Chapter 1

What’s in a name? I’ve been fascinated for years by the origins and meanings of words, especially names. Nowadays, it seems that people choose names for all sorts of reasons without actually thinking about the meaning, not to mention names which are made up to please by the sound without any real background. Anyway ... I’ve got off the point, as usual. The origin of house names like ‘Priory’, ‘Abbey’, or ‘Lodge’ ought to be obvious, except when applied to a new building. Even then, a ‘Lodge’ may actually be that, a building devoted to monitoring the coming and going to a large property. A ‘Priory’ or “Abbey’, if genuine, dates back to the dissolution of the monasteries under King Henry VIII. That is, or should be, fairly obvious.

But if I use the term ‘Mews’, what does that mean to you? It seems to be a popular title for new builds, perhaps connoting an up-market property. However, originally, a ‘Mews’ was a building built to accommodate captive birds of prey, trained to the glove for hunting, under the care of a Falconer or Austringer. In all honesty, none of this would have any relevance except in my own prejudice, had I not suddenly, out of the blue, inherited the estate of a distant relative. When I say ‘distant’, I mean just that. I never met the man, and as far as I could tell, our only connection other than the remote family one was our name. I had endured being Olaf Rødhåret Andersen throughout school. Incidentally, I really am Rødhåret, which means ‘Red headed’. I am also tall, but, sadly, lack the bulk and strength of my Norse ancestors. Old Uncle Olaf had a considerable property, but not much in the way of liquid assets, so it was clear that quite a lot would need to be sold.

His house – mansion might be a closer description – could have been in better condition, and was certainly a great deal more than I could ever want. However, there were other buildings as well, including a coach-house ... and a mews. The mews had been a general dumping ground for many years, ever since falconry ceased to be popular among the gentry. But it was a fairly simple matter, once probate was complete, to divide off the coach-house and mews, with about an acre of grounds, and access to a lane, and sell off the rest. The big house sold remarkably quickly with the remaining land and buildings. That paid the death duties, taxes, whatever (I left that up to Uncle Olaf’s solicitor, and never regretted it) and even after legal fees I had over half a million left. The mews was stripped, thoroughly refurbished to modern standards, and I had a long, low, characterful and thoroughly practical property. Three bedrooms (ensuite), lounge, large kitchen, which I intended to eat in, so what might have been a dining-room became a library/study. A small toilet was situated next to the ‘front’, read main, door, which was adjacent to the coach house. The ‘back’ door, at the other end of the building, opened to what I intended to be a kitchen garden: next to it, a ... mud-room, I suppose is the best term. For the time being, though, my property was left to grass and remaining trees. A tall fence separated me from the other property, and not caring to look at something resembling a prison, I planted a hedge interspersed with Rowan.

Once everything settled down, I made the perhaps foolish decision to quit my job in IT, and go freelance as a webmaster, working from home. Practically, I had insisted upon excellent connectivity, and that meant, at the time, satellite; we were too far from town to have good wired internet. The satellite almost guaranteed my communications and provided television, too. I hadn’t been on my own for long before I began to realise how lonely I could be, with only a weekly outing for supplies. For that reason, I didn’t mind too much when a nondescript moggy wandered in one day and established itself ... herself ... as queen in both senses. Obviously, I didn’t have facilities for a cat, and had to buy a litter tray, litter, cat food, and, once committed, all the rest of the requirements of a pet animal.

The next event ... well, don’t believe me if you like. One evening in late autumn, the cat, ‘Lizzie’ (I know, lese majeste) was ‘talking’ loudly by the back door, so I went to investigate thinking she just wanted out – she always flatly refused to use the cat-door I fitted. There on the door-step was a scrawny, pathetic dog, curled up in a miserable lump. Lizzie went to it and began to lick its face. What could I do, but grab a large towel, wrap the creature up, and carry it in to a rug in front of the fire? Even through the towel, I could feel its bones, and wondered whether it was even possible it would survive. But Lizzie continued to lick its face, and after about half an hour in front of the fire, it lifted its head and had a little look around before flopping it down again. Whereupon, Lizzie, purring loudly, rubbed her head against that of the dog. No, I didn’t believe what I was seeing either. I used the towel to rub it, and when I got to its head, it licked my hand. Lizzie then got up, and ‘talking’ loudly, went to the kitchen, where she sat and looked pointedly at the cupboard containing her food. I duly got some out and put it down for her, but she walked away. Okay. I carried the little bowl of cat food after her, and when she sat by the dog’s head I took the hint and put it in front of it.

