322: Shakira Spencer

Ealing is upmarket, tidy and well cared for. It carries that comfortable, settled in kind of charm that's hard to manufacture. It's a patchwork of post war terraces, modern semis, and a new wave of flats that were built in recent years. Among them stands Lambert House, a four story brick building completed in two thousand and nineteen, is part of a regeneration initiative to provide affordable homes for key workers and

consul tenants. Children often play in the communal courtyards between the buildings, and to most people, Whobeck Row feels safe. It's the kind of place where nothing too extraordinary ever really happens. But then, on the twenty fifth of September twenty and twenty two, something did happen, something horrific. It was Sunday, unmortarkable in every way, at least at first at Lambert House. The day had passed quietly. Residents went

about their routines. Groceries were unpacked when thows were cracked open to lead in the breeze. But on the third floor of the building, one woman sat alone in her flat, increasingly troubled by a feeling she couldn't quite shake. For two weeks, she hadn't seen her neighbor. There were no signs from the unit next door, no movement behind the drum blinds. At first, she had told herself that it

was nothing, that people often come and go. Perhaps her neighbor was staying with family, or maybe she'd gone away on holiday. But now something had changed. There was a smell, and it wasn't faint. It was the kind of smell that lingered in the hallway and clung to fabric. It seemed to save through the seams of the building itself, and it was only getting worse. By four point thirty

pm that day, she couldn't ignored any longer. She stood in the hallway, staring at the door of the neighboring flat, willing herself to knock again, even though she already knew there would be no answer. She then reached her her phone and dialed nine ninety nine. Shaghir Spencer was born on the thirteenth of June nineteen eighty seven to parents Lloyd and Mercia. She grew up in ealing, West London. The Spencer family were close. Big family gatherings were a

constant in Shakira's early life. Birthdays, christenings, weddings. There was always a reason to come together. Her sister Arena would later say, we have a big, extended family, so there were always birthdays, christenings, weddings to attend. In these moments, surrounded by loved ones, Shakira shoan, but at skill she stood out, and not in the way that children hoped for. She struggled. Learning didn't come easy to Shakira, and socializing even less so. She was quiet, reserved, and unsure of

how to fit in. Shakir had learning difficulties and was often described as socially awkward, but that didn't tell the whole story. She was kind, earnest, and thoughtful to a fault. Her mother, Mercia, said she was quiet and shy, but would often come out of her shell about when she was surrounded by loved ones. She deeply cared about people and loved having friends to spend time with. Shakira wanted to be liked. That desire followed her into adulthood, shaping

her relationships and at times leaving her painfully vulnerable. She had a trusting nature and a tendency to give more than she received, to bend herself in ways that others would never for her. In a world that can be so unkind, especially to those who struggled to fit in, that trait would become dangerous, yes, But despite her challenges, Shakira had dreams, real ones, simple ones. She knew from a young age that she wanted to be a mother,

that maternal instinct was always there. After finishing school, she began working in a nursery. Her mother used to joke that the chaos of toddlers might put her off having children of her own, but it didn't. Her mother recollected she was really happy when she became a mum. Shagia gave birth to her first son in twenty ten. Followed by a second boy the next year, two beautiful boys close in age, just as Shakira had always wanted. Arena recollected.

She loved being a mum. She'd wanted boys close together, so she was happy. It was a period of Shakira's life that felt full. She felt like she had a purpose, and she took joy in the small things, the school drop offs, bedtime routines, and packing lunches. For a time, things were good. Shakira was proud of the little life that she was build. But life is rarely simple, and for someone like Shakira, with such a deep desire to please and an openness that was often mistaken for weakness,

danger was never far away. When police arrived at Lambert House on the twenty fifth of September twenty twenty two, they gathered outside flat number nine. The neighbor had made the phone call. Her voice was shaky with concern. She hadn't seen her neighbor, Shakira Spencer, in over two weeks, and now there was a smell, an unbearable smell. It wafted through the communal hallway, thick compew dread hanging in the air like fog. When officers arrived, they noticed something

