‘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 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
