my father approved of, some of them were total bastards. But with Marcus, it was different. As I said, he had a kind heart even if he did not have the sophistication of the others. He treated me well, and he loved our children. What more could a woman ask for?’

  Isaac could not discern whether it was a good story woven by a smart woman or a pack of lies. Further checking of Samantha Matthews and her history was needed.