Chapter 6

I didn’t hurry that Sunday morning. My relationship with Jessica (and the fact that Jenni had conspired with her to bring it about) was still very new, fresh and exciting. We showered together, had breakfast, dressed ... yes, in that order ... and by 10 we were on the road to the Ferry. I have a bluetooth set that fits inside my helmet. The boom mike isn’t all that effective at any speed, but I can take a call and be talked to. I called Jenni to let her know we were on our way before we started, which gave her about 30 minutes warning. Perhaps it wouldn’t have made much difference if we’d been earlier, come to that as I’d have called earlier anyway.

The upshot was that just as I banked the Norton round the corner by the Golf Club, the phone rang. Nobody spoke, but I heard the sort of noises you get from a phone in a pocket that’s been accidentally turned on (like, you forget to lock the keypad) but with some noticeable knocks. I wound the bike up and got to the Ferryboat Inn just in time to see a hot VW Golf shoot past; the driver was not some boy racer but a mature man, and I could hear engine sounds in my ear piece. Stopping, I shouted to Jessica; “I think Jenni’s been snatched! I’m going to follow that Golf. Go see, PLEASE!”

The Norton isn’t as heavy as some modern bikes, but it’s not particularly easy to turn round; the Golf was disappearing around the corner by the Golf club. This time I used every erg of power I could screw out of my machine and was gradually catching up by the Dip. I took a chance and turned down Church Road rather than following along the High Road, took further chances on the bends and turning into Colneis Road, with the result I was actually ahead of the Golf as I passed the Port roundabout. My decision was spur of the moment; later ... well “blood ran cold” sums up the feeling – he could have taken back roads out of the town and I’d have lost him. But I don’t think he recognised me when he appeared in my rear-view mirror. I fumbled left-handed with the phone, shut off Jenni’s call and speed-dialled Jessica. I was right; Donna had been knocked down and Jenni snatched as they walked into the car park to wait for us by the café. She’d called the Police and given them my mobile number. Good enough; I hung up. Only to have the phone ring again. The caller identified himself as a Police officer by name and number, though I wasn’t really taking note, and told me they had enough basic information and to just keep up a running commentary as best I could so they knew where I was. The Golf passed me, but was now keeping to 70 or so; presumably to avoid attention. I kept it in sight over the Orwell Bridge and saw it turn off onto the A137 slip-road. I closed up a bit as I didn’t know whether it’d turn north into Ipswich or south towards Manningtree

The junction is one of those funny ones with two small roundabouts, one each side of a bridge over the main A14. The Golf turned right as I started up the slip-road, but as I got to the top, it came back over. I let it go before pulling out after it. I suppose he must have had his suspicions of me as he started pushing the limits and I was hard put to keep him in sight. But I did ... until I hit what I suppose must have been a diesel spill, because I felt the tyres let go of the road on a left-hand bend ... then I was sliding along behind the bike, off the road, onto the verge. Could have been nasty. But the main damage was to my pride and the left foot-rest; and, of course, more importantly ... my pursuit. I hadn’t realised I was being followed –I’d been too busy riding, but a patrol car pulled up just past me.

“Shouldn’t you keep after him?” I asked somewhat bitterly.

“Don’t worry ... there’s a chopper keeping an eye on him. You’ve done well, though. Are you ok?”

I picked myself up, walked over to the bike and heaved it up. Yup; bent footrest and scraped silencer. Dragging it back to the road I straddled it and kicked it back into life – first prod. Blipped the throttle, and shut it down. The gear-change lever on old British bikes is on the right, the rear brake pedal on the left. If it’d been a Japanese bike the bent footrest would have made it very difficult to ride. As it was, it was just awkward.

“I’m ok. Just dented pride.”

“I like the bike; there’s not too many of those around these days,” he commented. “Would you like to ride with us?

I thought about it. It’d certainly be easier. “Yes please,” I replied, and pushed the bike a few yards to a tree against which it could lean.

Riding in the patrol car, I was able to call Jessica and bring her up to date. Donna was unhurt but, as you’d expect, very upset.

“What about you, though, Dave. You said you came off the bike?”

“Yes. Diesel spill, I think. I’m ok. A bit shaken, worried about Jenni.”

“Dave ... be careful. Dave ... I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jessica and ... thanks. I’m sorry this got in the way, but it has and it’s got to be dealt with.”

“I know.”

It was Jenni’s step-father, of course, and an accomplice. I don’t know what they hoped to achieve. Perhaps they hoped to snatch Jenni and disappear. They stopped at an isolated cottage, with a very overgrown garden and hedge, concealed the car in a dilapidated shed and presumably thought they were hidden. The situation worked against them, though. Specialist officers were able to approach the place unseen and were in almost before the men realised. They were read their rights and hauled off. Jenni had been sedated – they’d injected her with something (probably Valium). I went with her to hospital and sat holding her hand until she woke – which took almost six hours, and she was pretty groggy even then. Turnabout, or what? Jessica turned up shortly after we arrived, too, so we held hands as we sat next to the bed.

Charlie Taylor did me a favour and collected the Norton. I was glad about that. Old bikes are rather easy to steal. He even took the bent footrest off and had it straightened for me. The silencer had to wait until I could find a new one.

The hospital released Jenni at midnight, would you believe? Admittedly it was because she demanded to be let go, and they probably wouldn’t if Jessica’s flat hadn’t been quite near. As it was she (quite understandably) didn’t want to be alone in bed. Jessica pointed out that her bed was quite large, and why didn’t we all get in it together? So that is what we did – Jenni in the middle.

In the morning, Jessica rang in to cancel her appointments for the day and, of course Jenni and I were extensively interviewed by the police, Jessica less so. We also had a visit from Social Services ... Now I have to be fair here after my (very old) joke earlier on; I’ve known a fair few social workers. Most, not all, have been genuinely caring, sincere, committed people, just grotesquely over-worked. Harriet Jenson was (I suppose still is) one of the good ones. She gently reassured Jenni, who initially clung to us, until she consented to be interviewed separately. When Harriet left, she commented that she was happy with Jenni’s situation and that any official action would be superfluous. She had apparently been most impressed with Jenni’s enthusiasm for going back to school to get her G.C.S.E.’s

“Just one thing, though; Jenni’s mother. She’s been wanting to see Jenni, and I think she probably should. I’ve got two numbers for her – the land-line and a mobile.” And with that, she left.

Jenni then moved into apologetic mode; she thought she’d spoilt our day. We eventually managed to reassure her (which took some time) that we really didn’t blame her.

“And besides,” I laughed, looking at Jessica, “I don’t think there’s any going back. Is there?”

“Um ... I think there’s something missing in that statement, Dave.”

I took two steps to her, took her in my arms, kissed her, and said, “I love you, Jessica.”

“That’s better. I love you too. And don’t you forget it!”

“Get a room, you two!” But there was no rancour in Jenni’s voice, just satisfaction. At which point her phone rang. “It’s Donna,” she announced. “Her dad’s bringing her in to Ipswich to go to the college to discuss courses for September. Would I like to go with her? Can I?”

“You don’t need my permission,” I smiled.

She frowned. “Yes, I do,” she asserted. “As far as I’m concerned, to hell with the law, you’re my father.”

“Well, in that case, you have my permission, and, for what it’s worth, my approval. What subjects were you thinking of?”