Текст книги "The Attic Room: A psychological thriller"

Contents

The Attic Room

Acknowledgements

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Preview

Acknowledgements

Very special thanks go to Debi Alper, whose advice, support and encouragement helped me shape this book into the version we have here.

Thank you to my oldest school friend Anne Paterson, for living on the lovely Isle of Arran and in the Bedford area, and for her hospitality so many times over the years.

Many thanks to my nephew Calum Rodger and my sons Matthias and Pascal Huber for technical help and information, and to Pascal for his work on my website.

Special thanks too to Bea Davenport, for help with the book blurb, and to Debbie at The Cover Collection for the amazing cover image.

And to the many, many people who have helped and supported me in so many ways with this book and my others, both in real life and via social media – thank you SO much!

Dedication

In memory of Kurt and Mum

About the Author

Linda Huber grew up in Glasgow, Scotland, where she trained as a physiotherapist. She spent ten years working with neurological patients, firstly in Glasgow and then in Switzerland. During this time she learned that different people have different ways of dealing with stress in their lives, and this knowledge still helps her today, in her writing.

Linda now lives in Arbon, Switzerland, where she works as a language teacher in a medieval castle on the banks of beautiful Lake Constance. The Attic Room is her third novel. The Paradise Trees, 2013, and The Cold Cold Sea, 2014, are published by Legend Press.

Chapter One

Wednesday 12th – Friday 14th July

The house was empty without Claire.

Nina made coffee and took a mug out to the bench in front of the farmhouse. From here she could see right across the Firth of Clyde to the mainland, a mere fuzzy line in the distance today. The lunchtime ferry was inching out from behind the neighbouring Holy Isle, and the hills of Arran behind her separated a perfect summer sky from the sea. And the beauty of it all made a mockery of the fact that, two weeks ago today, she had switched off her mother’s life support system and banished Claire into eternal peace. Far away from home.

Nina shivered. The world had changed, and it wasn’t going to change back. For the zillionth time the lump in her throat expanded and dear God, how painful it was. Hot coffee slopped over shaking fingers, and Nina winced. She would never get used to this brave new world of hers. It was so bloody unfair – what had Claire ever done to deserve such a horrible death? Nina scrubbed her face with her sleeve. They’d been happy, her and Claire and Naomi. Three generations in one house didn’t work for everyone but it had suited them, maybe because having the B&B meant that, in summer at least, the old farmhouse was full of people. Thank God Beth was around to help her cope. They’d been inseparable since primary school, and now the two of them ran the B&B. Nina pressed unsteady fingers on her hot forehead. It had been the three of them when Claire was alive.

And then some stupid kid with half a bottle of vodka inside him mowed Claire down with his motorbike. He’d died too, which made things no easier – she couldn’t even rage at him now. The pain was never-ending.

The sound of the landline trilling into the farmhouse kitchen jolted her back to today. Another query about accommodation, no doubt, and Beth wasn’t here to answer it. Thrusting out her chin, Nina forced herself to her feet and blew her nose on the way to the phone. She was coping – she was coping – and more importantly she was helping Naomi cope. Ten-year-olds needed stability as well as love and Naomi was damn well going to get both.

The voice on the phone was English and brisk. ‘Ms Moore, good afternoon. My name’s Samuel Harrison and I’m your father’s lawyer. Mr Moore contacted us through the nursing staff yesterday afternoon, and requested that we call you. He wants to resume contact – I gather you’ve been out of touch for many years.’

For a moment Nina struggled to find the right words. ‘I suppose you could call it that – my father died when I was three. You must have got hold of the wrong Nina Moore.’

There was a pause before Samuel Harrison spoke again, his voice puzzled. ‘O – kay.’ Nina heard his fingers clicking over a keyboard. ‘But you are Nina Claire Moore, born in Ealing, West London, now living on the Isle of Arran?’

‘Yes,’ said Nina, hearing the bewildered tone in her own voice too. What on earth was going on? ‘My mother’s family were originally from Arran, and we moved back here shortly after my father died.’

