Текст книги "The Attic Room: A psychological thriller"

Автор книги: Linda Huber

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Chapter Five

Saturday 15th July

Alone again, Nina wandered through the ground floor rooms, picturing her relative here. It was so odd – John Moore could have got in touch any time, but he’d waited until it was too late for them to meet. Or did he think he’d have a week or two longer? Nina shivered. How horrible, and shit, she had forgotten to ask Sam about the funeral. Oh, well, it would be a nice cheerful topic if they ran out of things to say tonight, she thought, then shook herself. Now she was getting morbid. This wasn’t how she’d have chosen to come into a fortune, but it had happened and whatever his reasons were, John Moore had obviously wanted her to have it. With his millions about to become her own she could indulge in an afternoon’s retail therapy with a perfectly clear conscience. Her wardrobe could do with a few additions.

Head high, she locked the front door behind her and headed for the town centre. On the way she passed the Post Office, and on an impulse went in to inquire about John Moore’s post. The assistant went to check.

‘Yes, the hospice didn’t accept Mr Moore’s post after his death, we’ve been holding everything here,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give it out to you today.’

‘Can I arrange to have it delivered to his home address on Monday?’ said Nina, thinking quickly. By the looks of things she’d be here till the middle of the week at least, and she could make fresh arrangements after that.

Lunch at a salad bar and a two-hour shopping spree cheered her up considerably. Her situation right this minute, though undeniably unusual, was actually all good news. She had inherited enough to make financial problems things of the past. She would put some of the money into the B&B – they could build the extension they’d been talking about for ages and double their business next year. And how amazing it was to go shopping and not worry too much about prices… oh yes, she could get used to this…

On the way back she called in at the supermarket and bought two bags of provisions, including a bottle of wine. A few little treats would make all the difference to living in John Moore’s house. Her house.

She arrived ‘home’ and walked into the dimness of the hallway, determinedly thinking cheerful thoughts. She would phone Naomi in a bit, and get the day’s news. Right this minute her daughter would be bouncing around on her pony, having a ball. Happy thought for the day. Now, the grey silk top she’d bought to wear tonight was gorgeous but shop-creased, but she’d spotted John Moore’s iron in the tall kitchen cupboard that morning. Hopefully it worked, or she’d be heading straight back into town…

Whistling to fill the silence, Nina opened the cupboard and reached for the elderly steam iron on a shelf near the back, noticing for the first time the tin beside it, a small flat tin that had once contained shortbread. She gave it a little shake and knew immediately that one search might be over, anyway – that sounded like papers in there… Fingers shaking, she prised the lid off.

Inside was a thick wad of banknotes and a smaller bundle of papers, and bingo, John Moore’s birth certificate was there, as well as a couple of bank cards and an old cheque book, and his passport. Nina unfolded the birth certificate and peered at the old-fashioned – was it copperplate? – writing. None of the names meant anything to her, except John Moore’s. His father had been John Moore too. Wishing with all her heart she knew more about the Moore family, Nina opened the passport at the photo page and felt the kitchen reel around her.

She had almost no memory of her father. They’d been on trips to the seaside, she knew, and the zoo, when she was a toddler, but – she remembered nothing of these. He wasn’t quite faceless because Claire had an album with photos of Nina’s baby years and of course her father was on some of these. Some, but not many, she thought suddenly, clenching her fists to stop her fingers shaking. Claire had included very few photos of Robert Moore, and when you thought about that it was difficult to understand why.

And now this face on John Moore’s passport photo, rejuvenated by however many years, could easily have been her father on one of those old baby photos. The same chin, the same flat nose, the heavy eyebrows, the receding hairline. Shit, oh shit. Of course passport photos were always terrible, and there could well have been a strong family resemblance between Robert and John Moore, but…

Nina stared at the date of the passport. It had expired last year, so this photo was over ten years old. A horrible churning sensation started in her gut. Was it even remotely possible that John Robert Moore had been her father? That Claire had lied all those years?

For a second Nina felt as if she’d been slapped across the face, and she raised cold hands to her mouth, feeling her fingers tremble against her lips. No. That couldn’t be… such a huge lie, all those years… Impossible.