else as well, something far more sinister. Maggots were crawling out from beneath the sealed threshold of Shakira's door, a line of them inching across the floor. Whatever was on the other side, it wasn't going to be easy to witness. The officers didn't wait. They forced an dry kicking down the front door, but it was clear almost immediately that time had already run out. The smell hit them like a wall. It was the unmistakable stench of death, the

kind of smell that would follow them home. Inside the flat was quiet and still. The officers called out Shakira's name, but they knew she wouldn't answer. They began their search, slowly, methodically, stepping through the rooms, drawn like magnets towards the source of the odor. It led them into a bedroom, and that's where they found her. At the back of the room stood a child's bunk bed, and on the bottom bunk was a body. It was Shakiera Spenser, or what

was left of her. Her remains were so severely decomposed that her face was gone, her skin, her features, the very essence of what ones made her sh Kia was all erased by time and decay. Her body was being consumed by maggots. The scene was grotesque, but it wasn't just what they saw what disturbed the officers. It was what didn't make sense. Beside her body, a newspaper had been laid out neatly on the floor, almost as if she had been reading it before drifting off to sleep.

It was a strange detail, almost staged in the room, incense had been lit. It was clear that this was no peaceful death. There were no signs of medical emergencies, no medications, no evidence that Shakira had simply passed in her sleep. Her remains were removed from the flat and taken for post mortem examination, but the pathologist quickly ran into an obstacle. Shakierra's body was so decomposed, so ravaged by the process of death, that it was impossible to

determine a clear cause. She needed to be formally identified through her dental records. Yes, that's how far gone she was. But even through the decay, the damage was still visible. Shaker had suffered crushing injuries to her ear, the kind of trauma that was consistent with blunt force. There were deep cuts to her scalp, and her fate had been scolded. These weren't the injuries of an accidental fall or an

untreated illness. Shakira's Spencer had been tortured to death. As the news of Shakira Spencer's death broke headlines across the United Kingdom, public shock quickly turned to questions. How could something so violent happen to somebody so quietly living her life, and how could it go unnoticed for so long. The investigation was now underway and led by Detective Chief Inspector Brian Howie. It didn't take long for him to appear

before the cameras, appealing to the public for information. I need to know why people would want to harm Shakira, he said bind the scene. Shakira's family was being supported by specially trained officers. The trauma they were facing was immense. They had only lost a daughter, a sister, a mother, but they were now being told that she had died

in pain, in fear, and alone. DCI Howie continued, I would urge anyone with information, no matter how insignificant you think it might be, to get in touch with my team, and somebody did. The first tip came from the very neighbor who had called police to report Shakira missing. This woman had known Shaquira for her rund ten years. She described her as pleasant and friendly, the kind of neighbor you were always happy to run into in the hallway.

But in recent months, she said that something had changed. Jagir had always been known for her curves, a vibrant curvey size sixteen, with long, thick hair and warm, beautiful face. But now, the woman said, Shaker was unrecognizable. She was just skin and bones. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes were ringed with heavy bags. Her frame looked frail, almost breakable. She'd lost a drastic amount of weight. And then there was her behavior. Shagher had been cutting people off. She'd

lost touch with her family. She'd even lost custody of her two boys to their father, which stunned those who knew how deeply she loved them. The more detectives look, the more they realized this wasn't a sudden tragedy. This was the tail end of something that had been building in the shadows for months, maybe even longer. Shaghiera's father, Lloyd, told detectives that he had noticed the changes in his daughter as well. Every time he tried to visit her,

she had an excuse. She was busy, she wasn't feeling well, she didn't want to see anybody. But just a couple of months before her death. He did see her, just three days before her thirty fifth birthday. What he saw had left him shaken. Jagear looked gaunt, her body language was guarded, almost jittery. She didn't look like herself, and

she didn't act like herself either. Lloyd was terrified. The only thing that made sense to him at the time, the only thing that could explain the sudden weight loss, that isolation, and the erratic behavior, was drugs. Lloyd asked his daughter, and she denied it, but he wasn't convinced. He begged her to see a doctor. He thought that she was ill, maybe seriously. Something was clearly wrong, but the truth was far worse than he ever could have imagined.

