Six Years Too Late

by Phillip Strang

  ‘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 him 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 checked, 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.

  ‘Can we come back to the last time you saw Marcus?’ Larry said. He sat upright, or as upright as his protruding belly would allow; the tabletop and his stomach were too close to one another for him to be at more than an incline.

  ‘He left here, and I never saw him again. It was a normal day, no arguments, no issues with the children.’

  ‘Were there arguments?’

  ‘How long have you been married, Inspector?’

  ‘Eighteen years.’

  ‘Then you know the answer. We argued, but no more or less than any other married couple. Marcus wasn’t the sort of person to bear a grudge for too long, and I couldn’t see the point in staying angry. A flaring of tempers, some harsh words, that was all. And Marcus never hit me, not like some of those that my father vetted. And now, if you don’t mind, I think we’ve exhausted our conversation. Annie will be home soon, and I need to tell her about her father.’

  Isaac had to concede that the woman was correct – there was no more to be gained by prolonging his and Larry’s time in the house, surprisingly pleasant considering the reputation of her father.

  Chapter 6

  Isaac had to admit to some trepidation as he and Wendy drove up to the front door of the mansion: the man they were to meet had a frightening reputation. Larry was confined to Challis Street. After the cake-eating episode at Samantha Matthews’ house, Isaac could only feel disgusted with the man. After all, he had gone out on a limb when he invited him to join the Homicide department at Challis Street.

  Larry was heading for trouble, and whereas he had presented himself well in the past, now the skewed tie, the shirt hanging out, was not the image that Isaac wanted his team to portray. He prided himself on his personal appearance, each morning re-ironing the shirt that Jenny had ironed previously, always taking care to ensure that his short-cropped hair was brushed, his shoes freshly polished. To him, a good appearance was a sign of professionalism; Larry did not portray that in any measure.

  On the front door of the mansion was a large brass knocker shaped like an elephant’s head, which Isaac duly raised and dropped. After a short time, the door opened, a man standing there, dressed in a dark suit. It was not Hamish McIntyre, Isaac knew that from having seen the man in his teens, and Bridget had sent a current photo to the team, as well.

  ‘Mr McIntyre is expecting you. If you’d follow me.’

  ‘And you are?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Not Jeeves, if that’s what you’re thinking. The name’s Armstrong, Gareth Armstrong. I’m Mr
McIntyre’s butler.’

  Isaac recognised the surly attitude of someone who had spent time in prison.

  The two police officers followed Armstrong through the house and out to a conservatory at the back.

  A man was leaning over flowering plants that were in pots on a raised platform. He looked up. ‘Orchids,’ he said. ‘What do you know about them?’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Wendy said.

  ‘You must be Sergeant Gladstone.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Forgive me, an old habit of mine. I like to know who I’m meeting in advance. I checked you both out, nothing detailed, just entered your names on an iPad. And you must be Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook,’ he said, looking over at Isaac.

  The man removed his gardening gloves. ‘I’m Hamish McIntyre. You’re here about Marcus, am I right?’ He was dressed in a suit, a lighter shade than that of his butler.

  A firm grip, Wendy thought as the man shook their hands.

  ‘We spoke to your daughter about Marcus,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Unfortunately, the relationship between my daughter and myself has soured somewhat in the last few years. You’re aware of my love for her?’

  ‘She made it clear that you were always there for her, especially after her mother died.’

  ‘Tragic, Maureen dying like that, but it was quick and relatively painless. Ill health, none of us know when our number’s up, do we?’

  Isaac could see where Samantha had acquired her charisma. How much of her father’s was feigned or real was unclear, but one thing was sure, this was not an uncouth man, not a fool, and although he had no academic qualifications, he was clearly exceptionally bright and streetwise. He wasn’t going to fall for any police interviewing techniques, any attempts to disarm him, to confuse him, to make him say things he didn’t want to.

  ‘Your butler was precise when we met him, although not pleased to see us.’