Dazed, she poured a generous glass of wine and took it upstairs to the bath. She needed warmth; she was shivering. Lying in fragrant, soapy water, she tried to think calmly. A horrible, logical progression to the entire scenario was seeping into her head.

She knew very little about her father because Claire had told her very little. As a young girl she’d asked about Robert Moore’s family and was told they were all dead. End of conversation. Nina’s stomach churned uncomfortably as she realised that Claire had made the Moore family taboo long before little Nina was old enough to know what was happening. That was why she’d never asked much about her father; that was why she wasn’t sure about her own grandparents’ names. As a topic, the Moore family had been very strictly off-limits. And in all the years she’d never challenged the boundaries Claire had set.

And now – what if her father wasn’t – hadn’t been – dead? What if John Moore… but no, no, Claire wouldn’t have invented Robert Moore’s death, because that would have been cruel, and her mother hadn’t been a cruel person. John Moore must have been Robert’s brother, or cousin… Even cousins could look very alike. Like Tim and his cousin Angus, who was best man at Beth and Tim’s wedding. Everyone joked that Bethany should check very carefully to make sure she was marrying the right man… The thought wasn’t comforting for long.

If Claire had lied, she must have had a very compelling reason…

Nina stood in the bathroom drying her hair with one of John Moore’s towels and thinking about her mother. She and Claire had been close; they lived together and worked together – and fought as mothers and daughters do, but the bond had been a strong one. Nina bit her lip. Their life on the island had been far away, both physically and chronologically, from their old life in England. Claire might not have shared a long-ago secret. But dear God, what possible reason was there to lie about a rich relation? And what relation?

Nina reached for her make-up bag. There was no way she could puzzle all this out for herself; she would have to wait until Sam got the information from whichever authorities on Monday.

Sam’s restaurant was by the river, in a tall conservatory full of greenery. Water bubbled up from a little fountain in the middle of the room and trickled down a series of small pools into a shallow stone basin. Nina gazed round, feeling the tension leave her shoulders. The walls were sponge-painted orange at floor level and faded gradually to yellow up at the ceiling. It wasn’t quite like being in Tuscany, but it must be the next best thing – exactly what she needed after John Moore’s house. She smiled at Sam over the menu.

‘This is a lovely place! What do you recommend?’

He opened his menu. ‘Okay, my favourite starter is the one with Parma ham and melon, and the one beneath it with olives and shaved parmesan is great too. You get garlic bread with the olive one. For the main course I often have one of the tortellini dishes. The mixed fungi one is fantastic, and so is the ‘Tortellini alla Roma’.’

Nina chose the olive and garlic starter and Tortellini alla Roma and sat back, sipping her wine. She hadn’t told Sam about finding the passport yet, but it didn’t seem polite to launch into business straightaway. She glanced up to see him gazing across at her.

‘Spit it out,’ he said.

Nina put her glass down. ‘I was wondering if it would be rude to talk business and say I’ve found John Moore’s birth certificate and his passport, and unfortunately they don’t take us any further, except for the interesting detail that he could have been my father’s twin.’

‘Ah,’ he said, frowning. ‘Of course it’s not rude. I wouldn’t worry till you know the facts, Nina. Brothers can look very alike.’ He sat fiddling with a piece of bread, and she waited.

He looked up again. ‘You know, I can identify with your problem. I don’t remember either of my birth parents. My mother was only seventeen when I was born, and she died a year later after a drugs overdose. I don’t think she knew who my father was, so for all I know he could be alive. I was adopted by an amazing couple from Allerton, and they’re the ones I call Mum and Dad.’

‘They must be very proud of you,’ said Nina, leaning back as the waiter appeared with the starters, glad of the short interruption. The evening had taken a slightly disturbing turn – Sam had trusted her with an intimate part of his past. Of course, he knew a lot about her, things she wouldn’t normally tell strangers. He’d balanced that out now and it somehow removed them from the situation of lawyer-and-client-out-to-dinner – so maybe he did want to be more than her lawyer. Help. She would have to be careful; there was no space in her head for a lovesick lawyer, even if he was ‘nice’.

She gave him a quick smile and lifted her fork. ‘Tell me more about the arrangements.’ Business was definitely the safest option.

