Page 11 of Vengeance is Mine

At the press conference, Alan Shearer looked distressed as he asked for everyone to look for the teenager and help to reunite the family. Goalkeeper Given held up a photograph of Stephanie, which had been taken on the morning she disappeared, wearing the football shirt, and pleaded that if anyone knew anything about her disappearance, or if they knew who had taken her, they were to call the police straightaway.

The Sun has donated £10,000 for anyone with information to come forward in the search for Stephanie.

In a press conference yesterday, Detective Inspector Ian Braithwaite said, ‘We are doing everything possible to find Stephanie and bring her home to her family. Police officers are working around the clock and are following up on a number of leads. However, we urge anyone with information to call the police.’

I looked at the photos that accompanied the story. Alan Shearer and Shay Given looked so young twenty years ago. It was strange seeing Shearer with hair. They both had glum expressions as they held up a photo of Stephanie for the cameras. Lower down the story, Detective Inspector Ian Braithwaite was snapped while giving the press conference. He looked drawn and tired, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. That was probably how it felt.

The final photo was of Stephanie in the famous football strip, grinning happily into the camera on her birthday. Little did she know that a few hours later she would be torn from her family and their lives ruined for ever.

I stood up from the table and walked around the room to stretch my legs. It wasn’t just the lives of the victim and her family that had been destroyed; it was all those others too. Detective Inspector Ian Braithwaite looked devastated in the photograph, as if it was his own child who had gone missing. How had he reacted when her body was discovered? Would he have considered it a personal failure that he hadn’t been able to reunite the girl with her parents? What happened to him afterwards? One man’s actions had created a snowball effect and touched many people’s lives. I bet even Alan Shearer and Shay Given would often think of poor Stephanie and how it could have been one of their own children.

I wanted to stop reading. I was causing myself unnecessary heartache, but I needed to continue. Within these archived stories there had to be something that would answer the many questions I had racing around my mind. One question, in particular, screamed louder than the rest: why?

STEPHANIE WHITE FOUND DEAD

Teenager Stephanie White has been found dead at a house in Scotswood, Newcastle.

Police were alerted to a house in Aldwick Road and discovered the body of the thirteen-year-old girl in the attic. She had been cut up and stuffed into bin bags. An arrest has been made and other members of the household are helping police with their enquiries. A post-mortem will take place tomorrow to discover the cause of death.

A statement released by Northumbria Police stated, ‘This is the worst possible conclusion to this case. Every single officer is heartbroken that we could not bring Stephanie home to her parents. Our thoughts and prayers are with her family and friends.

‘We believe this is an isolated incident. An arrest has been made and we don’t believe the public should fear for their safety. The suspect is being questioned by detectives and information from these interviews will be released in due course.

‘Northumbria Police would like to thank everyone for their help in searching for Stephanie and ask the media to give Stephanie’s family, especially her parents, one of whom is Detective Inspector Harry White, privacy at this incredibly difficult time.’

The house in Aldwick Road has been sealed off, and forensic officers have been spotted entering and leaving the house all day. Uniformed police officers have been conducting house-to-house inquiries with the neighbours as they try to understand the reasoning behind this disturbing crime.

I had no idea Mrs White was married to a detective. What must he have been going through, knowing that his daughter had been kidnapped? I knew he wouldn’t have been allowed to investigate, but he must have been climbing the walls, wanting to pound the streets of Newcastle, knocking on every door and not resting until she was found.

My vision blurred as I looked at the photograph of the innocuous house in Aldwick Road through tear-filled eyes. It seemed like a decent neighbourhood where people looked after their properties and gardens. Yet behind one of the painted front doors lurked a murderer. How long had Stephanie’s body been in the house? Had Dominic’s parents known she was there? Were they covering up for their son? I shuddered.

One question niggling away in my tired brain, which the internet may be able to answer, was: why was Dominic being released after twenty years, when he’d been sentenced to serve a minimum of twenty-five? I found the answer to that straightaway.

DOMINIC GRIFFITHS TOOK ‘KILLER’ DRUG

Dominic Griffiths, killer of tragic teenager Stephanie White, was taking the now banned drug Fenadine when he murdered the schoolgirl in February 1999.

In a statement released by his solicitor, Clare Delaney, she said, ‘Dominic was a disruptive child and was given a mood stabiliser and anti-depressant called Fenadine. This was banned in 2002 following reports in America of users becoming violent and committing criminal acts, including murder and manslaughter, while taking the drug. Makers Maxton-Schwarz have paid out millions of dollars in compensation to people who have had their lives irrevocably changed due to the effects of one of their medications.’

Griffiths, who was sentenced to serve a minimum of twenty-five years in 1999, is now seeking an early release. If successful, he could claim a six-figure compensation payout from the pharmaceutical giant.

‘Bloody hell,’ I said, as I closed the laptop.

I wondered if that was the reason Dominic had maintained his innocence, because he had been taking a drug that was supposed to help him with his moods, but had ended up tipping him over the edge to commit murder. In his eyes, he wasn’t guilty. To the rest of the world, he was.

However, there was no getting away from the fact that he had cut up the body and stuffed it into bin bags before hiding it in his loft. My stomach turned as I pictured the handsome young man from the newspapers standing over a body with a saw. I always thought I was unshockable. A fan of horror movies, I’ve sat through some disturbing films and haven’t shied away from the screen when seeing a helpless victim being cut up with a chainsaw. I’ve just sat back, eyes wide, and shovelled in more popcorn. I’ve watched detective dramas on television and read everything Lynda La Plante and Val McDermid have written, but this was real life, and it was incredibly painful.

An even darker thought came into my head. Had Dominic been taking Fenadine while he was seeing my mum? She went out with him for a year – he could have snapped at any time. When she decided to break up with him, he could have killed her and cut her up. The tears came then as I wondered just how close my mother had come to being a victim. I wanted to hug her.

So many questions, so many thoughts, all of them making me feel sick. I needed a lie down. No, I needed fresh air. I didn’t know what I needed, but maybe wine would help. I pulled a bottle out of the fridge and got a glass down from the shelf. To try to understand what was going on, I would need to speak directly to the people who were involved at the time. Would Mrs White appreciate me turning up on the doorstep? Were Dominic’s parents, my grandparents, still alive? I hoped so. If anyone could fill in the background detail, it would be them.

I made a list of all the people I wanted to speak to: Harry and Mrs White. I don’t think I’ll be able to call her Barbara – she’ll always be a teacher to me. Anthony and Carole Griffiths, who are my grandparents. The detective who led the investigation, DI Ian Braithwaite, and Dominic’s solicitor, Clare Delaney. How realistic is it that Fenadine turned Dominic into a murderer, and he isn’t just a cold-blooded killer? I looked at the list written in my neat handwriting, wondering how many on it would talk to me, how many would tell me to piss off and how many doors I’d have slammed in my face.

I left the list and put the pizza in the microwave to heat up. The best thing I could do for now was to try and forget about it for the rest of the day. If I allowed Dominic to consume me then I’d end up making myself ill, and I needed to be on top of my game here. The microwave pinged. Pizza, a bottle of wine and series two of Fleabag on iPlayer. Once Hot Priest appeared, everything else was forgotten.

Chapter Five

I went to work the next day. I had woken up bright and early, showered, put on my attempt at a power suit, did my make-up and hair all nice and headed for work. Mr Schofield asked, very succinctly, if I was feeling okay. I smiled and said I was fine. He blushed and practically ran back to his office, bless him.

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