Текст книги "The Attic Room: A psychological thriller"
Автор книги: Linda Huber
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
‘Lucky you. Devon’s lovely,’ said Nina, keeping her voice light.
It was hard to know how she felt about Sam leaving. He was the only person here who knew everything that was happening to her, and the thought that she would be alone with the situation wasn’t appealing. And to be honest, she enjoyed his company. He’d respected her wish to be ‘business-friends’, and Nina wondered suddenly if she was going to regret limiting their relationship. It was too late to change that now, though. The important thing was to sort the John Moore situation and get back home.
‘Can we go for pizza?’ said Naomi, and Nina laughed.
‘After all you ate at lunchtime? Sam, for goodness sake don’t tell your mother, will you?’
He grinned. ‘My lips are sealed. Ladies, I’ll love you and leave you. I have a pile of paperwork to organise before my trip.’
‘Does he love us?’ said Naomi, as Sam drove off down the road.
Nina shooed her in the front door. ‘You can’t love people you’ve only known for five minutes. You scoot upstairs and get washed and as you were so good today we’ll go to that pizzeria by the river.’
Naomi scooted, and Nina followed on slowly. You could fall in love in five seconds, she knew that. But she hadn’t – had she?
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday 23rd July
To Nina’s relief Naomi was still asleep the following morning when Sam appeared with his folder of family information. She hadn’t mentioned her tentative plan to stay another few days, and now she could tell him without Naomi’s eagle eyes zoning in on things that weren’t there… or were they? Nina didn’t know herself how she felt about Sam; he was so mixed up in the sordidness surrounding John Moore.
Sam’s grin stretched right across his face when she told him she wasn’t ready to leave yet. ‘Brilliant! We never did go for that pizza with Naomi, maybe we can when I get back.’
Nina couldn’t help laughing. Naomi had eaten her own pizza last night and a slice of Nina’s too.
‘Well, if Naomi has anything to do with it we certainly will,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Sam. Have a safe trip.’
His eyes met hers, and there it was again, that spark of attraction. This time, however, he made no move towards her.
‘I will. And Nina – don’t worry. You’re going to get through this. You must feel as if there’s bad stuff everywhere you look at the moment, but we’ll get it straightened, you’ll see.’
Nina didn’t answer. He was right, but discovering that your father had been a paedophile and your mother had lied to you about him all your life – bad stuff didn’t get much mightier than that.
Alone again, she sat down with the address list and Sam’s laptop. Now to see if she could find a phone number for Paul or George Wright.
There were two Pauls and seven George Wrights in Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire, and Buckinghamshire. Okay, Paul was probably going to be easier to track down than his Dad.
Nina picked up her mobile, then stopped. Ten o’clock on Sunday morning was maybe too early to phone. Better wait an hour or so.
She used the time to call the police for an update in the investigation, only to be told that David Mallony was off that day but would be in touch with her early in the week. Depressed, Nina hung up. She didn’t expect them to get excited about John Moore himself, the man was dead, but there was still the anonymous letter writer and threatening phone-caller, not to mention all the possible victims, including herself. Oh well, it was Sunday.
She went upstairs and lured her daughter out of bed with the promise of warm croissants for breakfast, then when Naomi was under the shower she tried the first Paul Wright’s number. The voice in her ear sounded calm and awake, and Nina’s hopes soared.
‘I’m researching my family tree and I’ve found relations called George and Paul Wright,’ she said after giving her name. ‘My father was John Moore – he and George Wright were cousins.’
There was a long pause before the voice answered. ‘Well, I guess I’m your Paul Wright,’ he said. ‘So you’re little Nina who used to play with me on Sundays? Gosh, I – I don’t know what to say – I hadn’t quite forgotten about you, but… what a long time ago it was. I haven’t seen my father for years, we don’t get on. But – Uncle John – is he – ?’
Nina explained about John Moore’s death. It was impossible to tell what Paul Wright felt about her getting in touch like this. He was polite and interested in her story, but there was no ‘wow, how fantastic’ tone in his voice. He did ask several questions about his uncle and the house, which he was evidently familiar with. Nina hesitated for a second before suggesting a meeting, but Paul agreed immediately.