‘I see. There must have been a misunderstanding somewhere. I’m working on this case for a colleague who’s away at the moment, so I haven’t met John Moore personally. He’s in a hospice near Bedford. I’m sorry to tell you he’s suffering from lung cancer, and my colleague’s impression was that he was a father wanting to contact his daughter before it was too late. Could he be an uncle?’

Nina had to make an effort not to sound impatient. This was an absurd conversation to be having.

‘I shouldn’t think so. My father was Robert Moore, and as far as I know my mother had no contact with his family after moving back here. I wasn’t aware I had any relations left on the Moore side.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And my mother died in an accident two weeks ago so I’m afraid there’s no one I can ask.’ She closed her eyes to keep the tears in. Thank God he couldn’t see her.

There was silence for a couple of beats; the usual pause while people worked out what to say. Samuel Harrison did better than many. ‘That’s terrible. I’m sorry for your loss. Um, I’ll go and see John Moore tomorrow, find out what’s going on, and get back to you.’

Nina replaced the handset and stood staring at the phone. What the hell was she supposed to make of that? Life was messy enough at the moment without something weird going on with her father… who she didn’t even remember. Had Claire known this John Moore? If so, she’d never mentioned him. Which meant – what?

Bethany’s car pulled up outside and Nina went to help bring in the shopping. Naomi hurtled out of the car and danced round Nina, her eyes huge and pleading.

‘Mum! We met Ally and Jay in the shop and they’re going pony-trekking starting Friday for a long weekend and there’s a place free, can I go too? Ally’s mum said she’d book it for me if you said yes. Please?’

Nina took a deep breath. A long weekend pony-trekking sounded like the best possible way to help Naomi ease into the new normal and have fun holidays, especially as there was no summer visit to her father for the girl to look forward to this year. Alan and his new family had moved to South Africa and Naomi was going for Christmas.

Nina stroked the girl’s blonde hair, so like her own, and kissed Naomi’s nose. ‘Sounds brilliant! You’d better call Ally’s mum, then.’

Naomi whooped and disappeared upstairs with the phone. Nina and Bethany grinned at each other.

As they unpacked the shopping Nina told her friend about Samuel Harrison’s call.

‘How very odd,’ said Beth, staring. ‘Sounds like he’s got hold of the wrong daughter for the right father, or something like that. Moore isn’t an uncommon name.’

‘He had my full name and date of birth – place of birth, even,’ said Nina. ‘What I really don’t get is why Mum never mentioned this John Moore. Unless… hell.’ Claire hadn’t mentioned John Moore, but maybe she’d tried to.

 Bethany touched her shoulder. ‘What’s up?’

Nina closed her eyes for a moment; the memory was so terrible. ‘After the accident, you know, the first day in hospital before she had the brain haemorrhage, she wanted to tell me something. She was saying things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I should have told you’ but it was all so garbled and then she lost consciousness and –’

And she had never heard Claire’s voice again.

It was late the following afternoon before Samuel Harrison called back, sounding guarded. Nina took the phone into the deserted living room and sat down.

‘Ms Moore, I’ve got more news for you and I’m afraid it’s not all good. I went to the hospice this morning, but John Moore wasn’t well enough to see me and in fact he died a little later. He’s left a will, made with my colleague a few years ago, with instructions for it to be opened in your presence. You must be related, but I haven’t found anything so far that explains the connection. Are you quite sure your father didn’t have a brother?’

Nina’s head was reeling. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m – almost sure he didn’t.’

She’d never known her father, of course, but – actually, why the hell wasn’t she absolutely sure?

The lawyer was speaking again. ‘I’ll get onto the General Register Office; they’ll have all the information we need. Would it be possible for you to come down to Bedford for a day or two? We could read the will and work out what would be best for you.’

