Chapter 3

Olaf Andersen:

Over the next couple of weeks, Ingrid settled in and, I suppose, I got used to the company of an attractive young woman. When the new week began, she walked with me to take Tim to school, and thereafter was responsible for that duty. I did, however, keep her company about half the time. At this point, I need to explain something. I’m a classic computer nerd. I suppose I look okay, but socially I’m – let’s be honest – hopeless. Basic courtesy was drummed into me by my mother, but the idea of actually approaching a woman to ask for a date? Absolutely no chance. To this day, I am astonished that I was able to offer Ingrid a room and bed in The Mews. However, living with her and Tim, I began to relax and, indeed, enjoy her company. Tim helped a lot, of course. I understand that the school expressed concern about her injuries, thinking that I might have been responsible, but she straightened them out on that.

With her right arm in a cast it was obviously difficult for her to do much around the house, so it was I who did the cooking. Tim, bless him, helped with the washing-up. Ingrid supervised him and put things away one-handed.

Anyway – where was I? – I’ve lost track of where I was going. Never mind. I began my tale with names. For some reason, geek though I am, language has always fascinated me, especially names. Once upon a time, names meant something and, indeed, were thought to have power. Ingrid. Ingrid is a name widespread through northern Europe, especially Norway. It means ‘Beloved, Beautiful’. Ah. That was where I was going. Ingrid’s bruises faded and I began to see that she was, indeed, beautiful. Could I ... perhaps ... hope to ... maybe ... marry her?

Perhaps the first indication that the answer was ‘no’ came one Sunday morning when, as I say, her bruises had faded. She wanted to go to church. My family were not church-goers. I hadn’t been confirmed and, in fact, I’m not at all sure I’d even been Christened. I certainly hadn’t been in a church except for weddings and funerals all my life. But what the hell? It wouldn’t kill me to sit through a church service. I didn’t at that point know about Ingrid’s history with her parents. But we got up Sunday morning at a ridiculous time in order to be in the village church at eight o’clock. Ingrid insisted that my casual clothes were perfectly adequate, as were her light dress and Tim’s shorts and ‘Superman’ t-shirt.

Ingrid Jameson:

I told you I was brought up in a Catholic family, didn’t I? I think, even at the time, I could tell there was a mismatch between what my parents professed and what I heard in church and read in the Bible. That didn’t really have an impact until they rejected me. I couldn’t shake off some of the teaching, even if I was questioning some. I found a spiritual home in the local Anglican parish church, where I was welcomed and accepted. The Vicar said that he recognised the Roman Catholic baptism and confirmation, so I was admitted to the Communion. I should have realised that I was off course with Damian when my church attendance became a bone of contention between us, but I stuck with it, and Tim with me, right until the ... assault ... which put me in hospital and him in prison.

At ‘The Mews’, I was away from my ‘home’ church in town, and while I was still obviously bearing the marks of the attack I didn’t go out much. But when the marks faded, I wanted to go to church, and Olaf went with me. I could tell that he was humouring me. Perhaps ‘supporting’ me would be better. Maybe he just liked being in my company. Anyway, we walked the half-mile or so to the little village church for the early service.

It was a fairly ordinary, stone-built, village church, probably two or three hundred years old. Wooden pews, not very comfortable, stained glass, a pipe-organ, though that wasn’t used for the early service. Originally, the altar used for the communion would have been the one under the East Window, the High Altar, but although that was still there, there was another now in the centre of the building, in front of the Chancel Arch. That put the priest at the centre of the building, with the focus on the Elements*. Now the Anglican Church has a number of similarities to the Roman one, but also some differences. One of the similarities is the use of vestments to distract the congregation from the person who is presiding, and to focus on the office of the priest. As a result, when the priest stood at the altar, I didn’t immediately recognise him. The vestments he was wearing were far from the most elaborate I’ve seen but were familiar in style. When he began to speak, though, I did recognise his voice. What was Charles Harrison, associate in the law practice of McCauliff, McCauliff and Johnson, doing in the robes of an Anglican priest, behind the altar of the village church, Saint James, Temple Whitley?

