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    Where No Crows Fly
    Where No Crows Fly
    Where No Crows Fly
    Ebook320 pages4 hours

    Where No Crows Fly

    By S.D. Gripton and Sally Dillon-Snape

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    Captain Charles Francis Charles Hall is a soldier, a hero, an Intelligence Officer and a cold-hearted serial killer. He started his killing in the 1920's, kept killing through peacetime, ultimately teaching his daughter, Florence Elizabeth how to kill just like him. But Florence Elizabeth is worse, not just a chip off the the old block, but a brand new block, cold, hard, cruel, delighting in the pain and suffering of others. Now she's teaching her son how to follow her. John Adams is the cop brought back from sick leave to break her, to make her confess, when she has never confessed before. He's the victim of a murder attempt, shot five times, clinging to life, nursed by his beautiful younger, model wife, Emma. Will she be the one who has to pay the price for his investigation into Florence Elizabeth? Who will live, who will die? A wonderfully researched, excting, moving novel from s.d. gripton.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherS.D. Gripton
    Release dateDec 6, 2011
    ISBN9781466046030
    Where No Crows Fly
    Author

    S.D. Gripton

    S.D. Gripton novels and real crime books are written by Dennis Snape, who is married to Sally who originate from North Wales and Manchester respectively and who met 18 years ago. I work very hard to make a reading experience a good one, with good plots and earthy language. I enjoy writing and hope readers enjoy what I have written. I thank everyone who has ever looked at at one of my books.

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      Book preview

      Where No Crows Fly - S.D. Gripton

      Where No Crows Fly

      A Crime Novel

      By

      S.D. Gripton & Sally Dillon-Snape

      Copyright © Sally Dillon-Snape & Dennis Snape (2024)

      The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with The Copyright Act 1988

      All characters and events in this publication other than those of fact and historical significance available in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living and dead

      is purely coincidental

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means

      without the written permission of the publisher

      There is documented evidence of young men changing their identities during the World Wars

      Prologue

      Sunday

      2nd May

      1915

      Walter Wadkins was a village bully. Within the isolated Yorkshire village in which he lived there was not a man, woman or child who did not quiver whenever he appeared. Almost two hundred people were scared of him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscled, with large hands, a square head and a tangle of fair hair. He was the son of Harold, who had been the village bully before him and who was the village blacksmith, though he had now descended into drunkenness and rancour now that his wife had passed. Walter, the boy, lifted and pushed and forged at the anvil with a rage that ran deep within his very soul. People needed his skills but hated him on sight. He had the Devil in him, they said.

      However, today was to be a very special day in the life of Walter Wadkins.

      He’d planned it all.

      Today he would rape his first girl, commit his first murder then depart the village to join the British Army, ready to defend his Land against the hated Hun. He wouldn’t be joining up as Walter Wadkins though, he’d be enlisting as Norman Evans, a child of the village who had died at only six-months and who was buried in the village cemetery.

      Norman shared his birthday with Walter.

      He would have been seventeen-years of age today.

      Walter Wadkins was fifteen.

      Rape, murder and departure were the only things on his mind.

      ***

      Chapter 1

      Saturday

      24th March

      1984

      Police Constable John Adams was twenty-one years and four-months old, handsome and tall in a loose-limbed, dark-haired, dark-eyed Latin kind of way, and he had never wanted to be anything else in his life but a Police Officer. He was thrilled beyond all reason to be on his very first solo patrol, even though rain was falling with such force that it was bouncing at least a foot in the air when it collided with the Earth. If it didn’t soak you on the way down, it got you on the way back.

      But John didn’t care.

      He’d achieved his ambition, he’d qualified as a Police Officer, top of his class no less, and he was on his very first solo patrol. Not that there was a lot to see or do, not on a very wet Saturday, with shoppers thin on the ground and thieves, muggers and dippers equally reluctant to step out in the inclement weather. So, John strode the litter-strewn High Street in glorious, uniformed isolation, inwardly warm, but outwardly chilled and wet.

      Nothing much will be happening today, he thought.