Nina thought quickly. With Naomi on a pony all weekend, this would be the ideal time to sort out whatever needed sorting in Bedford. She could fly down tomorrow, see Samuel Harrison, and be back by the beginning of the week. It would do her good to get away from the island for a day or two, and as Beth and her husband Tim lived in the barn conversion next door they would be around for Naomi – exactly what was needed right now.

Two o’clock on Friday afternoon saw Nina stepping into the arrivals building at Luton Airport. She’d spent the flight thinking about the almost faceless blur in her mind that was her father, not even sure if the blur was a memory or something she’d seen on a photo. Come to think of it, photos of him hadn’t exactly been strewn all over the house while she was growing up, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing photos of any other Moores. Nina knew she’d lived in Bedford with both parents when she was a toddler, but her memories of those days were hazy to non-existent. Was there an Uncle John in her little life all those years ago? She simply couldn’t remember.

Two very different emotions were fighting for place inside her as she looked round the arrivals hall for the lawyer – uppermost was a definite ‘oh no not all this as well’ feeling, but – what on earth was going on here? Was John Moore her uncle? Even a distant cousin would be a find – there could be a whole family waiting in Bedford, and with Naomi being her only blood relation Nina wasn’t going to worry about how distant other family members were. But then – wouldn’t any family in Bedford have kept in touch with Robert Moore’s widow and child? So maybe it was all a mistake. Nina set her shoulders; worst case, she’d have a wasted journey, but at least it was giving her something fresh to occupy her mind. The grief swirled up again and she pushed it down. This was neither the time nor the place to throw a wobbly.

As soon as she set eyes on Samuel Harrison Nina smiled to herself, remembering what Beth had said that morning. ‘Be careful, Nina. You don’t know what kinds of sharky old lawyers there are around the place.’

This was almost certainly no shark, and definitely not an old one. He must have been about the same age as she was, with fine features set in milk chocolate skin, and jet-black cornrow plaits just tipping his collar. There was an appealing air of enthusiasm about him as he stood holding a card with ‘Nina Moore’ printed in large blue letters. Apart from the sober grey suit he didn’t look in the least like a lawyer. Nina pulled her case across the arrivals hall.

He strode towards her as soon as he noticed her, hand outstretched. ‘Nina? Hi, I’m Sam. Was your flight okay?’

Nina shook hands – his handshake was warm and firm – and allowed him to take her case.

‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, following him to a dark blue Zafira. ‘I’m glad you could meet me.’

He nodded. ‘We’ll drive to my office in Allerton and open the will, and then go on to the hospice in Bedford. It’s not far.’

Nina settled into the passenger seat. Sam Harrison seemed an easy person to be with; attractive too, now she thought about it. Nina sighed. It was ages since she’d done more than go out for the odd dinner date. Being a single mother and B&B-owner meant that relationships had taken a back seat while business and her daughter were right up in the front row.

‘Do you know any more about John Moore?’ she asked, as Sam drove into Allerton, a bustling little place close to both the A6 and the M1. It was a lot bigger than Brodick, the largest town on Arran, and Nina sniffed dolefully. Her island nose wasn’t used to exhaust fumes and the smell of a busy town.

‘I’ve got his hospice admission sheet,’ said Sam. ‘His GP’s down as next of kin, so his death was registered by the hospice. I haven’t heard from the General Register Office yet. The admission sheet’s a bit odd, but you can have a look for yourself and see what you think. This is our office now.’

He pulled up in front of a red sandstone building. There was a combination of dentists’ and lawyers’ practices inside, noticed Nina, going through the old-fashioned revolving doors. Sam’s name was at the bottom of a list of five on a plaque on the office door.

He saw her looking. ‘Junior partner, that’s me. My grandfather established the firm, so I’m carrying on the family tradition.’ He opened the door and stood back for her to enter.

In spite of the age of the building the offices were bright and airy. Nina followed Sam along a corridor and into a small room with stark white walls and black and chrome furniture. A Chagall print above the desk provided a vibrant splash of blue and green, and Nina gazed at it admiringly.

Sam fetched coffee then sat down at right angles to her, a slim folder in front of him. Nina straightened in her chair. This must be the will. And maybe the answer to the mystery of who John Moore was.

