by Angie Smith
“Yes dear, drive carefully,” his wife answered.
“I will.” He exited through the back door, sprinted across to his car, jumped in, started the engine and drove off towards Slaithwaite.
Abdul Hussain was a forty-eight-year-old finance manager who lived at Scapegoat Hill in Huddersfield, not far from Junction 23 on the M62 motorway. He worked for the local NHS Foundation Trust, and was married with a teenage son, James, who was a member of the Slaithwaite Scout Group, which met every Thursday in the local Community Centre. It was there that Hussain was now heading.
He looked down at his watch; it was 9.10 p.m., it would take him another ten minutes to reach his destination, meaning he’d be twenty minutes late. However, knowing that his son would have received the text, he relaxed, there was no need to rush. This suited him as the route took him on some tricky, dark, isolated lanes where the car’s full-beam headlights were essential.
As he drove down a steep right-hand bend, unexpectedly he was forced to brake hard. In his headlights he’d spotted a man in cycling gear lying in the middle of the road, then, noticing a bicycle strewn up the banking, realised there had been an accident. He’s come down the hill too fast and crashed into the wall! Hussain jumped out of the car and ran over to the cyclist, who was face down and not moving. “Are you alright, Mate?” Hussain bent down and touched the man lightly on the shoulder. The man groaned and started to turn.
It happened so fast that Hussain didn’t know what hit him; instantly he felt completely rigid as a terrific shock of 75,000 volts fired through his whole body. The shock ceased, but intense pain followed with mental confusion and disorientation. He went limp.
The cyclist sprang to his feet, hurriedly dragging Hussain’s limp, gangly body back to the car, and bungling it into the passenger seat. He held Hussain’s arms behind his back and placed an electric cable tie around the sleeve-covered wrists, pulling it tight. He secured the trouser-covered ankles with an identical tie and placed gaffer tape over Hussain’s mouth, before securing the seat belt across the lifeless body, and closing the passenger door. Finally, he threw the bicycle out of sight over the wall, gathered up a rucksack, which he had stashed there, raced back to the car and jumped in the driving seat. After starting the engine and quickly turning around he drove back up the hill and headed towards Scammonden. It had taken him less than two minutes to abduct Hussain.
Pauline Crean was undertaking the final check of the day on the stable block, outbuildings and horses. The whole yard, together with the surrounding buildings, were well-lit by powerful halogen lights and she felt completely at ease, accompanied by her three chocolate Labradors, as she wandered around outside the isolated farmhouse. “Hello boy,” she whispered, patting the neck of one of the horses; she held out the flat palm of her hand and the horse quickly made short work of devouring the apple. She patted him again and said, “Goodnight.” Then, as she was heading back towards the farmhouse she heard the telephone ringing: there was an outside bell in the yard and an extension fitted in the tack room, so she could always hear and answer the phone while outside.
She quickly sprinted over to the tack room. I hope this is Jonathan, she thought, crossing her fingers. She snatched up the telephone, “Hello,” she said, slightly out of breath.
“Hi, Pauline, it’s Tracey.”
Tracey Proudfoot was a former work colleague from back in the 1980s; she had been the secretary at the law firm where Pauline first practised, and the two had become good friends.
“Hi, Tracey,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, I think the last time we spoke was just after Gerrard’s funeral.”
“Yes it was,” Pauline said, thinking back.
“How are you and the kids?”
“I’m okay, I suppose,” she replied, sounding anything but. “The kids are enjoying university, although they’re both on a gap-year travelling around Asia together. Sarah rings me every couple of weeks to see how I’m doing, and Scott, well he misses his father.”
“Have you still got the menagerie?”
“Yes, I’m currently in the yard, checking on them. So how are you doing?”
“I’ve got some news about me and Austin. We’re tying the knot next year and we’d love you to come to the wedding.”
“Oh, congratulations. That’s great news. It’s nice to hear something good for a change; of course I’ll come.”
“Fantastic,” Tracey replied. “Anyhow, I’ve got some other bits of news that might interest you.”
“Go on,” Pauline prompted.
“I went to Jim Broadbent’s funeral last week; he’d been living in a home and he’d been ill for some time.”
A shiver shot straight down Pauline’s spine as she fell silent. “Oh… I’m… I’m sorry,” she spluttered out, her mind awash with ghastly feelings.
“And the second bit of news is that I bumped into Dave Silvers at the funeral, and he mentioned that a month before Jim passed away, Christian Bulmer had also died; he’d been out fishing, had one too many and fallen overboard.”
“Oh dear. What a shame,” Pauline said sarcastically, then added, “Sorry if I don’t sound sincere, but how ironic is that? I used to do all the work while he spent his time either fishing or drinking.”
“You don’t have to apologise; by the end I think I disliked him more than you and Gerrard did.”
“Gerrard never forgave him for what he did to me; he always blamed him for the miscarriage. He said one day he’d get his comeuppance.” She looked skywards. “Perhaps he’s up there smiling.”
“I thought that snippet of news might cheer you up. Anyway, I’ve got to go, Austin’s just walked back in; I’ll give you a call next week, I haven’t had a chance to ask if you’re dating anyone.”