She listened attentively as he told her what John Moore had organised. ‘As you know I’m executor of the will. That means it’s up to me to settle the estate and make sure it’s given over to the heirs. That’s you. I also have to organise a cremation, but John Moore didn’t want a funeral service and he didn’t leave any special instructions about the ashes, so you can have a think if you have any preferences about that. And on Monday morning we should hear back from the General Register Office; then we’ll know who’s who.’

Nina heaved a sigh, relief making her feel quite light-hearted. Not so complicated after all, brilliant. The horrible uncertainty would soon be over.

‘It’s great to know I’m in such efficient hands. You have an interesting job, don’t you?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not really. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened in the last three years. All I do most of the time is draw up contracts, and I’m the most junior partner with no real hope of becoming more senior in the foreseeable future. I’ve been mulling over a change of direction for a while now.’

‘What would you do?’

He shrugged. ‘Look for something business-related, I guess. Maybe do a course. It’s all a bit up in the air at the moment. Tell me about you. What do you on your west coast island?’

Nina talked for a few moments about the B&B, telling him how they’d started with one room and then added five more as time went on.

‘We get loads of business from Easter till about October, but very little the rest of the year. So balancing the books can be tricky, but it’s worth it. Arran’s a fantastic place to live,’ she finished.

Sam reached across and squeezed her hand, not letting go. ‘Sounds like John Moore’s legacy will make a difference to you. Any plans yet?’

Nina removed her hand from his grasp. Time for some plain speaking. ‘What I need to do first is get my life back on an even footing after Mum’s death, and help Naomi do that too. I need time and space to recover, Sam. All this with John Moore really is too much, and I have to put Naomi first.’

And she should be with her girl right now, she thought miserably. Mind you, the phone call to Arran before Sam arrived tonight had reassured Nina that Naomi was having the time of her life. The pony-trekking weekend was to continue until Wednesday. John Moore’s millions were going to come in handy.

‘Of course, I understand,’ said Sam, looking at her helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. I’d like to think we can be – friends.’

He was more than nice, thought Nina. If they’d met at another time in a different place… But they hadn’t. She raised her glass. ‘Me too. To the future!’

They clinked, but Nina could see he felt rejected. His eyes swivelled round the room before he eventually came back to business. ‘I’ll draw up a death announcement for the newspapers on Monday, maybe some of John Moore’s friends will get in touch. That could be helpful.’

Yes, thought Nina, but wasn’t it a little strange that no one had got in touch already? Of course it was summer, people were away, and maybe they’d had better things to do than visit dying men in hospices… it would need a good friend to do that. Not many people had visited Claire in hospital, it was just too damned painful to sit watching her vegetate while a machine breathed for her. Nina understood perfectly; she’d hardly been able to stand it herself.

It was almost eleven when Sam pulled up in front of the house.

‘Nina, I’m sorry but I’m away all day tomorrow. It’s the squash club’s annual outing, and as I’m secretary this year I arranged it and I have to go.’

The expression on his face was downcast, and Nina smiled wryly. His apology could only mean that otherwise he would be back on her doorstep, which was not what she wanted. God bless the squash club. She made her voice bright and cheerful.

‘Sounds great! Where are you going?’

‘Stratford. Guided tour plus ‘A Merchant of Venice’. I’ll text you a picture, shall I? Then first thing Monday morning I’ll get on to your business, and I’ll call to tell you what’s happening as soon as I know. What’ll you do tomorrow?’

‘I guess I’ll start clearing. Clothes, books and stuff. I’m not going to keep the house.’

The decision had made itself, so it must be the right one.

Sam didn’t sound surprised. ‘The estate shouldn’t take long to settle. You can have it on the market by the autumn.’

Nina closed the door behind him and trailed through to the kitchen. Hopefully, by the autumn this house would be a distant memory and John Moore’s millions would be safely in the bank on Arran.

Chapter Six

Monday, 17th July

The blackmail letter arrived sometime between eight-thirty and nine-fifteen on Monday morning.

By half past eight Nina was scurrying towards the local supermarket, huddled under one of John Moore’s better umbrellas and trying to avoid the worst of the puddles. The easterly wind blowing a gale against her added to the misery; controlling the big umbrella was challenging to say the least. If she hadn’t needed some basic necessities like bread and bin bags, she would never have attempted it and how she was going to manage the return journey, with full shopping bags, she had no idea.