It was very short. Sam read it aloud and then explained the details, and Nina sat gaping at him, her heart pounding. John Moore, a man she knew nothing about, had left her over two million pounds – two million pounds – plus a house. With no mention at all of how they were related. How in the name of all that was sensible could this be? Hot confusion made sweat break out on her forehead and she leaned back in her chair, struggling not to hyperventilate.

Sam put the will to one side and pulled a sheet of thin white paper from the folder. ‘It’s a straightforward will, though it’s unusual that it makes no mention of your relationship to John Moore,’ he said. ‘Quite legal, though. But Nina, have a look at this – it’s John Moore’s hospice admission form. His name was John Robert Moore.’

Speechless, Nina stared at the sheet of paper on the table top. John Robert Moore. And her father had been Robert Moore. Her hands began to shake. Dear God… who was this man?

‘But – if his second name was Robert, he can’t have been my father’s brother…’ Her voice trailed off. If he wasn’t her uncle…

Sam put the will back into its envelope. ‘It doesn’t seem likely, I agree.’

‘I – I don’t get it. If he was some sort of distant cousin he wouldn’t have left everything to someone he’d never met, would he? He’d have left it to the cat and dog home or his best mate or – something.’

Nina realised the implications as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Somehow or other, John Moore must have been her uncle. And it must mean too that he had no other family to leave his fortune to, so she and Naomi were still alone in the world. For a moment the disappointment was crushing; she hadn’t realised how much she’d been hoping to find more relatives here, distant ones, maybe, but family was family. Two tears escaped and Nina wiped them away before Sam noticed, forcing herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll find out who he was. I suggest we go by the hospice now – I said we’d collect John’s belongings – and then on to the house. We might find some papers there to explain the mystery. I guess you’re staying overnight? Do you want to stay in the house itself?’

The thought of sleeping alone in a dead man’s house was unnerving. Nina hesitated, wishing she knew more about the Moore side of the family – she should have asked Claire before it was too late. But neither of them had known ‘too late’ would come so soon.

‘I’ll have a look and then decide,’ she said, turning back to the admission form. John Moore’s date of birth was the 15th of October. Her father had been born in October too, but in the stress of the moment she couldn’t remember the date. How shameful, her own father – and unnerving to realise how little she knew about him.

Nina thought about this during the short drive to Bedford. Why had Claire spoken so little about her husband? Was there some kind of family secret about Robert Moore? Of course Claire been in other relationships over the years; she had moved on. But even so, that was no excuse for her own ignorance now. She’d never been interested enough to probe into her father’s family, and the thought didn’t make her feel proud today.

On the other hand, if this John Moore had left her all his money, it was difficult to see why he hadn’t been in touch with them before. And surely if Claire’d had a bust-up with a rich relation in the past she would at least have mentioned it at some point? Think as she might, Nina could find no explanation.

Chapter Two

Friday14th July

The smell in the hospice took Nina straight back to the day of Claire’s death, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to banish the dizziness swirling round her head. After the accident both Claire and the motorcyclist were helicoptered to Glasgow, leaving Nina to make the agonisingly slow ferry-crossing and then drive to the hospital, well over an hour away. That day she’d felt as if she was standing outside her own body, watching the terrible events unfold. Claire’s poor battered face… and her pitiful attempts to talk that first hour, and then the slide into coma from which she had never awakened. The memory still took Nina’s breath away.

Pushing the thoughts aside, she followed Sam into the hospice reception area. The building was an unattractive seventies concrete cube on the outside but quite homey and cheerful inside, with blue-uniformed nurses rustling along the corridor, and floral prints on the walls. John Moore had suffered and died here, and she – apparently his only relative – had never met him and didn’t know who he was. Poor John Moore. But it was preferable to dying the way Claire had. Nobody knows their future, thought Nina soberly. Carpe Diem; how true that was.

