Текст книги "The Attic Room: A psychological thriller"
Автор книги: Linda Huber
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Chapter Three
Claire’s Story – Bedford
The flat door banged shut behind Robert, and Claire leapt up, balling her fists in frustration as Nina’s small voice wailed from the bedroom. Typical – she’d been sitting down for exactly five minutes after spending an exhausting day with a teething toddler, and now Robert was off God knows where with George Wright, leaving her babysitting like a good little wife. Well, she wasn’t. She was trying her best to be a good mother, but the good wife bit might be over.
‘Hush, baby. It’s all right. Go back to sleep,’ she whispered, smoothing the sparse blonde hair from Nina’s forehead and kissing the damp little brow. She hummed softly, The Skye Boat Song followed by The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen, smiling in relief as Nina’s eyes closed again.
Back in the living room of their tiny Fulham flat, Claire lifted the phone to call her mother. These early-evening chats with Lily in Edinburgh had become her lifeline. Robert was so cold these days, so hurtful when he spoke to her – it was unbelievably restful to talk to Lily, who loved her. Claire punched out the number, blinking back tears. Yes, her mother loved her, but that didn’t stop Lily constantly advocating ‘making a go of your marriage’, like she and Dad had.
But Rob’s latest escapade was something that even Lily couldn’t just smooth over.
‘He’s bought a house, Mum!’ Claire blurted it out before Lily had finished saying hello. ‘I didn’t know a thing about it until he announced it over dinner as if he was telling me he’d bought a new pullover!’
‘Oh my goodness. What kind of house?’
‘An old one, apparently. It’s in Bedford, by the river, and we’re moving next month. Two reception rooms, four bedrooms plus an attic. And I can only sound like a catalogue because I haven’t even bloody seen it!’
For once, Lily didn’t immediately launch into a variation of ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure’, and Claire was grateful for this much at least. She knew the whirlwind courtship hadn’t been time for her to get to know Robert properly, but he’d been the man of her dreams back then, all chat and charm. Not to mention good-looking. He was a walking cliché – tall, dark and handsome. Three years and a baby later, her feelings had changed and so had his; he hardly spoke to her now. Face it, Claire, she thought, blinking miserably. He’s not the man you thought you married.
‘Oh darling. But maybe it’ll be a chance to get yourselves back on track? A fresh start in a new place? When do you move?’
Claire cast her eyes heavenwards. Lily was back on her ‘work at your marriage’ pedestal, but maybe she was right. Giving up on the relationship when she had a two-year-old daughter wasn’t something to be done lightly.
Claire was astonished when she did see the house. Where had Robert found the money to put down a deposit on a place this size? He barely gave her enough to cover the housekeeping and Nina’s clothes. She wandered round the upstairs rooms, planning in spite of herself. This largest one would be a great master bedroom, and Nina could have the one opposite, a lovely big room with a bay window. She sighed. If only she could turn the clock back to the first weeks of her marriage, those heady days of being in love. Rob was twelve years older and came across as worldly-wise and sophisticated. He’d made her feel special, and although even then he’d been a little… reticent, it had only added to the attraction. Claire squared her shoulders. In spite of their recent problems, Robert was planning a shared future in this house. She would do likewise.
‘Mummy’s,’ said Nina, holding up a handful of Jelly Tots. Claire bent and allowed her daughter to feed her the hot, sticky mess. Nina beamed, and Claire kissed her, licking the sugar from her lips afterwards. She stood up to see Robert in the doorway, hands on hips and a sneer on his face. As usual he looked immaculate, the crisp white shirt contrasting with the blackness of his hair.
‘For God’s sake, look at you. Stuffing your face as usual. No wonder your figure’s gone to pot. Where’s your self-respect – you can’t blame having the baby after all this time.’