      ***

      Except if Mrs. Abrahams could have invaded his mind she would have vehemently disagreed with him.

      Mrs. Abrahams was staring down the small but deadly barrel of a handgun and was more scared than she had ever been in her sixty-four years. She was the Postmistress; a haughty, often rude, lady who was often spoken about in derogatory terms by those customers who regularly dealt with her, none of whom, however, questioned her trustworthiness in matters financial nor her devotion to her duties. She never paid out a penny less than was expected nor charged a penny more than was required and she always had time for the old folk.

      Many would have felt some sympathy for her as she stared down the unwavering black barrel of the gun.

      The gun was held in the large right hand of a thirty-seven-year-old slope-shouldered, muscled, thick-chested, wide-bellied thug, thief and nasty general miscreant named Nathan ’Nate’ McGann, not that Mrs. Abrahams would have recognised him, even if he hadn’t been wearing a dark-blue ski-mask. The mask made his mad-staring brown eyes seem even more terrifying.

      He had already threatened to shoot Mrs. Abrahams and both Mrs. Alice Winterburn, a robust eighty-year-old who was only in for a first-class stamp to stick on a letter to a son who never wrote back to her and who lived in a town down in the South and who worked in an office; and Alison Hyleigh, eighteen-years of age and late in for her child maintenance payments for her two-year old daughter, Melissa, who was asleep in her arms. Nate McGann had threatened to shoot the baby, too, if Mrs. Abrahams didn’t stuff every penny and pound from her till and safe and every document she had access to, into the black canvas bag he’d brought along with him, which he’d handed Mrs. Abrahams for just such a purpose. Mrs. Abrahams was going about this task with her usual efficiency, even as her hands, indeed her whole body, trembled unceasingly.

      Hurry up, Nate growled, as he glanced over his shoulder at his little helper, a skinny kid who’d been brought along to watch the street through the glass panel in the Post Office door. Except the kid was watching Nate, his hero; idolizing him.

      Watch the street, kid, Nate barked, and the kid glanced out again.

      It’s raining, the kid thought, as he gave the street another cursory glance, not just raining, but pouring, there isn’t a soul about. I’ve seen rain before but I have never seen an armed robbery, never been involved in one never even seen a gun. Look how those women shake, how they are in absolute fear and how they obey Nate’s every command. The kid appreciated the power required to subdue people in such a way, he appreciated it and wanted some of it. He felt intensely excited and proud to have been invited along.

      He turned his eyes and head away from the street again and focused on Nate.

      John Adams was now only twenty-yards away, he would have just come into the boy’s view through the window if only the boy had been looking.

      That’s all, Mrs. Abrahams whispered.

      Nate lifted the gun and placed it to Alison Hyleigh’s forehead.

      Are you telling the truth? he asked Mrs. Abrahams.

      Yes, God bless me, yes.

      Nate snatched the canvas bag from her hands.

      We’ll be leaving now, he announced, "and if any of you try to follow us, or try to phone the police, just remember that I know where you all live.

      He didn’t, of course, but the threat had worked for him over a number of years.

      Stare at the floor, he ordered, and all the ladies became head down statues.

      Nate stepped backwards towards the door, which the kid pulled open without checking whether the street was clear. Nate whirled, pulled off his mask and stepped into the rain. The first person he saw, the first person the kid saw, was Police Constable John Adams standing erect on the opposite side of the Street.

      Halt! John shouted, immediately, as he drew his truncheon. Police!

      He had only taken one step forward before Nate lifted the pistol and aimed it directly at him.

      You don’t want to do that, John said calmly, as rain thundered down on all of them.

      Yes, I do, Nate said.

      And he pulled the trigger.

      Nothing happened.

      There was no terrifying explosion, the pistol did not leap in Nate’s hand and no bullet sped on its way.

      Nate glanced, briefly, at the gun then aimed and pulled the trigger again.

      Again, nothing happened.