*The bread and wine – the Body and Blood – are often referred to as the ‘Elements’.

It was a simple service. No music, just the liturgy and a short homily. I waited in the pew until the handful of other worshippers had shaken Mister Harrison’s hand on their way out. To my surprise, he greeted Olaf first.

“Mister Andersen! I have been remiss in not calling to see you. You may not be a member of the church, but you are a parishioner, and I try to get round every parishioner every year.”

Olaf smiled. “You will be very welcome, sir.”

But then he turned to me. “Ingrid! I’m so pleased to see you out and about.”

“Mister Harrison! It was a shock to realise that the priest at the altar was you.”

He smiled and nodded. “Obviously, religious affiliation is not something which comes up routinely in legal practice. I was ordained a couple of years ago, and I’m what’s called a Non Stipendiary Minister. In other words, I’m unpaid and part-time. This is my first curacy. Since I’m resident in the village, it’s convenient for me to take responsibility for this church and village, though I am under the supervision of the Vicar, who’s based in Whitley Major, of course. So, how are you recovering?”

“Thank you for asking; I’m fine apart from my arm and an occasional twinge from my ribs. It’s a pity I’m right-handed, or I could do almost everything normally. Unfortunately, that means I can’t type effectively, and my left-handed writing is illegible. In the kitchen, so many tasks need two hands...” I shrugged. “I think it’s going to be another two or three weeks before I can get rid of this cast. Olaf...” I smiled at Olaf, “has looked after me so well, with Clare’s help, and Tim’s, of course, but I am looking forward to pulling my own weight.”

“Well,” Mister Harrison smiled, “I can’t express how much you’ve been missed around the office. We’ve had temps, of course, and they’ve been competent enough, but not nearly as good as you.”

I was touched, and said so. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to return soon.”

“When you do...” he hesitated, “if you will be continuing to stay at The Mews, perhaps you’d like a lift in to work?”

That was, as they say, a ‘no brainer’. “Thanks! I’d love that.”

Olaf:

I was pretty sure I detected something between Charles Harrison and Ingrid. I couldn’t have said what, but to me that was irrelevant. In any event, there was no change in the always platonic relationship we shared. In due course, I took Ingrid to the hospital, where her arm was released from the cast, and she was given a photocopied sheet of instructions for care and exercise. That was a Thursday. On Sunday, another visit to the local church, then on Monday, Mister Harrison collected her and took her to town to work.

Now, Wendy Richardson had called in from time to time, maybe once a week for a few minutes and a couple of times long enough for a cup of coffee, so having her turn up on the doorstep wasn’t out of the ordinary. However, I did think she seemed less cheerful than usual, and once she was settled with a cup of coffee, she began:

“I’m sorry Ingrid isn’t here, but I’m on duty this afternoon, and I just took this chance to pass on a warning...”

“That sounds ominous?” I was half jesting, but any humour I was feeling soon dissipated.

“Mister Damian Clark has been released on bail.” She sighed. “I don’t know the details. Probably he got a very good lawyer and a rather lenient judge. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but then the courts sometimes don’t. Right now he doesn’t know where Ingrid is living, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out. She’s travelling to work with Mister Harrison, isn’t she?”

I nodded.

“That gives him a locality, and a name. I’ve warned Mister Harrison, as he might get a visit.” She shrugged. “I’ll be calling in on the offices of McCauliff and Company this afternoon.” She shrugged. “I thought I’d better let you know. Sorry to rush, but I’m due on duty shortly.”

She left, and I had some stuff to consider. I had to set that aside to do what I was being paid for.

Wendy Richardson:

Let me set the scene. I’m five foot five, and usually described as ‘solid’, when it’s not ‘butch’. Butch is a gross libel, as I have never had any romantic or sexual interest in my own gender, but my build is what it is. To make things worse, my first name is ‘Melina’, which means ‘sweet’. Most of my life I’ve gone by Wendy. To me, even that name has overtones of delicacy, but there it is.