‘As a matter of fact I’ll be driving right past Bedford late this afternoon, on the way home from friends. Shall I stop by then?’
Nina agreed to a visit between five and six o’clock, and punched the air as she put the phone down. She had found another relation, and even if Paul didn’t get on with his father, he should be able to give her a phone number for George Wright. And according to Emily, they were all the family left. So she’d done it – she had found everyone who could possibly help her reconstruct the years she and Claire spent with John Moore. The feeling of relief surprised her in its intensity, and she went to splash cold water on her face. It was going to be all right. Her programme for the week now was to talk to the Wrights, especially George, who would remember more than Paul, visit Emily a couple of times, and see Sam when he returned, after which she’d be free at last to take Naomi back to Arran. Would it be ‘Goodbye Sam’ forever? Nina didn’t know any more.
She and Naomi spent the afternoon at a craft workshop near Biddenham where children could make their own candles from beeswax, something Naomi could do despite her sprained wrist. By quarter to five they were home again, and Naomi ran to email her friends with the candle-making news. Nina went through to the living room, rubbing her stomach, which was churning nervously. Wow, oh wow. Soon now she would meet another relative, the second in two days, and this one was her own generation. It was exciting, in spite of the bad stuff. Hope flared inside her – how amazing it would be if she liked Paul as much as she liked Emily.
She sat arranging the last of the black and white photos into ‘people’ and ‘no people’ piles while she waited. Hallelujah, that was the photos organised. Maybe Paul would be able to identify some of the family on these, and she would take a new selection to show Emily on Tuesday too.
A thought struck Nina and she frowned. With Naomi there, she wouldn’t be able to go into the paedophilia problem with Emily. But then – did Emily actually need to know? It was such a terrible thing… Why spoil the last years of an elderly lady’s life? Nina stared blindly at the last photo, remembering the yearning look on Emily’s kind, wrinkled face when they left. An old woman, watching her new-found family leave. A lump rose in Nina’s throat. She had found both a father she had no wish to have, and a great-aunt she would love. How very – surreal it felt.
The doorbell rang at ten past five, and Nina hurried along the hallway. The man on the doorstep was oddly like the little boy on the photographs. Paul Wright was slightly built and only a few centimetres taller than she was, with deep brown eyes and a shock of jet-black hair falling over his forehead. His smile was shy and appealing.
‘Nina. How amazing after all these years. You used to steal my jelly babies, you know.’
Nina smiled and shook hands. ‘Well, you’re one up on me if you remember. I have no recollection of you at all, but I’m really glad to see you now. It’s such an odd feeling, finding relatives I didn’t even know existed.’
He followed her into the hallway, staring round with a wistful expression on his face.
‘This place hasn’t changed much,’ he said. ‘We used to visit at weekends, Sunday lunch and all that. I was gutted when you and your mum left. I remember crying into my pillow, and having a tantrum one Sunday because there was no Nina to play with after lunch.’
‘Oh – I’m sorry.’ Nina was touched.
He patted her arm. ‘It was hardly your fault.’
Nina led him into the living room, and he wandered round the periphery of the room, stopping to look out of both windows before settling down on the sofa and looking at her.
‘I can understand why your mum left, you know. I was scared of Uncle John. He used to shout at me when I dropped my peas on his floor. Peas are hard to keep on your fork when you’re little, and somehow it always was peas back then. My own dad was no better. He used to clout me around the ears if I made a mess at the table.’
He pulled a face at her, grinning, and Nina managed to grin back, but really, it wasn’t funny, was it?
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said. The more she heard about John Moore the more she despised him. But thank God, she could feel a rapport with Paul. It was the same feeling she’d had with Emily, but this time she’d be able to ask what – if – he knew about John Moore’s paedophilic activity.
‘It was a long time ago. We can congratulate ourselves on being much nicer people than our fathers,’ he said.
Nina nodded. Other than accept it, there was nothing they could do about the past. ‘You’re right,’ she said, realising the pun too late.
He rolled his eyes and she laughed.