Just after midnight, the phone rang at the police station. The voice on the other end was quiet, nervous, and hesitant. It was a man calling about his sister, Michelle Pendleberry, and her son Sean. Only ours earlier, Sean had turned up at his mother's home in a state of visible panic. He was pale, shaken and swearing something was wrong. Michelle asked him what was going on and pressed him to explain himself, and then Sean told her that he had

done something really bad. Michelle didn't understand what kind of bad. He said he had burned someone's feet and now they were dead. Michelle stared at her son, stunned. She still didn't understand what he was saying. She hadn't seen the news. She had no idea about Shakira's spencer. She asked him who, and then Sean said her name, Shakira. He said that he had killed her, but not on purpose and not alone. He told his mother that two other women were involved,

a Shanna stood Home and Lisa Richardson. He said they'd all been there before. We I've back into today's case. Let me tell you about something that might save you some serious money. You know how we're always talking about following the evidence and doing your research. Well, if you're someone who uses THHC or CBD products, you need to do some research on pricing too, because you're probably overpink.

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Your wallet will thank you. Michelle didn't know what to do. Her son had just confessed to something terrific, but she didn't want to hand them in. She got in the car and drove Sean over to her brother's home. But when they're rived, things didn't go the way Sean had hoped. His uncle was horrified. He asked him, are you a killer? Now? Do you just go around killing people? John denied it. He said it wasn't him and claimed he didn't lay a hand on Shakira, but the women stood home and

Richardson were the ones who had done it. He said he had only helped clean up afterwards. Then Sean made a request. He asked his uncle for help buying a ticket to the Seychelles, where his grandmother lived. He wanted out of the country. He wanted to run, but instead Sean's uncle called police and the trio were arrested.

on the surface seemed kind. Her name was a Shana Home and she was a neighbor who lived nearby. Shakira, who was ever eager to make friends, began to trust her. But Shakira couldn't have known who Studholme really was behind the compliments in the Sweet Smiles was a long violent history. Studholm had a criminal record that stretched back years, including three convictions for attacking other women. In one case, she had kicked and punched a woman who was lying helpless

in the middle of the street. Four years later, she assaulted another woman in a racially aggravated attack. She had also received the caution after a child under her care fell from a flat roof while left unintended in a paddling pool. This wasn't a woman looking for friendship. This was a predator, and Shakira, a woman who was vulnerable trusting, eager to be liked was her perfect target. At the time, Studholm was in a relationship with Sean Pendlebury, a man

with his own history of violence. His convictions included drug offenses, assaulting police officer, and handling stolen goods. Together, the pair moved through a chaotic and volatile social world, often in the company of Lisa Richardson, a forty three year old woman who lived in Northold. Richardson's flat had a reputation. It was described by neighbors as a hive of anti social behavior. People came and went at all ours, Arguments broke out in the stairwells. It was the kind of

place where trouble had a permanent residence. And it was in this world that Shakira was pulled slowly and deliberately. At first, it looked like a friendship, harmless messages, legs and comments on Facebook. In one Stockholm called her a natural beauty. In another she wrote, pretty to somebody like Shakira, quiet, shy, with intellectual disabilities and a desperate need to be accepted. These comments meant everything. She thought she had found someone

who genuinely cared. But behind that screen, Stodholm was laying a trap. She introduced Shakira to the darker side of life, one filled with late night drinking, drug use, and chaotic parties. This wasn't the kind of world that Shakira had known, but she didn't say no. She wanted to be liked, and slowly, Studholme took control. She used the cover of COVID lockdowns to ramp up her influence. She told Shakira to break up with her partner. She discouraged her from