      Nothing was ever going to happen with the gun. It was over forty-years old; it had just been left around in yards and barns and it hadn’t been fired in all that time. Though it was oily black and shiny on the outside, it was rusty and rotten on the inside, and Nate, being Nate; arrogant, bullying, expecting his life to be perfect and the people he purchased goods from not to lie or to cheat him; hadn’t bothered to check the pistol after buying it for cash from a man who drank with him in the pub. He hadn’t known how useless it was going to be but, to be fair, he hadn’t expected to have to fire it, especially not at a copper.

      He threw the gun at John with all the strength he could muster and it flew past John’s head and landed with a thud on the flooded footpath behind him. Nate and the kid began to run along the street as rapidly as they could, the kid still wearing his ski mask. John, who was standing like a petrified tree, as if he’d been turned to stone by the fear of having a gun pointed at him and fired; took a couple of very deep breaths to calm himself then took off after them.

      In a foot race against John, Nate McGann and the boy were both on a loser.

      Nate was thirty-seven and severely overweight; he smoked too many cigarettes and drank far too many pints of bitter, enough to re-float the Titanic some people said, and he hadn’t done any meaningful exercise since leaving school. He’d never needed to exercise, being the size he was, with hands like hams that got him everything he ever wanted and always had. He couldn’t understand why the stupid young cop was chasing him, other than the fact that if the gun had worked he would now be running away from a murder, he would be a cop-killer. What did he want, the young cop? Did he want to fight? Did he want to make a name for himself? Nate thought for a moment that he should stop running and turn to face him, get his fists up; except the young cop had a truncheon and he looked as if he could use it. He looked fit, too.

      The kid urged Nate on, alternatively pushing and pulling the gasping older man along, lifestyle and weight catching up with him. The copper never got any closer to them but neither did he fall any further behind.

      He’s going to chase us down until we’re exhausted, Nate thought, and he was right.

      The kid pushed Nate through a doorway that led to the steps of a multi-storey parking lot, the kid reasoning that it would only take him eleven seconds to steal a car and if they could get that much ahead, they could still escape, maybe even run the bloody copper down, bounce him off the bonnet of the car. Fucking copper. Except Nate was climbing slower and slower; while behind them came the sounds of the steady steps of John Adams, barely out of breath, a squash-playing, marathon-running, tremendously fit young man.

      Eventually Nate and the kid staggered out on to top-most level, a place devoid of vehicles of any kind, just acres of grey flat concrete, swamped in puddles from the torrential rain. Nate struggled across half the empty distance before stopping and leaning on the surrounding low outer wall, gasping loudly.

      Come on, Nate, the kid urged, we can still do it, we can still get away.

      No, we can’t, Nate gasped. It’s over. It’s over. He’s fucking run us down. We cannot get away from him.

      No! the kid barked.

      It’s over, John Adams said as he stood some fifteen feet away, seemingly not even out of breath from the exercise or bothered by the criminals, old or young. His truncheon hung loosely, but firmly, in his right hand, his helmet being held in his left. Give it up, Nate.

      John had recognised the older, bigger man the moment he’d seen him from across the street outside the Post Office; for only at his very first briefing that morning he’d been shown a photograph of him and told that he was in the area, on their patch, and that he was a violent, uncaring thug; and if he, John, came across him, he should radio it in and not approach. Nate McGann was a very violent man, he was told.

      Except he didn’t look very violent now.

      He looked like an overweight older man leaning on a low wall, standing in the pouring rain and gasping for breath. Nate turned his head and looked over to what he considered to be a child in a uniform and marvelled at how his reputation was always one step ahead of him.

      Even baby coppers know who I am, he thought. Maybe it is time to give it all up, maybe it’s time to go straight, following the new prison sentence he was about to receive for the armed robbery.

      Nate, the kid continued as he bounced around on his toes, still high from the robbery, we can do it, you can do the copper. You can put him on the floor, Nate, you can. We can still get away.

      We’re caught, kid; it’s over.

      No!

      I say yes.

      Nate rose to his full height and, just for a moment, the kid thought he really was going to do the copper but all Nate did was toss the bag in the general direction of the policeman and it skidded along in the rain, through puddles, spilling money and documents all around as it went.

      NO!