It lifted its head, sniffed, and shifted onto its front, then tentatively (unbelievingly?) licked at the food. A meal for a cat isn’t exactly large when placed in front of a medium-sized, starved dog, but it licked twice, leaving more than half, staggered to its feet, licked the cat, staggered up to me, sat, and lifted one paw to shake. Well, I duly shook the paw. “Go and finish the bowl,” I told it. And it did as it was told. The cat’s dish was really clean before the dog returned to me and again lifted a paw. At that point, Lizzie began to demand her supper.

In the kitchen, I got her a fresh bowl and her normal portion, while putting another helping in the original bowl for Dog.

Of course, ‘Dog’ wouldn’t do as a name. After some thought and more in hope than certainty, he became – yes, it was a he – Zeke. Ezekiel being the Old Testament prophet told he was a ‘watchman’ by God. Zeke was a great house-dog. Cats are, by nature, independent creatures and Lizzie just assumed we existed for her benefit. Zeke, though, both respected Lizzie as his superior, and worshipped me. Both animals became very sensitive to anything going on outside, though Zeke was the one who gave the alarm.

But Lizzie, Zeke and I lived our lives in peace and serenity. Except when Zeke decided he had to live up to his namesake and barked and barked and barked.

I built up a satisfactory customer base, such that I was living quite well and so were Lizzie and Zeke. Perhaps this would be a good place to explain that Lizzie is not a friendly cat. She will endure having her neck or chin scratched for a few minutes. She will curl up in an adult’s lap ... but woe betide anyone who ‘pets’ her while she is relaxing on your lap. That person will find their arm being ‘disemboweled’ by her back legs and claws while her teeth and front legs and claws make sure they cannot escape. However, Zeke is the opposite. He will sit, leaning against your leg while being petted, indefinitely; certainly longer than most people are willing to continue.

We’d been living like that for perhaps eighteen months. Long enough to get into a routine that was well on the way to being set in concrete. But one evening in late autumn, both animals were at the back door. Lizzie was talking loudly, while Zeke was barking. I shrugged, levered myself out of my comfortable seat, put down my book, and went to see what the fuss was about.

The fuss was about a child. I suppose about six or seven years old, but painfully thin, and with obvious bruising about his head (topped with hair as bright red as mine) and face. He struggled a bit when I picked him up, but couldn’t really resist me when I took him indoors to the kitchen and sat him at the table.

“What’s your name, son?”

He hesitated. “Tim, sir,” he said after a minute or two.

“Okay, Tim. My name’s Olaf. You can call me that or Oly, up to you. I think you need some warm food. Soup? Tomato?”

“I ... I’d like some soup, please, sir. Olaf.”

“Good. Coming right up.” I noticed that Lizzie had jumped up into his lap and was letting him stroke her, while Zeke was leaning against his leg, absorbing the attention he was getting from the other hand. “You’re privileged, Lizzie doesn’t usually allow people to stroke her.” I turned away, found a tin of soup, opened it, and tipped it into a saucepan to heat. As soon as it was warm I tipped a little into a bowl and put it in front of our guest. He emptied it quickly, I added some that was hotter and left him to it.

Why? I needed to make a call or two. I didn’t want to be on the wrong end of a child abuse case.

That wasn’t straightforward, but a couple of hours later, the boy – Tim – had had a bath and was wearing one of my t-shirts and was wrapped in a much too large dressing-gown, while his own clothes were in the washing machine. He was watching something educational on iPlayer. He had a bag of crisps and a mug of tea beside him. There was a crunch of gravel outside, and the doorbell rang.

A female police constable and a male social worker stood there. “Come in,” I said.

They stepped inside, and the man held out his hand. “Harry Simms,” he said, “Family and Community Services. I’m the duty officer. This is Constable Wendy Richardson. We’ve worked together before. Can we meet the young man?”

I led the way to the lounge. “Tim,” I started, quietly, but didn’t get to continue.

He turned, started, and jumped to his feet, scattering crisp crumbs, and backed away, but fell when his feet trod on the skirt of the dressing gown.

It was Wendy Richardson who stepped forward a pace or two.

“Tim, you’re not in trouble. Someone has hurt you, and it’s my job, and that of my friend here, to stop that.”

I saw him relax, bundle up the dressing-gown, and return to his chair. The crisps crunched under his bare feet, and he hesitated. “Sorry, sir ... Olaf...”

“No problem, Tim. Sit down and tell Wendy and Harry what’s happened to you.”

Harry turned to me. “Would you mind, Mister Andersen? We’ll need a few words with Tim in private.”

“Can’t Mister Olaf stay here?” Tims voice wobbled.

“Sorry, son. But just for a couple of minutes.”

I left the room and shut the door, went to the kitchen and retrieved Tim’s clothes before dealing with the bit of washing-up. It really wasn’t more than a few minutes before Wendy came to fetch me.

“Mister Andersen. Would you be willing for young Tim to stay here for a day or two until we track down his mother and make sure he and she are safe? You probably realise we have a shortage of foster placements.”