Claire didn’t reply, because hell, he was right. Before her pregnancy she’d been a small size ten and now she struggled to get into a fourteen. She allowed herself too many little treats these days because they made her feel better, but Robert cared about her appearance. He’d loved her old skinny-as-a-rake figure, and while he’d said nothing when she was pregnant, this past year or so he’d been – rude. Distant. Putting her down, humiliating her in front of other people. It was horrible.
Robert stamped downstairs to speak to the plumber, and Claire took Nina’s hand and went up to the attic room. Wow, she thought, staring round. A huge floor space, lovely sloping ceiling, cute little windows – this would be a fantastic room for Nina in a few years. The little girl was running up and down, her face one big beam, and Claire laughed too, pretending to chase her. Nina shrieked, and Claire scooped her up and hugged her, looking round with sudden determination. The way forward was clear in her mind now.
With a lick of paint and some nice modern furniture, this house would be an amazing home for the three of them. It was time to do something about her marriage. She had a child. A happy family life was worth fighting for.
Chapter Four
Friday 14th – Saturday 15th July
A search round the first floor of the house revealed a good-sized bathroom with an electric shower, an airing cupboard with all the bed things she would need, and a couple more wooden chairs. Nina settled into the downstairs bedroom quite comfortably. The upstairs rooms, though larger, didn’t appeal to her. Apart from John Moore’s own room – and no way could she sleep there – they were poorly lit and smelled musty. Nina spread her things about the little ‘maid’s room’, then grimaced. Quarter past six, oh, golly – Naomi would be back at the farmhouse by now, chattering away to Beth about the day’s ride, or maybe having a bath to get rid of the aches and pains after four hours in the saddle… if only she were there to see the pleasure and excitement on her child’s face. Unhappiness washed over Nina. It was years since she’d been away by herself like this. She wasn’t used to her own company, that was the problem, and this wasn’t a good time to phone home, either. They’d be busy with the guests’ evening meal in the farmhouse.
Stop being a wimp, woman, she thought, grabbing her handbag. Go for dinner, you’re hungry. Things’ll look different when you have a good meal inside you.
Half an hour later she was sitting at a single table by the fireplace in an elegant Georgian dining room, a very nice salmon steak in front of her and thinking that having a solo dinner in a posh hotel was something else she wasn’t used to. The other diners were all couples or family groups, but the waitress made her feel at home and Nina arranged to have breakfast there too. For a few moments she regretted her decision to stay in John Moore’s uncomfortable house, but then – what would she do stuck in a hotel all evening? What a weird situation this was. This time last week she’d been on the laptop, helping Bethany get them started again after the break caused by Claire’s death. Little had she known then that in a week’s time she’d have inherited a fortune from a man she’d never heard of and be dining all alone in a Bedford hotel.
It was still light when she walked back to John Moore’s house, and the contrast of the pleasant river bank to the dinginess inside hit Nina like something physical as soon as she opened the front door. She shook off the feeling of depression. There was a job to be started here. To work, woman. You can do this.
At the desk she sat staring at the pile of papers Sam had found, apprehension rising in spite of the brave thoughts. God, it was creepy here… and if John Moore was her uncle it was entirely possible that she would come face to face with a photo of Robert Moore, or Claire – or, heaven forbid, her own younger self. Quickly, Nina pushed the pile away. Something about this place was giving her the jitters big-style, and faces from the past would be easier to cope with after a good – she hoped – night’s sleep. She pulled out her phone.
A long conversation with Beth reassured her that she wasn’t alone in the world, and one with Naomi made her laugh. The little girl was bubbling over about her pony ride, in tones of childlike happiness that had been missing since her grandmother’s death. It was great to hear her so bright again, though Nina knew that no-one grieved in a straight line. She herself could be almost content one minute, and then the senselessness of Claire’s death would hit her yet again. Thank God she was never further than a phone call away if Naomi needed her. Permanent accessibility had its advantages.