A middle-aged nurse handed over John Moore’s suitcase and a black plastic bag of soiled clothing and Nina, feeling more and more like an imposter, signed for them.

‘I gather you didn’t know John,’ the nurse said. ‘But we put him in the chapel in case you wanted to see him anyway.’

Nina blinked at the woman, consciously preventing her mouth from falling open. The thought would never have crossed her mind. Apart from Claire’s she had never seen a dead body, but that had been enough for her to know there was nothing frightening about a corpse. Like the cliché said, the body was a shell, and when life had gone there was nothing of the person left inside. That hadn’t stopped Nina shedding horrified, disbelieving tears over dead Claire on her hospital bed, but she wouldn’t do that for John Moore.

‘I won’t recognise him, but I guess to make sure I should see him,’ she said, noticing the look of respect Sam gave her.

The nurse led her to a dim little chapel, where a vase of red roses on the altar perfumed otherwise musty air and provided the only real colour. A solitary coffin was set on a wrought iron stand, and Nina followed the nurse across the room. In spite of the brave words apprehension wormed its way through her gut as the older woman slid back a wooden panel to reveal the face of John Moore and his right hand, resting below his neck.

Nina winced, leaning on the coffin to steady herself. He wasn’t an old man, but his face was deeply lined as well as being yellow and emaciated, and his greying hair was sparse. The cancer had marked him. What a horrible way to go. But not as horrible as…

‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, her voice echoing round the bare little room. ‘Was he – a nice person?’

The nurse closed the coffin, nodding. ‘He was very brave,’ she said, putting a hand on Nina’s shoulder as they left the chapel. ‘He had a lot of pain, but we helped him with that and fortunately he didn’t linger long. He’d only been here ten days when he died.’

Sam was waiting outside, and Nina went into the ladies’ to recover. She hadn’t expected the sight of John Moore to shake her, but it had. Dear God, this was all so impersonal. She pressed wet hands to her face, feeling her cheeks hot under the coolness of her palms. She was this person’s nearest relation, but she still felt – empty.

Sam took one look at her and guided her towards the car, his right hand under her elbow. ‘Come on. The sooner we find out what relation John Moore was to you, the better you’ll feel.’

Nina nodded. It was true. Everything would seem more organised when she could file her newly-found deceased relative into a box in her head labelled ‘42nd cousin John’. There was no reason for her to feel guilty about this man; it wasn’t her fault she hadn’t known of his existence until Wednesday.

John Moore’s house wasn’t far from the town centre. Nina was silent as the car passed through the usual kind of urban sprawl; streets lined by chain stores and supermarkets, anonymous in their normality. She was beginning to regret her decision to come here; the thought of Naomi, who was probably still on a pony, sent heavy waves of homesickness all the way through her. But then, Naomi was so thrilled about her trekking weekend she would barely notice her mother’s absence, and they could phone soon and have a long chat. Even so, real life on the island felt very far away right now and it wasn’t a good feeling.

Sam drove down a wide road where the shops were smaller, their fronts making a colourful patchwork on both sides, then crossed a bridge and turned into a narrower street beside the river. They were in a residential area now, tall houses on the left facing a wide strip of grass stretching down to the river on the right. Nina gazed out at well-kept flower beds, shady trees, and people on benches enjoying the sunshine. It was nothing like Arran, but it was nice here.

‘This is it,’ said Sam, negotiating a narrow iron gateway and pulling up in front of a large, square house.

Nina craned her neck to get a better view, amazement robbing her of speech. Had John Moore really lived alone in such a huge place? It was detached, a well-proportioned building made of red brick, with generous – and dirty – windows, and a lot of them, too; there were three storeys here. Dormer windows on the top floor indicated that the attic space had been renovated at some point. A wilderness of green ivy ran up the walls, almost obliterating the downstairs half of the house and stretching up to the roof in places. The front garden was a weed-infested patch of gravel, and high wooden fences separated the plot from the properties on either side. It was obviously an expensive, solid house, but the outside at least was in need of a huge makeover.