seeing her family. She began to isolate her emotionally, socially, physically. Then the control escalated. Stodholm, Pendleberry, and Richardson began to own Shakira. They took over her bank accounts. Stodholm changed her benefit forms to redirect payments to herself. They started to force Shakira into sex work, and whatever money she earned they took. Shakira stopped being a friend. She became

a possession. She was passed between the three like a commodity, living in their homes, used for cooking and cleaning, sent on errands to buy groceries. She was no longer traded like a person. And then came the violence. They didn't just beat Shakira They tortured her. They used their fists, their feate belts, glass bottles. They even scolded her feet with They even scolded her feet with boiling water. Her

body became frail and skeletal. From a size sixteen, she dropped to a size six in a matter of months. Shakira was starving and they gave her nothing but ketchup sachez to eight. Shakira's hair, which was once long and thick, was crudely chopped off. Her face was bruised, her eyes were often blackened. They didn't even let her sleep in a bed. Shakira was forced to sleep in a hallway on crumpled newspapers, like a discarded pet. Some nights she

wasn't even allowed inside. She was made to sleep in a bike shed, and when Pendlebury moved into her flat, her fire final safe space was gone. Towards the end of August twenty twenty two, Shakira was stopped by police while running errands for the group. They were concerned her parents shocked them the bruises, the sunken face, the black eyes. When they asked what had happened, Shakira said nothing. She was worn down by the terror humiliation and isolation, and

the police just let her go. The torment that Shakira Spenser injured wasn't a secret kept behind closed doors. It was something that her abuser celebrated. They boasted about what they were doing, They laughed and documented her pain. In July, Lisa Richardson sent a series of text messages to her friend named Carla. She wrote, I've just fucked this bitch up. This bitch she ain't going nowhere. I'm going to smash her up joke, and then again she wrote I'm going

to mash up Shakira. A day later, Richardson's followed up with another message, which read, so at the end of the day, she deserved everything she got. I didn't even bait her that much. I just gave her a couple of slaps, a tappy tap slap one, two, three, but no. Richardson then sent photographs of Shakira to her friends. Her nose was clearly injured, as if she had just been punched in the face. In another photograph, Shakira lay unconscious

on a sofa in Richardson's flat. Her face was battered, and Richardson had written, look, I've got another afternoon stod Holme struck Shakira in the head with a glass bottle, blood spattered on the wall. In a panic, she texted Richardson, I've bust her head in, I need you here. I'll go to jail, but none of them stopped. Pendlebury escalated things further. He chased Shakira with a homemade blue torch made with a lighter held to an aerosol. Boiling water

was poured on her feeth. CCTV footage in the surrounding area would later capture what they had done to her. Shakira moved differently now. She hobbled down the street, visibly in pain and struggling to walk. Her feet had been scolded so badly that she could barely walk. Her eyes were bruised and sunken, and her expression was vacant. Shakira looked like a ghost. She was clearly dying in plain sight. The abuse didn't stop, and it didn't tape off. It

escalated until Shakira Spenser was barely clinging to life. It was the eleventh or twelfth of September when everything came to a final brutal head inside of Shanna Stodholm's home. The violence began again, but this time it would be the last time. That morning, Sean Pendleberry dragged Shakira off the floor. He hurled her against the oven and her skull struck metal. Then he set upon her again, chasing her with a lighter and an aerosol can, burning her flesh.

Studholme poured boiling water over her. Later that day, Richardson saw Shakira standing in the kitchen. She was just standing there. She wasn't crying, she wasn't speaking. The only song she could make was a faint murmur, bub bub bub. She was barely clinging to life. They all knew it. That night, Pendleberry borrowed his hands, houned the civic He barked it outside Studholm's flat. When it was dark enough, they bundled Shakira into the boot of the car. She was still alive.