The river was full and flowing more swiftly than she’d seen it so far, its waters brown and muddy to match her mood. Her sojourn here had been bearable in sunny summer weather with Sam around to talk to, but after thirty-six hours in her own company Nina felt tired and jaded.

Being an heiress isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, she thought, scraping damp strands of hair away from her eyes. She had all that money, yet here she was, staying in a pretty sordid house, and now she had to go out in a monsoon – or it would be if it wasn’t so bloody cold – and buy her own bread. Talk about Monday morning. She was doing something wrong here. And thank heavens, here was the supermarket.

The rain had slackened off to a drizzle when she emerged clutching her bags of provisions, and Nina pulled up her hood and left the umbrella to its fate in the stand by the door. There were at least another three in the coat rack at ‘home’.

The letter was on the mat when she opened the door, and Nina stared at the single envelope. John Moore’s held-back stuff was supposed to be coming this morning; surely there should be more post than this. She lifted the thin envelope and went on through to the kitchen.

Oh – this hadn’t come by post. Nina stared at John Moore’s name printed in Times New Roman on a sticky label on the envelope. There was no address, no stamp. From a neighbour, maybe – or one of John’s elusive friends? But why the label? She sat down at the table to open it, and pulled out a single A4 sheet, folded in four. The print here was Times New Roman too, large-sized and italicised.

Horror chilled its way through Nina as she read.

Did you think you’d paid me off? Did you think I’d go away? Wrong both times, paedo. You don’t have enough money to pay for what you did. Do you think I don’t remember screaming my poor little head off while you and your paedo mates got off on it? Pervert, paedo, and now you can pay. It’ll cost you double this time. £4,000. And I’ll be back for more. Like you were, pervert.

Nina dropped the letter on the table and leapt to her feet, hands over her mouth. Dear God, what a disgusting letter. John Moore – a paedophile? Could that be? Shit, shit, what on earth should she do now?

Phone the police, the rational part of her brain said immediately. Blackmail’s an offence, no matter who did what, and the police could find out if there was any truth to the allegations.

Feeling sick to her stomach, Nina hurried through to the study for the phone directory she’d noticed there, and looked up the number of the police station. The person she spoke to was calm and reassuring, told her someone would be round in fifteen minutes, and warned her not to touch the letter again. Nina broke the connection and called Sam’s number. He should know about this too. Loneliness crept through her as she waited for him to connect. If only Beth were here and not hundreds of miles away. And oh, if this had all happened a few short weeks ago she’d have had Claire to call on both for help and for information about John Moore. The images the letter was conjuring up were appalling. Nina squinted at it on the table.

…screaming my poor little head off…

Dear God but she had done that too, up on the top floor of this house… she had screamed too…

Nina dropped her phone on the table and stumbled to the downstairs toilet where she vomited hot, burning liquid into the bowl. When the spasm was over she splashed water on her face and stared at her reflection, sheet-white in the rust-marked mirror. Get a grip, woman, the police’ll be here any minute. They’ll know what to do. And Sam, hell, what must he be thinking, she’d called his number, dropped her mobile, and ran.

He was shouting her name down the phone when she picked it up.

‘I’m on my way,’ he said when she told him. ‘I’ll be with you in ten, okay?’

‘Yes,’ she said dully. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry.’

A muffled thud in the hallway made her jump, but it was only the postman. Nina’s fingers shook as she sat in the kitchen, sifting through the bundle of letters and ads from the past couple of weeks. But thank God, apart from the gas and electricity bills there was nothing here that needed attention.

The doorbell rang and she trailed through to answer it. Two police officers were standing there, a grey-haired older man with a comfortable face and a blonde woman who looked very severe but was probably only twenty-five or so. They introduced themselves as Detective Inspector David Mallony and Detective Constable Sabine Jameson. Nina led them into the kitchen where they stood beside the table, reading the letter where it lay, their faces grim. DI Mallony pulled on gloves and eased both envelope and letter into plastic folders.

‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘Must have given you quite a shock. And this John Moore is – ?’