“That will be a long conversation; you’ll need a bottle of wine at your side.”
“Okay, we’ll speak soon, bye.”
Pauline replaced the telephone and leant against the tack room table. She inhaled deeply, but the aroma of newly cleaned saddlery passed her by. Bulmer and Broadbent; dead within weeks of one another; now there’s a coincidence.
Intense pain radiated throughout Hussain’s whole body, as he slowly regained control of his faculties. He felt disorientated. He tried to move, but his hands and feet were securely tied, and the tape across his mouth prevented him from speaking. He became aware that he was sitting in the passenger seat of his car looking out over Scammonden Dam; he could see the M62 motorway in the distance, and he knew this place well, having been to this desolate car park many times.
Illuminated by the car’s interior light, which had been left on, he looked across and stared at his abductor who sat expressionless in the driver’s seat. Panic then started to set in as he became conscious of how difficult every breath was.
“Breathe deep long breaths and you’ll slowly start to feel better,” the man said in a calm voice.
Hussain desperately tried to speak, “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he mumbled, his eyes filling with terror as he realised the predicament he found himself in.
“Concentrate on your breathing,” the man insisted, his stare fixed on his prisoner.
Hussain inhaled slowly; the tightness started to ease and the breathing improved. In a moment of calm his eyes flicked up and down his assailant, trying to fix a description in his memory. About six-foot medium muscular build. Blonde neatly trimmed hair, blue eyes, tanned, well-spoken, possible ex-public school. Black lycra cycling shorts, a bright orange high visibility cycling top, black cycling gloves, and black training shoes. Hussain wondered if he knew the man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before, he concluded. What does he want? And who is he? “Woo rrr woo?” he muttered.
The man ignored the question and sat silently watching him.
Oh fuck, he’s going to burn the car, with me in it, Hussain thought, noticing a petrol can on the back seat. He started jumping around, frantically trying to free his hands and feet.
/> “Sit still and be calm,” the man demanded. “There’s no use wasting your energy, you’ll need it later, it won’t be long now.”
Realising the futility, Hussain acquiesced.
What’s he going to do? he thought, as his imagination went into overdrive. Is he going to kill me? Why? What have I done wrong? Has he mistaken me for someone else? Who? Is this about money? Is he going to hold me to ransom? Why’s he chosen me? Work, work, he must think I handle money at work, or that I can get my hand on some. How the hell did I end up in this mess? Oh my God please help me… Hussain glanced out of the passenger window and looked around. Oh thank you, he thought, as through the gloom he saw a four-by-four parked at the far end of the car park. It must be a dog walker, they can’t be far away, and they’ll be back soon. Somehow I’ll attract their attention.
Hussain had been praying; all to no avail, and by now the car park was in complete darkness, the only distraction the lights of the vehicles travelling along the motorway. Then, he heard a noise and spun to face his captor. In the darkness he managed to see the man glancing at his watch, and, stretching forward, pick up a mobile phone from the car’s instrument panel. The man switched the phone on and started keying in a message.
What’s he up to? Watching closely Hussain realised the man was using a Blackberry. That’s mine… What’s he doing? “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he mumbled, nodding his head towards the device.
The man ignored him and continued clicking away. When he had finished he held the device up to Hussain’s face so he could read the e-mail he had just composed.
Hi Jules, I’m so sorry, but I can’t carry on with the deceit. I feel I’m ruining everyone’s life. I’ll always love you, but I have to go. This is the only way out for me now. Goodbye. Abdul (MCXVI).
Hussain read it twice, his eyes widening as he felt the numbness setting in. This is about Julie. That’s why he’s brought me here. Oh for fuck’s sake, I thought no-one knew about us. Has her husband found out? Is this him, or has he paid someone to kill me?
As the Blackberry was moved away, it suddenly started ringing and Hussain spotted ‘Home’ on the screen. In a futile attempt to get through to the unanswered caller he cried out a muffled scream.
The man smiled and pressed the reject call button; he checked his watch, waited a few more minutes, and checked it again; he pressed the send button, dispatching the e-mail, and then turned the device off and zipped it back in Hussain’s bomber jacket pocket.
“Wrrr?” Hussain yelled.
The man ignored the question and looked out of the windscreen across towards the B6114 and the impressive Scammonden Bridge.
The pair sat in silence for another half hour and by now Hussain accepted the grim reality that something terrible was going to happen; he started praying again, asking for forgiveness. No-one as yet had returned to the four-by-four and the crushing realisation that it might actually belong to the man sitting next to him hit home.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he mumbled, looking out towards the vehicle.
The man smiled cynically.
Hussain slumped down in the seat. “Yet mm grw, uu fkn bstd,” he called out.
“It won’t be long now,” the man replied, looking at his watch. He then reached into the back of the vehicle for the rucksack.
This is it. Hussain’s body gripped with fear. He held his breath and watched the man take a black hoodie slowly out of the bag… Oh, my God.
The man put the hoodie on over his cycling top.
Thank God. Then Hussain jumped, as the car’s engine startled him. Where’s he taking me?