‘Sorry. What I’m trying to do here is find out about the family I didn’t know I had. There are loads of photos, can I ask you to have a look at a few? In return I’ll bring you a glass of wine – or a coffee, if you’d prefer that.’
‘Sounds good. I’ll have a glass of wine and we can toast each other,’ he said, sitting down at the table and reaching for a pile of ‘people’ photos.
Nina went through to the kitchen and opened a bottle of white wine. She was shaking crisps into a bowl when Naomi appeared from the study.
‘Come and meet your second cousin, once removed,’ said Nina, as Naomi took a coke from the fridge. ‘We’re going through some of the old photos and I want to ask him about some family stuff, too, but if there’s anything on TV you want to watch we’ll go through to the study.’ She deliberately made things sound as boring as she could.
‘Can I shoot bubbles?’ said Naomi.
Nina agreed, glad they had Sam’s laptop. Naomi would sit in front of it till she was prised away. She introduced her daughter to Paul, who didn’t really know how to converse with ten-year-old girls, then helped Naomi log into her game. Oh – here were the two photos they’d found first, the woman with the small boy – Paul – and the one with the cat in front of the shabby house.
‘Mum and me and – oh! That’s Mitzi!’ he said, smiling broadly when she showed him the second photo. ‘She loved sunning herself on the wall there. Mum used to get mad because I let her sleep in my bed; it was like cuddling a real live teddy bear. Can I have this one?’
‘Sure,’ said Nina. ‘Was that where you lived?’
‘We moved there when I was about nine,’ said Paul. ‘It was a pretty crappy building as you see. My dad’s business went bust; he used to buy and sell cars but he was a real swindler and it caught up with him eventually and he had to sell the house. He was arrested for fraud but they couldn’t prove anything so there were no charges. Then he turned his talents to any kind of dodgy business he could find, and Mum and I broke right off with him. He’s twisted, somehow; he manipulates people to get what he wants. But it never works out. He’s never made his fortune again and he’s very bitter about it. Or he was, last time I saw him. That was about two years ago. He spends quite a lot of time abroad nowadays.’
Nina pulled a face, disappointment heavy in her gut. George Wright sounded almost as forgettable as John Moore. No way did she want to contact a man like that, so maybe meeting new relatives was going to end right here with Paul. But at least he was a normal human being, and she had Emily too.
Keeping her voice low, Nina told him about the paedophilia on John Moore’s computer, the threatening phone call and the letters.
Paul’s face was appalled. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, leaning towards her on the sofa. ‘Mum always called Uncle John a dirty old man, and I know my dad collects porn too. You must be gutted.’
Tears shot into Nina’s eyes. At last, at last, here was someone who really could understand what she was going through. ‘I think the worst part is feeling so alone with it all,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘I’m so glad to have found you and Emily, though I haven’t told her about the pornography, or the blackmail.’
Paul was frowning. ‘You know blackmail’s the kind of thing my Dad would do,’ he said, his face grim. ‘Threatening people is right up his street; he wouldn’t care that you’re his own flesh and blood. And after he lost the money he really had it in for Uncle John. You should be careful, Nina. He’s dangerous because he has no feeling for right and wrong.’
Nina felt her cheeks blanch. ‘I should tell that to the police,’ she said. How horrible, her father’s own cousin could be the blackmailer.
‘Don’t worry, they know all about him. And you said he was on your address list too? I should think the police are already checking him out. The problem is, nothing ever happens to people like him and Uncle John, does it? They’re much too good at hiding their tracks and they get way with stuff time and again.’ His voice couldn’t have been more bitter.
Nina sipped her wine, thinking. It was true that criminals like her father and his cousin weren’t always prosecuted successfully, but there was something wrong with Paul’s reasoning.
‘But Paul, whoever wrote the blackmail letter talked about screaming his head off and suffering; it was from one of John Moore’s victims. Your father is about the same age as mine, isn’t he? So George couldn’t have been a victim.’
‘Oh, my Dad’s clever,’ said Paul dryly. ‘Pretending to be some unfortunate ex-victim in order to get money out of John would be all in a day’s work to him.’
Good point, thought Nina, they had no idea how accurate the letter was. Paul sat there looking as if he was going to say more, and Nina waited. In the end, though, he changed the subject.