‘He’s dead,’ said Nina, feeling better now she could hand the letter over to experts. ‘He died last week and I’ve inherited this house, you see. I didn’t know him and I’m not sure what relation he was to me. His – my lawyer’s finding out about that today.’

It sounded strange as she said it, but DI Mallony merely nodded.

A sudden idea came to Nina and she sat straighter. Maybe science could help her. ‘Is there a test I could get done to find out about the relationship, even though he’s dead? A DNA test or something?’

David Mallony sat down, his expression giving nothing away. ‘There is, but if it’s a distant relationship it can take a while to get the results. It’s not like a paternity test which is back in a day or two.’

‘Could you arrange for me to take a paternity test?’ said Nina. A negative result would be exactly what she wanted, much better than an old marriage certificate or family tree.

‘I think you’d better tell me why you want it,’ said David Mallony, staring at her over the table. ‘Is there any doubt about who your father is?’

Nina took a deep breath. All she could do was tell the truth. She was in the middle of explaining when the doorbell rang and Sabine Jameson went to let Sam in. He touched Nina’s shoulder and sat down beside her.

David Mallony listened without speaking, his face grave. ‘I see. Well, we can certainly arrange a paternity test though I imagine you’ll have to pay for it yourself.’

‘Nina – I’ve heard back from the GRO. They traced your birth certificate. John Robert Moore was your father,’ said Sam, putting a hand on her shoulder again.

Nina winced. How stupid, her own birth certificate – it was the logical starting place; she should have thought of that herself. It must be at home, in the folder where Claire kept all the important documents, but for the life of her Nina couldn’t remember ever seeing it. And why on earth that should be was difficult to understand.

She glared at Sam. ‘Hell. But that can’t be right. There must be some mistake. I still want the test.’ She raised her eyebrows at David Mallony.

‘Of course.’ His voice was quite neutral.

Nina nodded. Thank God he’d agreed. Surely the test would show that she wasn’t John Moore’s daughter. And when she was safely back on Arran she would research Robert Moore’s side of the family. It might be something Naomi would enjoy helping with, too.

Sam leaned towards her. ‘You’re doing the right thing; a test’ll give you certainty. Oh, and the cremation’s organised for 10 a.m. Wednesday,’ he said, and David Mallony took a note of the details. Nina was silent. A cremation with no service, no mourners, no funeral flowers. How tragic. A sordid end to any kind of life. But oh, God, what had John Moore done? Was there any truth at all in that blackmail letter?

David Mallony asked several more questions about John Moore, the house, and if she had noticed anyone hanging around since she arrived. Nina answered as well as she could, wondering all the time if she should tell them about the moment when she’d felt she remembered crying up in the attic room. But it was so vague – what child didn’t cry at some point? Yet the phrase ‘screaming my poor little head off’ had stirred something deep inside her, some long-forgotten terror.

Say nothing for the moment, she thought. She could tell the police later if she remembered anything more concrete. Anyway, there was nothing to say that the accusation in the letter was true, and even if it was, John Moore was beyond prosecution now.

The two detectives had a look round the house, spending quite a long time in the study, then left, taking John Moore’s laptop with them and telling Nina to go to the police station for a cheek swab later that morning.

Nina closed the door and turned back to the kitchen, where Sam was making coffee.

‘Are you all right, Nina? What an ordeal.’

‘I want to go home,’ she said, sinking onto a hard wooden chair and rubbing her face with both hands. She would phone Beth as soon as Sam had gone, and – but dear God, she couldn’t tell her friend over the phone that she thought she remembered screaming in the attic owned by a man who might turn out to be her father and who had now been accused of being a paedophile… She would break down and howl before she’d said six words. A sob escaped before she could suppress it.

Sam put a mug of coffee in front of her. ‘Nina, talk to me. I can see there’s something more.’

She turned her face away. This was way too personal to tell someone she’d only known a few days, even if he was her lawyer and ‘nice’. And fancied her. Especially if he fancied her.

‘It’s nothing,’ she tried to say, but the words came out in a cracked whisper.

…screaming my poor little head off… Fuck, fuck, that was a memory, she could remember screaming, there had been a lot of screaming…

What had happened to her?

Sam tried to grasp her hands and she yanked them away, conscious that she was shaking all over now.