‘Is it flats?’ she asked as Sam pulled out the front door key.

‘No, it’s all one house. Remember John Moore was wealthy. I gather he was big in property but he sold his business when he was diagnosed with cancer,’ he said, unlocking the door.

Nina pulled out her mobile to see the time. Hell, it was nearly five o’clock. Unlikely now they’d uncover the secret of John Moore’s identity today; Sam would want to go home soon.

‘Why don’t I leave you to search for documents while I have a quick look round to see if I should stay here,’ she suggested, stepping over a pile of newspapers jostling for place behind the front door.

Inside, the house looked exactly like what it was – the home of a single man who was no longer young and who hadn’t cared enough to make it a pleasant place to live. Nina’s heart sank. The hallway was dim in spite of the glass door separating it from the entrance porch, and the maroon carpet extending up the stairs and stretching towards the back of the house did nothing to brighten the place up. A grandfather clock was tick-tocking in the darkness further down the hallway, and Nina felt her shoulders creeping up.

She opened the nearest door and wandered into a generously-proportioned room, furnished with old-fashioned and possibly valuable pieces. A sombre air of genteel shabbiness hung over the place. Nina sank down on a cracked leather sofa – bloody hell, what was she doing here? She should be in the farmhouse, waiting for her girl to come home, not sitting in semi-darkness – these were the windows with ivy growing over them – in a house that had come straight out of the nineteen forties. On the other side of the hallway she could see Sam searching through a desk in the study where the lighting was even murkier. The dusty smell of old books wafted towards her.

Dismayed, Nina trailed further down the hallway. There was a loo here, so the bathroom proper must be upstairs, and it was all so dingy. They probably filmed the last Frankenstein movie in here, she thought, pushing the kitchen door open and giggling nervously when it creaked. Sound effects and everything, and the very smell seemed to come from the first half of the previous century too. A hotel was beginning to sound like a very good idea.

The kitchen wasn’t bad, though, about the same vintage as their own on Arran, with a big gas cooker and a microwave. Whatever his taste in furniture had been, John Moore had liked his kitchen functional.

The last door was beside the kitchen, and Nina put her head in, expecting to see a pantry, but found herself looking into a slip of a room with a single bed, a wooden chair, and a small table. The old ‘kitchen maid’s room’? The window faced the back garden, and she saw another patch of gravel. John Moore hadn’t been a gardener, then.

She could hear Sam’s feet thudding on wooden floors upstairs now. What a massive old place this was, and how unbelievable that it was hers.

‘Four big bedrooms, all chock-full of furniture,’ he said, running down to join her in the hallway. ‘The attic room’s almost empty and very dusty; I would leave it alone in the meantime. Nina, I have to go. What do you want to do?’

Nina glanced back at the small bedroom and came to a decision. ‘If I can find sheets etcetera for this bed I’ll stay here. Sam, thanks a million. Was there anything helpful in the study?’

‘‘Fraid not. I found some documents and a couple of photos in the desk; I left them on top for you to look through.’ He leaned against the kitchen doorway, brown eyes fixed on hers. ‘I might still hear from the GRO today, but I’ll come back in the morning anyway if that’s all right. Give you a hand to search the rest of the place.’

‘Well – if you’re sure,’ said Nina, relieved. With a bit of luck it wouldn’t take long to get things sorted out. A speedy return to the island was the aim of the game here.

He rummaged in his briefcase and handed her a business card. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get this cleared up. Here are the keys for this place. I’ll come back about ten tomorrow. Oh, and there’s a hotel with a good restaurant about two hundred yards further along this road, in case you need it.’

Nina waved as he backed out of the driveway, then locked the front door against the world. Apart from the clock, the house was deathly silent. Her courage sagged briefly before she pulled herself together. This was her house now and there was nothing scary about that. She had plenty to do, not least of which was going to Sam’s hotel to see if they could provide dinner. Nina pulled her case towards her new bedroom, chin in the air. Maybe by the time Sam came back in the morning, she’d have solved the entire mystery.