The man drove calmly out of the car park, through the darkness around the dam and up towards the B6114 and the Scammonden Bridge. Just before he reached the bridge he pulled into a makeshift car park area. “This is where you go to sleep again,” he said.
This time Hussain saw the stun gun heading for the same side of his neck and instinctively tried to pull away. But, being tied, he was unable to avoid the inevitable and for the second time that evening felt a terrific shock as another several thousand volts fired through his body. He went rigid and tried in vain to fight the effects of the shock, but instantly, he was incapacitated.
The man swiftly removed the tape from Hussain’s mouth and cut the ties securing his wrists and ankles, throwing them all in the back of the car. He then got out, went around to the passenger side and pulled the limp body from the vehicle. He walked the few yards to the bridge, dragging Hussain, holding his arm and supporting the weight on his back and side.
The rope was already tied to the balustrade railings ready for use, having been hidden behind one of the Samaritans’ helpline signs. The man moved quickly, first pinning Hussain against the railings, then placing the noose carefully around his neck, and hoisting him up onto the balustrade.
Where am I? Hussain thought, confused and dizzy in the darkness of the unlit night. He felt his hands touching the cold balustrade and as the fresh Pennine breeze blew across the bridge it brought some reality to his mind; on hearing the steady flow of fast moving traffic beneath him he realised too late where he was. He felt the air rushing past and the sensation of free-falling before a sudden jolt, an explosion of pain, and then nothing.
The man moved off the bridge, his heartbeat faster than normal as he focused on what needed to be done next. He walked back to the car, got in, started it up and drove to the car park where he’d been earlier. Again it was completely empty with the exception of the four-by-four. After gathering the ties and tape off the back seat he placed them in the rucksack and removed it from the vehicle. He then poured the contents of the petrol can — which Hussain had spotted in the back — in and over the car and threw the car keys and the empty plastic can onto the front seat, before setting the vehicle alight.
Illuminated by the flickering orange glow of the fire he calmly carried the rucksack over to the four-by-four, pressed the key fob, opened the vehicle and got in, placing the bag on the passenger seat. He drove out of the car park and headed back to retrieve the bicycle from the lane where the abduction had taken place.
It was just after midnight as he was heading north.
Chapter 2
Friday 23rd March – Friday 30th March.
Pauline Crean was woken abruptly by the buzzing of her mobile. She glanced at the screen and realised it was the entrance gate’s intercom. Who’s this? Then, noticing the time, instead of answering she went straight over to her laptop, flipped it open, and within seconds was looking at pictures from the CCTV camera at the gates. She smiled and answered the phone. “Hello, stranger, what unearthly hour do you call this?”
“Hi, Sexy, sorry, the flight was delayed; it didn’t land until three-thirty. I came straight here. Can you let me in please?”
She pressed 3 on the phone, waited for the beeps, and pressed 8 to terminate the call. She watched the gates swing open and Jonathan Plant drive through in his silver Mercedes ML 350. She closed the laptop, pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs to meet him. The dogs were already in the hallway barking frantically, having heard the vehicle pull up outside; she deactivated the security alarm and when she opened the front door the dogs bounded out to confront the visitor.
“Hello boys,” Plant said, bending down to make a fuss of them.
“Right, that’s enough,” Pauline scolded. The dogs immediately disappeared back indoors, and she walked over and hugged Plant. “I’ve missed you,” she said scowling, “but I’m far from happy. We need to talk. Come inside, I’ll make some coffee.”
“Rough night?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
“Oh, sorry, I had some unsettling news; got in a state, and mistakenly thought a bottle of wine would help.”
“What news?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Pauline!”
“I’d rather not speak about it.” She wasn’t going to be drawn.
“Okay, I get the message.”
“Good,” she said. “Now how
about that coffee?”
She went to the kitchen while he settled in the sitting room; when she brought the coffees through she deliberately chose to sit away from him on the opposite sofa.
“So what do we need to discuss?” he asked, taking a sip from the cup.
She was curt. “How long are you here for?”
“The weekend, I hope, if you’ll allow me to stay, then I’m flying out to South America for a few weeks. Is there a problem?”
She sighed and shook her head. “That’s exactly the problem… I’m sick and tired of hanging around waiting for you to show up. You should know by now, I’m not the type of person who likes being messed about. The occasional telephone call might help, but you never think to ring me. And it’s not as if I can ring you. Your phone’s always switched off and when I leave a message, it will be days before you get back to me. E-mailing’s a joke, when do you check your inbox, once a month?”
“Pauline, as I’ve explained, it’s the nature of my job. . .”
“Yes, let’s discuss your elusive job,” she snapped, getting more annoyed. “You supposedly work for the Foreign Office, something to do with the Diplomatic Service,” she scoffed.
“Yes.” He calmly took another sip of coffee.
“Well, why can’t you ever state where you’re working, I mean specifically working? You always give the continent, never the destination: Europe, Asia, South America, Africa… What are you hiding?”
“Nothing. It’s because some of my work is confidential and highly sensitive. I simply can’t disclose where or what I’m doing.”
“It’s MI5 or MI6, isn’t it?”