A neighbor would later recall seeing her stumbling towards the car. She looked confused and lost. Pendlebury and Studholm drove across London back to Shakira's flat in ealing There, they shoved her into her hallway cupboard, locked the door, and walked away. They knew that she would die in there. Back at Studholm's flat. Richardson joined them. They scrubbed everything, the blood, the filth, the smell. They e raised Shakira from the scene. Then they went out for kebabs. They were caught on

CCTV laughing and joking as they returned. A few days later, they returned to Shakira's flat. She was dead. Her body was slumped in the tiny cupboard where they had left her. Now they had a problem. They didn't want to just leave her there. That would look suspicious, so Pendleberry came up with a plan. He borrowed a caravan from his hand, and the idea was to soft Shakira's body inside and abandon it somewhere far away. But it was already too late.

Shakira's body was already decomposing. The smell and bodily fluids was more than they could handle, so instead they dragged Shakira's corpse into the bedroom and laid it out on the bottom bunk of a child's bed. They wanted it to look natural, as if Shakira had just died peacefully in her sleep. They lit incense to try and cover the stench of rot. They even packed ice around Shakira's body, a crude and desperate attempt to slow the inevitable decomposition.

Then they laid out a newspaper beside the bed, as if Shakier had been reading when death came for her. And just before and just like before, they started cleaning. They scrubbed their flats, They raised fingerprints, burned clothing, discarded founds. They tried to vanish every trace of what they had done to Shakira Spenser. But truth has a way of rodding its way to the surface, and soon it would. On the twenty ninth of September, justice finally began to stir.

Joan Pendleberry, A Shanna stood Home and Lisa Richardson stood in the dock side by side. At a magistrate's court in London. They were each charged with murder. Pendlebury and stud Home also faced charges of conspiracy to cause gravous bodily harm and preventing a awful burial. All three of them pleaded not guilty. They had all denied involvement in their interviews with police. Do you have anything to do with her death?

Detective Chief Inspector Brian Hoyey spoke outside the courtroom and said, I am pleased that we have secured charges against the three individuals and we continue to work to get justice for Shakira's family. He added that the family were understandably devastated and were still being supported by especially trained officers. You've probably seen a million ads for hair growth products and thought, sure, like that actually works. I did too, until I found out that Nutrifall isn't like the rest

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six months with neutrophil. For a limited time, Neutrifoil is offering my listener's ten dollars off your first month subscription and free shipping when you go to nutrifail dot com and enter the promo code morbidology. That's neutrafail dot com promo code morbidology. The trial began almost a year later, on the eleventh of September twenty twenty three at the Old Bailey. The courtroom was silent as prosecutor Alison Hunter

k C rose to her faith. She told the jury that Shakira Spenser had been reduced to a slave, her body and mind dominated and destroyed by three people standing just feet away, her former neighbor a Shanna Studholme, Studholm's partner Sean Pendleberry, and their friend Lisa Richard Shardson. She stated, for whatever was their unfathomable, cruel, sadistic motive, these three defendants tormented, tortured, starved, burned, and eventually battered Shakira Spencer

to death. She stood with photographs of Shakira taken just before she died and described what the camera had captured. She said to the jury. In early twenty and twenty one, Shakira Spencer had been a healthy, even volumptuous psiz sixteen, weighing some seventy four kilograms. By July twenty and twenty two, She was just skin and bone, gaunt, skeletal, bruised from head to foot, her eyes hollow and black. She was barely a scrawny sized six in the images taken by

the defendants as they laughed and mocked her condition. The court was then shown the evidence photographs and videos, the very same ones the trio had broadly taken. There was no denying what had happened to Shakira Spencer. Her suffering had been recorded. The testimony began with someone who knew they accused all too well, Michelle Pendlebery, Sean's mother. She had once been close friends with the Shanna Studholme, but by the time she took the witness stand that friendship

had long since fractured. She told the court that Studholm was a controlling force, not just over Shakira, but over her son and over Lisa Richardson too. It was the foundation of the defense that all of them, in their own way, had been manipulated and controlled, just like Shakira. Michelee testified that she had known what was happening, that she had seen it firsthand, and worse, that Studholm had even forced her to hit Shakira. She said to the

jury she'll make you hit her too. She gets you riled up, and you don't even know why, you're just worked up. Michelle confessed that she had hit Shakira once. She said that she was sorry and she wasn't proud of it. She painted a picture of a woman Studhome who was opinionated, aggressive and demanding, a woman who wanted people under her feet twenty four hours a day. She said, it was Michelle, can you do this? Do that? Even with her partner, she treated them like dogs. She described