‘Nina, you can tell me, or you can tell the doctor. Whatever this is you can’t deal with it alone. Which do you want?’ He was holding his mobile, thumb poised to tap.

Nina stared at him, bleary-eyed. She didn’t want to confide in him, but perhaps she should. She needed an impartial opinion, and telling Sam would be better than having him summon yet another stranger here.

‘I – when I read the letter I remembered screaming too, upstairs in the attic room,’ she whispered, not looking at him, unable to stop her teeth chattering.

For a moment there was silence, then Sam reached out and squeezed her hand very briefly. Nina fought for control over her breathing. It was a relief to have told someone, though Beth would have been a better someone.

‘But Nina – if that’s an accurate memory then – ‘

‘Then the allegations in that letter could well be true,’ said Nina bleakly. She took a deep, shaky breath, then another. ‘Sam, I know. It’s so horrible – I just don’t remember enough. Hell, I was only three years old when we left this house, nobody would – ‘

She broke off, yet more horror flooding through her as she realised what she had said. This house… it had been this house, her gut instinct was shrieking that now.

Another thought crashed into her head. This could be the reason for Claire’s flight from Bedford and the Moore family. Maybe they hadn’t left because Robert Moore died – Claire could have been running from an abusive John Moore. But how could she find out, all these years later? Nina swallowed, her throat dry and painful.

And of course, of course, hell – this would be why Claire took over the application for both their passports so firmly. Nina closed her eyes, remembering. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time; she signed the appropriate pages and left the bundle with Claire to ‘send off with all the paperwork’. Shit. She’d been twenty-two, Naomi was a toddler, and Claire had ‘done the donkey work’, as she called it. Did she do it to prevent Nina noticing her father’s name on her birth certificate? Nothing seemed more likely now.

Dear God, where was this going to end?

‘I think you should go to a hotel,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t forget, whoever wrote that letter is out there somewhere.’

Nina stared out of the kitchen window. Rain was dripping from the ivy growing up the garden wall. ‘There’s no reason to think he’d harm me. All I want is to finish up here as soon as I can and then go home, Sam. Back to Arran.’

‘I’ll do everything I can to get you on the first possible plane north. Let’s wait and see what the police say when they get into John Moore’s computer. They might find an explanation there.’

Sam left soon after and Nina set her shoulders. She was going to get on with things here. First stop was the police station for her cheek swab, and then she would continue what she’d started yesterday, bagging John Moore’s stuff.

But how scary it was that John Moore, whether or not he was her father and whether or not he was a criminal – had known about her all the time. The thought made her feel invaded, as if he’d been snooping about in her life.

By evening she’d made good headway clearing John Moore’s possessions and organised with a charity shop in town to take some bits and pieces. It felt good, having a menial task to do, and it gave her time to think. Either John Moore was her father – and she was still hoping he wasn’t – or he was a more distant relation. He may have abused the letter-writer in the past, but it was also possible that the writer was nothing more than a mean chancer after the money. After all, a sick, single man might pay up simply to stop someone making a false allegation.

Nina shook her head. It sounded logical enough when you thought it through like that, but somehow her gut instinct was jumping up and down again, telling her that a piece of the puzzle was still missing. The best thing would be to stay here a few more days and get things sorted out before she headed north again. Slowly, she walked through the house, trying to remember being here as a child. But nothing came to mind. You couldn’t force memories, she knew that; they had to come by themselves.

At five o’clock the doorbell rang. Sam stood there, clutching a laptop, his face a mixture of exasperation and apology.

‘Nina, I’m sorry. I wanted to keep you company this evening but I’m in court first thing and something new has come up – so I’ve got masses of reading to do on the case before morning. I’ve brought you this; I thought it might be useful now the police have taken John Moore’s laptop.’

Nina was touched. ‘Thanks, Sam, that’s kind of you. And don’t worry. I have a gourmet microwave meal for one waiting in the fridge. I’ve decided to stay on for a day or two anyway, till we know more.’

His face lit up. ‘Excellent. I’ll make us pizza tomorrow night, shall I? I do a real mean pizza.’

Nina accepted, wondering if she was doing the right thing. But you could have too much of your own company, and with all these vague feelings and uncomfortable memories welling up it was better not to be alone too much.