It was well before seven when Nina awoke the next morning. The curtains in her bedroom didn’t quite meet in the middle, and sunlight slanting through trees in next door’s garden was creating flickering shadows on the wall beside her bed. She watched them for a few seconds, then stretched luxuriously and swung her feet to the floor. Parquet, no less, though a rug for her toes would have been nice. But never mind, it was a beautiful morning and even John Moore’s dreary décor looked better when the sun was shining.
Returning to the house after breakfast, she ran up to the airing cupboard for a couple of towels for the downstairs loo. Heavens, by the looks of things John Moore hadn’t splashed out on towels since the nineteen eighties; these were all either threadbare or stiff as boards. What on earth had the man spent his money on? Nina grabbed two of the least ancient ones and was turning for the stairs again when the attic doorway caught her eye. Eight or nine steps above, it was set in the middle of a little landing, a solid, wooden door painted dingy white, a raised T-shaped panel on the lower part.
Nina stood motionless, staring at the door. That T-shape… what was it reminding her of? Something was jumping up and down just beyond memory, and she couldn’t pinpoint it. Nina shivered, and ran on downstairs. It couldn’t be anything important, an old door…
Sam’s documents in the study were all bank-related, apart from receipts for medication that John Moore had bought online. He’d worried about his thinning hair, apparently, and was prone to heartburn. A lump came into Nina’s throat as she leafed through them, sorting the photos into a separate pile. How pitiful it all felt. Poor sick John Moore, with no-one to care.
Now for the photos. She took them to the window where the light was better, dismayed that most were of places, not people. Two she put aside to look at again. One showed a woman and a small boy standing in a doorway, too far away to be recognisable, but maybe a magnifying glass would help with that. The other was a terraced house with a tiny patch of grass in front, the same small boy and a cat sitting on the garden wall.
Nina shrugged – these wouldn’t help solve the mystery. But surely there must be more photos – Sam had been searching the desk, so these were probably floating around the drawers, as photos had a habit of doing. There could be albums somewhere too, and John Moore might have kept more recent images in his computer. According to the receipts there must be one somewhere.
She stared round the study. There was no computer in sight, but between the windows was a rather nice secretaire and when she opened the cupboard part underneath, lo and behold there was a laptop. Great – if she could get on the internet here it would make life much easier. Sending emails with her phone was plain fiddly.
Happier, Nina went to see if the kitchen would reward her find with a hot drink. A rummage through the food cupboard produced a packet of coffee well within its sell-by date, and the two cartons of long-life milk on the bottom shelf were okay too. She rinsed the old-fashioned filter machine and set it brewing.
The smell made the kitchen seem more homelike, and Nina checked the remaining cupboards while she was waiting. There was a large selection of plates and glasses, but no perishables anywhere and the fridge was switched off. John Moore must have known he would never come back here. Did someone help him clear the kitchen, or had he done it himself? Dear God, what a depressing thought that was. She found a roll of bin bags in a drawer and dropped most of the remaining food into one. There was a small supermarket along the road; she would buy a few necessities later, to tide her over the weekend. With any luck she’d be able to go back to Arran on Monday or Tuesday.
Or – no. There would be a funeral, and under the circumstances she would have to stay for that. Come to think of it, she might even have to organise it. Something else to talk to Sam about. Nina’s heart sank. The island with its lush green hills and healthy sea breezes seemed very far away today.
Soberly, she tied the bin bag and took it to the outhouse in the back courtyard where the dustbin was. It was only when she was back inside that the thought struck her – she’d gone straight out to the bin without thinking about it; she’d known where it was. She hadn’t noticed it yesterday – or had she? Of course it was the logical place for a dustbin to be, but hell, how spooky that was.
The doorbell bing-bonged, and Nina hurried to let Sam in. Thank God, another human being. He was wearing jeans and a dark grey T-shirt today, and Nina was startled to see appreciation shining in his eyes as he grinned at her. Help – the last thing she needed here was an appreciative man, nice as he was. And the very fact that she’d thought of him as ‘nice’ said everything, didn’t it? She smiled briefly and led the way into the study.