Studholm's moods as violent and unpredictable. One moment she was kind, even magnetic, the next it was like somebody had flipped a switch. Michelle was asked whether she found some of these qualities attractive, and she said yes. When asked whether she had fallen under Studholm's spell, she replied simply, yeah. She seemed to have it figured out at times. Then the courtroom fell silent. The next witness was Sean Pendleberry,

taking the stand for the first time. He denied having anything to do with Shakira's death, even though he had confessed to his uncle and mother. He claimed that when he saw her, she was already in a bad way. That it was Studhomme who had put her in the cupboard, that he just drove her home. Prosecutor Alison Hunter leaned in her voice cold but composed, as she said, is a cupboard a place where people are left to die? Pendleberry shrugged and replied, no, how am I meant to

know where people are left to die. He told the jury that on the thirteenth of September he had gone back to Shakira's flat. He said he heard a noise from the cupboard, and when he opened it, Shakir was still alive. He claimed. He asked her if she needed an ambulance, but she said no. He said he helped her out of the cupboard and onto the bunk bed. He said that he made her some soup and helped

her to drink it. Pendleberry said he left the flat and only found out Shakier had died when Stodholm called him, But that story did in align with what others had said. Multiple witnesses had seen Pendleberry drag Shakier across the floor, slammer into the oven, and burn her with the lighter and aerosol can. There was even the CCTV footage that showed Pendlebury on the twelfth of September taking bin bags

out of Studholm's flat. He told the court they were full of bloody tissues used to clean the walls where Studholm had attacked Shakira, but the prosecution wasn't buying it. More CCTV footage captured Pendleberry and Studholm together returning from Shakira's flat after leaving her there to die. They were laughing and joking as Shakira's spencer lay dying. After Pendleberry's testimony, the final defendant to take the stand was Lisa Richardson.

She had once called the Shannis Studholm like family. Now standing before the jury, she claimed that she too had been controlled. She stated she knew I was scared of her, just her charisman, MA I'm quite a fearful person like Pendlebury. Richardson insisted that she had been under Studholm's influence, but the evidence told a much darker story. She had poured boiling water on Shakira, she had burned her using aerosol

in a light. She had joined in, not intervened, and when asked what the motive was why they did it, all she could say was I don't know why it happened. She claimed that she had watched in horror as Shakira was tortured. She testified that Studholm had doysterr and boiling water and Pendleberry had burned her skin with the flame. But if Richardson had been horrified, the evidence suggested otherwise. After the torture, after Shakira had been stuffed into that cupboard,

Richardson sent the text message. She said she wanted to move closer to Studholme. Prosecutor Richard Stone wasn't buying it. He confronted her with the message and said, I suggest you're seeking to blame her in your defense so you avoid being convicted of murder. Richardson denied it, but the prosecution had more. She had recorded the abuse of Shakira.

She had taken photographs and videos of her suffering. She had even been part of a video call with Pendleberry during a torture show session, as she said she didn't want to miss out on the amusement. In addition to the CCT surveillance of the killers with Shakira, there was forensic evidence as well. Shakira's blood was found in Studholm's apartment. Her blood was found on Pendleberry's shoes. There was also evidence of Studholm using Shakira's bank cards at various stores.