      The kid caught both Nate McGann and John Adams off-guard when he charged at Nate, putting both his scrawny hands on the big man’s chest and pushing for all he was worth. He drove Nate back to a position where he was actually sitting on the low surrounding wall of the multi-storey then the kid pushed him over it, screaming abuse into his face.

      Oh, my God, John shouted as he rushed forward to try to save Nate. Dropping his helmet, letting go of his truncheon, which bounced off the concrete in the rain, swinging a hand over the wall as he looked down. Nate was reaching for him, their fingertips touched, but not enough for a grip and Nate fell away, down and down, until he landed with a sickening thud on the darkened concrete below. John knew he was instantly dead.

      He whirled round to arrest the kid but the only sign of him was a swinging exit door on the other side of the expanse of flooded parking lot. John sprinted over, smashing his way through the door, but all he could hear were footsteps a long, long way down, moving quickly. John thought about chasing again but knew he would never catch the kid, he would never apprehend him, he was too far ahead and gone.

      The kid was never traced, never identified, never prosecuted.

      Over the following few days, untrue statements were printed in some of the more down-market tabloid newspapers, revealing that an anonymous tip-off had been made claiming Police Constable John Adams was solely responsible for pushing Nate McGann from the top-floor of the car park. John’s name had been revealed in reports on the death of local hard-man criminal Nate McGann. Because of the rumours, John was suspended and investigated thoroughly by his own force and by Internal Affairs.

      Jolene Frances McGann, twenty-one years of age, and Nate’s third wife, appeared on local television demanding proper answers, demanding the arrest of the copper who’d murdered her lovely husband demanding, additionally, to know who would now take responsibility for providing for her ten-month old twins, Polly and Christian. Following two months of investigations; two months of written statements and long interviews, John Adams was cleared of any offence and was allowed to continue with his Police career. Eleven-months after Nate’s death, his wife Jolene died from a drug-overdose. Nothing more was ever heard of the twins.

      But some would always blame John Adams for Nate McGann’s death.

      And those people would never forget.

      Nor forgive.

      ***

      Chapter 2

      Monday

      21st March

      2005

      Ronald Hall stood in smiling silence, ecstatic with feelings of pulsating happiness and passionate pride. It was his mother’s fifty-fifth birthday and he’d managed, with great skill and determination, to acquire the very gift she’d wanted above all others. He thought no one in the history of the world had ever experienced such feelings of happiness as he stood before his beloved mother in the lounge of their shared home, his chest swollen with pride, holding her gift in his right hand, his fat, stubby fingers entwined in the wrapping.

      The smile on his mother’s lovely lips was exquisite, as was the joy she’d shown in her applause and in the way she’d danced when she’d first espied her gift. How proud she was of him, how she loved him.

      His mother stood primly in a shapeless floral frock and flat white shoes, as slim on her fifty-fifth birthday as she’d been on her eighteenth. Her thin hips swayed in girlish excitement, with her chin down as she allowed a mischievous smile to play upon her lips. She knew her son liked to see such a smile, though her jet-coloured eyes stared out without emotion.

      On, Ronald, she gasped, seemingly short of breath in her excitement, you are so wonderful, you will do anything to please your mother. I am so proud of you. Remove the wrapping, darling son, and let me see my gift.

      Ronald lifted a large pair of black-handled scissors and began to snip at the wrapping.

      Snip-snip.

      He glanced towards where his mother stood and he paused in his snipping whilst he awaited further instructions, for some sign of encouragement.

      Don’t tease, Ronald, mother said, excitedly, show me more.

      Snip-snip.

      More of mother’s gift was revealed.

      Ronald giggled and his mother danced again as the room was filled with the sounds of light-hearted joy.

      Florence Elizabeth Hall, Ronald’s mother, placed the back of her right hand against her forehead as if all the excitement were too much for her, as if she might swoon and faint away, but as Ronald approached, creases of concern suddenly etched on his face, she waved him away, sending him back to her gift.

      Just remove a little more wrapping, dear Ronald, she whispered, her voice seeming to echo her own frail state. Then I shall come forward to take a closer look.