‘I found John’s laptop, but that’s about all,’ she said, resuming her search in the secretaire.
‘Great. This model is pretty new, a mate of mine has one,’ said Sam, booting the machine up on the desk. ‘Shit, we need a password to get in here.’
Nina scowled at the screen, where the white field was blinking mockingly. There was no way to guess what John Moore’s password was.
‘We’re going to need one of those geeky IT people,’ she said.
Sam closed the laptop. ‘I’ll get onto that on Monday. You can still have guest access to the Internet, might be useful. What do you want to do now?’
Nina glanced round the room. The tall bookshelves housed only ancient paperbacks and travel books. The secretaire was a dead loss, and Sam had been through the desk already.
‘What we need to find is where John Moore kept his birth certificate and so on. Let’s go through the rest of the house. There might be something useful in his bedroom.’
In John Moore’s room the bed was made up, the duvet cover and sheet newly-washed and un-slept-in. Sam opened drawers in the tallboy, and Nina saw piles of folded underwear and jumpers.
She plumped down on the bed, frowning and thinking aloud. ‘This is seriously weird. John Moore was terminally ill. He lived alone, and went into a hospice to die. So why is his bed freshly made up? The kitchen was cleared of anything that might go off, but there were half-empty boxes of rice etcetera. There’s nothing personal lying around, and all his correspondence has either gone, or been put away where we haven’t found it yet. And absolutely everything was unplugged.’
‘You’re right,’ said Sam. ‘You know what I think?’
Nina sat pondering, then nodded. ‘He’s had someone in to clean the place; someone who didn’t know he was never coming back. He was rich, he might have had a regular cleaner. But Sam, that doesn’t explain the lack of bank cards, passport, that kind of thing.’
‘Maybe there’s a safe somewhere,’ said Sam, going back out into the passage. ‘And what about his post? Was it redirected to the hospice? Or somewhere else?’
‘I could ask at the post office,’ said Nina. ‘And hang on – let’s look in the case they gave me at the hospice. There might be something among his stuff there.’
The case revealed a small pile of correspondence consisting of a handful of circulars, a car magazine, and two bills, one of which was from a cleaning company.
‘Bingo,’ said Nina. ‘I’ll call them and see what they can tell us. This says they were here on the eighth.’
Poor John Moore. He’d gone into the hospice and arranged for a cleaner to depersonalise his house. And now she thought about it – where were all his friends? As far as she knew there was no one clamouring for a funeral.
She keyed in the number on the cleaner’s bill while Sam went to fetch more coffee. Fortunately, the company worked Saturdays, and when Sam came back with a fragrantly steaming mug in each hand she waved a page of notes at him.
‘If you ever need cleaners, these are your guys. I spoke to Joanne who was very cooperative but she can’t really help us. The company have been cleaning the house once a week for five years now, but they hardly ever saw John Moore. Joanne said she’d only spoken to him a handful of times since the start. He phoned them a couple of weeks ago and said he was going away, and told them to do the place and then close it up until further notice, and -’ She paused and pulled a face at Sam. ‘There were two large bags of shredded paper to be disposed of. Of course they’re long gone now, and she has no idea what they were.’
Sam handed over her coffee and perched on the edge of the desk.
‘Okay. So he got rid of all the stuff he didn’t want anyone to see after his death. But he’d hardly have shredded his birth certificate, would he? Of course he might have a safe deposit box at the bank, but that’ll have to wait till Monday too.’
Nina sat sipping. It was beginning to sink in that this was her house now. She would have to decide what to do with it. Sell it? Keep it and rent it out, or live in it?
I don’t want to live here, she thought. It was an absolute gut feeling. This wasn’t a happy house, with the dim ground floor rooms, those closed-up bedrooms upstairs, and the long, dark attic room on the top floor.