After that, the trial drew to a close. A Shanna Studholm refused to testify. She clearly had nothing to say. Prosecutor Alison Hunter made her final appeal to the jury. She reminded them of what the trao had done after Shakira died, stating they cleaned up the scene as best they could. They rained Shakira Spenser as if she had been reading. The windows around the flat were left open, the door parricaded. Then Pendleberry went to the car from

the other side of the building. They concealed the death of Shakira's Spencer. They isolated her from everyone she knew, even her own family. Then she paused, and she said what everyone in the courtroom was thinking. They are guilty of murder, and it really is murder of the most foil. They are guilty of denying a decent burial, and I hope you do not lose one second of sleep if you find them so. The jury deliberated for eighteen hours.

When they returned to court, the atmosphere was tense. The public gallery was packed, and then the verdicts were read out, guilty on all charges. The courtroom was stunned, and Pendlebury showed his true colors. He began to clap as if mocking the court before he stormed out of the dock. The judge adjourned sentencing and excused the jury from service for life. The trial had been that horrific. Outside the court house, Detective Chief Inspector Howie addressed the media and

said she care It was a beautiful, happy mother. She was kind and had a trusting nature. He said that she had been exploited, controlled and enslaved in the most dehumanizing way imaginable. He said, I think she just wanted to be cared for, loved to have a friendship group around her. She was coerced and manipulated over a long period of time by these people. On the first of March twenty twenty four, Studholm, Pendlebury, and Richardson returned to

court for sentencing. This time the jury was gone, but the evidence was far from over. The prosecution played chilling footage filmed by the three defendants themselves in the weakes leading up to Shakira's death. It showed them mocking her, taunting her and abusing her. Prosecutor Benholt told the court that the footage made one thing brutally clear. They were enjoying what they were doing. Then came the victim impact statements. Shakira's son, whose name was protected by law, submitted a

heartbreaking statement. He said suffered nightmares every single night. He said that he couldn't get the image of his mother out of his head. How skinny she looked, how I'm well? And then he asked why were they so heartless? What could cause them to torture another human? He told the court that his mother wasn't perfect, but she made him feel safe, happy, and loved. And then, through tears, he said, I miss her every single day and wish for a

chance to say and speak with her again. I never got to say goodbye to her or tell her that I loved her. These people let her die alone, feeling she was unloved because they had taken everybody from her. Then Shakira's mother spoke. She said the defendants had stripped her daughter of everything that made her who she was. She stated they isolated her from her family and friends.

Her health deteriorated and she was almost unrecognizable. She said, when Shaquiera was at her lowest, they had tortured and murdered her like a pack of animals. Judge Anne Rafferty then addressed the court and the three defendants who sat before her.

three of you. She noted their complete lack of empathy, their refusal to accept responsibility, their total absence of remorse. She told Studholm directly, you're not mentally ill, You're dominant, aggressive and manipulative. To Pendlebury, she acknowledged his low IQ and follower's nature, but she made it clear you were fully involved. And then came the sentences life in prison with a minimum term of thirty four years. After the sentencing,

Shakira's father, Lloyd, spoke publicly for the first time. He had traveled to Guiana in twenty twenty, only to get stuck there during the pandemic, and he said the words that haunt so many parents in tragedy. I regret going. I feel like I could have saved her. He said. Those three made his daughter feel like she finally found friends, people who cared about her, but they were never her friends. He said they brainwashed her into thinking they were doing

right by her. She didn't realize they were grooming her to get her place, to take her money, to control her life. And then, with a voice full of pain, he said, they broke her soul. That is it for this episode of Morbidology. It's only thank you so much for listening, and I'd like to say a massive Thank you to my new supporter up on Patreon, Veronica. As you all know, Morbidology as a one woman's team, so that support upon their seriously goes such a long way.

I upload adfree and early release episodes behind the scenes, and I also send out thank you card along with some co merch. There's also a bunch of bonus episodes of Morbidology Plus that aren't on the regular podcast platforms, and you can even suggest a case for me to cover up on there. Remember to check us out at morbidology dot com for more information about this episode and to read some true crime articles. Until next time, take care of yourself, Stacey, and have an amazing week.