      Ronald gleefully snipped away until, eventually, Florence Elizabeth skipped forward on her toes across a deeply carpeted floor, the room dark behind drawn heavy drapes. She skipped in the manner of a dancer, but with her stilted movements and awkward-looking steps it was obvious she was not a trained in any way. Ronald, though, thought she moved with the fluidity of a gently flowing stream, a joy to behold.

      You have surpassed yourself, Ronald, Florence Elizabeth said as she stood mere inches from her gift. It is absolutely beautiful, exquisite.

      She lifted her bony arms and Ronald went to her and she held him and smothered his face in kisses and when they separated Ronald had never, ever been happier in his whole life. They both turned to stare at the gift.

      And the gift stared back.

      Susan Ellis was almost eighteen-years old, blonde, blue-eyed, slim but with large breasts, who was only three days away from the end of her time of formal education, after which, in two weeks time, she would have been moving on to a career in the Royal Navy as a member of the WREN’s, the Women’s Royal Navy. It was a career she had always wanted, had always worked towards and now was only two weeks away from. Two weeks.

      Except she was now an unwitting, and unwilling, birthday gift for a mad looking woman.

      She trembled with fear as she stared back at the overweight man who had abducted her and the stick-thin, dead-eyed woman who, apparently, was his mother. The fat man had stuck what she thought was a knife to her side as she walked through the park earlier that morning and threatened to kill her if she didn’t do exactly as she was told. The knife turned out to be pair of black-handled scissors, the same scissors he held now, but they had the desired affect and Susan did do exactly as she was told. She was forced into the fat man’s car; Ronald she had now discovered his name to be; and she slid, as ordered, into the well of the passenger seat, where she knelt while the man covered her with a blanket. After he’d locked her door, he climbed into the driver’s side and drove away, reminding her that any resistance would result in her instant death. Susan had not resisted, considering the fact the she might be raped in the very near future; maybe slapped around a little bit, but she became determined to remember every detail of the man and his car, the colour, the make; and she determined to fight back if she thought her life was at risk.

      What she hadn’t foreseen, of course, and couldn’t have, not in her wildest nightmares, was being presented by the fat man with her arms bound tightly behind her back, both at the wrists and the elbows which was increasingly painful, with a short sturdy chain attached to her ankles; as a birthday gift to a dead-eyed woman who looked to be as mad as the proverbial hatter. Susan reasoned that whatever was going to happen to her in the near future, simple old-fashioned rape was the least of her problems.

      It is beautiful, Florence Elizabeth repeated, as she reached out and stroked the left side of Susan’s face. Finish the un-wrapping it, Ronald, she continued, I want to see it all.

      Ronald stepped forward, his fat florid face damp with sweat and he snipped away at what remained of Susan’s clothes, her bra and her high-cut knickers. Once he pulled them from her body she was naked and standing before the mad woman who licked her lips in a serpentine way and stared at her with her very dead eyes.

      Though Ronald had abducted the girl in broad daylight, Florence Elizabeth had no fears of him being discovered or identified. He had abducted girls before. He knew what he was about, he knew how to take precautions and how to take care. He always chose places that weren’t overlooked, quiet places, parks, lanes, alleys, places like that, places he’d been watching for days prior to any abduction. There was nothing that would bring the police to their door when the search began in two, or three-days’ time, for a girl who had not arrived home, a girl who had simply disappeared.

      There were no known criminals in their home.

      Everything would be fine.

      ***

      On this occasion though, Ronald had not reckoned on Mr. Allan Ramsbottom, a forty-two-year-old, perma-tanned, slightly overweight travelling salesman in the brewery trade, who wore immaculate hair-pieces and thick-lensed glasses over his rheumy blue eyes. In his life he was the very model of a respectable citizen with his pretty, though dumpy, wife and his two dumpy children who all lived dumpy lives.

      Except Mr. Allan Ramsbottom had a secret.

      He was a prolific, and so far, undetected and undiscovered, rapist.

      By removing his hairpiece, he became a bald-headed rapist and a Police Identity drawing of him posted on almost

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