… and the long, dark attic room on the…
‘Shit!’ she whispered, horrified, and buried her face in her hands. She hadn’t been up to the top floor yet. How had she known about the room there?
‘Nina? What’s wrong?’ Sam was bending over her, his hand on her back.
Nina could hear the panic in her own voice. ‘There’s one big room on the top floor of this house, with a wooden floor and a sloping roof and rafters. It’s dim and spidery and scary, and Sam, I haven’t been up there yet, how do I know that?’
He rubbed her arm and Nina fought to regain control. If nothing else, the sudden memory showed that she and John Moore were in some way connected. She must have been in this house as a very young child. It was the only explanation –and that was how she’d known about the dustbin too. She took a shaky breath. Now that the first shock had gone, she could see that it was logical – John Moore was a relation, so naturally she would have been here to visit. Maybe she’d even played up in the attic. Rainy day games or whatever.
‘Let’s go and look,’ she said.
Nina’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast as she ran upstairs, Sam close behind her. She pushed the attic door open and clicked the light switch, staring round. Another short flight of eight stairs led up to the room proper, and it was exactly as she’d described it – one long space under the roof. Boxes were piled up on one side of the dusty wooden floor, and a pile of old mattresses lay near the windows facing the river. A single lightbulb hanging from the middle rafter was throwing shadows into the corners, and the windows were small and dirty, keeping more light out than they allowed in. Nina went over to the window overlooking the river and ran a finger along the window ledge. The dust was thick.
And something up here was spooking her out well and truly; she could feel the hairs rising on her arms.
Sam sneezed. ‘I think we can assume for the moment that we won’t find anything useful here.’
‘There might be photos back there,’ said Nina, staring at the crates and boxes stacked against the wall. But even if there was, what help would they be? What she needed was a family tree showing how she and John Moore were related. In spite of the warm weather the room felt clammy, and Nina shivered. The atmosphere up here was almost choking her. Or was it the dust?
Sam was already running downstairs, and Nina hurried after him. Dear God, this huge old place. The logical thing would be to sell it, but whether or not she’d find a buyer for a house in this state was anyone’s guess. All she could hope was that Sam could deal with the business side of things for her, because no way did she want to be stuck here all summer doing stuff with John Moore’s house and belongings. And they still hadn’t found anything to connect her with her benefactor.
‘My bet’s on a safe,’ said Sam, going back into John Moore’s bedroom. ‘Let’s check all the walls, and the rest of the furniture on this floor. But Nina, whatever the relationship is, you are definitely John Moore’s heir, and one way or another we’ll find out how the two of you are connected next week.’
Nina’s heart sank. Home soon was sounding less and less likely. ‘What I can’t understand is why my mother didn’t tell me about him.’
‘Maybe it’s a very distant relationship. Or maybe she didn’t like him – and she couldn’t have known about the inheritance. There are any number of reasons.’
Nina sighed. It was true, anything was possible. Half an hour’s work revealed nothing new, however, and Sam left, saying he was playing squash that afternoon.
At the front door he turned and touched her shoulder. ‘I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight, how about it? There’s a great pizza place in Bedford, if you’re into Italian food.
For a split second Nina hesitated. Why was he asking? No way did she want any kind of romantic involvement; her emotions were all tied up with grieving for Claire and helping Naomi deal with her grief too. On the other hand, she had to eat, and she could make her feelings clear if the need arose. And Sam was fun; they had a good rapport.
‘I love Italian food,’ she said at last. ‘And dinner would be great, if you’re sure you haven’t had enough of me for one day. But one thing, Sam – it’s on me. You’ve been so much help, I’d like to repay you a little.’
He saluted and accepted, leaving Nina hopeful that he had no ulterior motive for asking her out. Or maybe ‘hopeful’ wasn’t quite the right word… she wanted another relationship someday, didn’t she? She wanted to find a ‘significant other’? Someday yes, she thought, heading back to the kitchen. But ‘someday’ was neither today nor tomorrow.
