she thought, pulling up at the farmhouse entrance gates.
Thursday 22 nd March.
Hussain glanced at his watch, Blast;
I’m going to be late . He quickly threw the paperwork in the bureau drawer.
“I’ll have to sort this out later, I need to hurry darling.” He picked up the
car keys and grabbed his bomber jacket from the back of the chair. “Can you
text James, let him know I’m running late?”
“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
Allana Kephart, Melissa Simmons