‘Let’s have a look at the newest photos.’
Nina showed him the pile of colour photos, and he sat down to examine them, refusing her offer of something more substantial to eat, saying he had to get back to his girlfriend in Newport Pagnell. He was able to identify both his parents and grandparents in some of the photos before he had to leave, and promised to have a think about the past and get back in touch in a day or two.
At the door he hugged her briefly. ‘Nina. It makes me sick to think you’re going through all this and it might be my dad behind it. If you need anything, or if you just want to talk, give me a call. You’re not alone anymore.’
Nina hugged back, closing her eyes tightly. Emily was a gem, and now she had Paul, who wasn’t exactly your strongman protector type, but he was nearby and he understood, and that was enough to help her deal with the knowledge that her father and his cousin were criminals. Low-life. Not the kind of people you could be proud of.
She waved goodbye as Paul drove off, then turned back inside, a picture of the farmhouse, the B&B sign waving in the wind, sliding into her head. She could be proud of what Claire and Grandma Lily and Grandpa Bill had achieved, and she would make damn well sure that her own daughter could look back one day and be proud of her too.
Chapter Sixteen
Claire’s Story – Bedford
‘What the fuck are you doing here, Claire?’
The voice came from behind and Claire swung round on her bench by the river, dismay obliterating her brief moment of peace. Robert was standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring.
Claire swallowed panic. Dear Lord, coming here had been a huge mistake. She’d found herself with an unexpected day to fill, as the London friend she was visiting this week had been obliged to go into work to deal with a staffing emergency instead of hitting Oxford Street with Claire. A shopping trip alone, especially when you were only window-shopping, had limited appeal, and quite spontaneously Claire hopped on a train to Bedford. She walked through town and along by the river to see her old home. How odd it felt, wandering along the pleasant river pathway, looking at the expensive houses on the other side of the road. For a long moment she stood staring at her old home, resentment flooding through her. According to the phone book Robert still lived there, so he must be doing well for himself, even after giving her all that money. It was so bittersweet – she would never regret her marriage, because of Nina, but the thought that he was financially so much better off than she was made her blood boil. She sat down on the bench to recover, not thinking for a minute that Robert might be at home at two o’clock on a Thursday to notice her, but here he was. And what in the world was she supposed to say now?
She stared at him, eyebrows raised and a carefully polite expression on her face. It wasn’t easy, but she managed to sound calm. ‘I’m not here to see you, don’t worry. I’m visiting Carol this week, and I thought I’d have a look round Bedford again while I have the chance. I’ll be gone before you know it.’
He snorted, then to her dismay he lowered himself into the far corner of her bench. ‘Come to see the house you could have lived in, huh? Bad decision, Claire. As usual.’
He was as unbearable as ever. Thank God she hadn’t tried to re-establish contact between him and Nina. Claire stood up. ‘It was. And I’m not staying here for you to hurl insults at me.’
He accompanied her across the grass towards the pavement and the quickest way back to town, and Claire’s stomach churned in spite of her brave words. But there were people about; she needn’t feel threatened. She would walk away from him and go for a coffee before catching her train back to London.
‘How’s Nina?’ His voice was neutral, and she replied in the same tone.
‘She’s fine. At Brownie camp in Dunbar this week.’
‘Good.’ They reached the road and Claire was turning away when a thought struck her.
‘I left a lot of stuff here, Robert. I suppose you still have it?’
He snorted. ‘That junk. It’s all in a couple of boxes in the attic. If you want it, come in and get it.’
Claire thought quickly, unwilling to prolong the meeting. She’d left things like shoes and clothes that didn’t matter now, but there were some ornaments and trinkets as well. Would it be stupid of her to go inside with him? She glanced at the front room windows. One was wide open, and people would hear her if she screamed.
‘I will, thank you,’ she said, managing to sound calm. ‘You can bring them down to the study, please.’
Rather to her surprise he said nothing, and she followed him inside and waited while he ran upstairs. The study hadn’t changed since the day and hour she left this place; how very depressing it was. His Dad’s old desk and bookshelves. And the secretaire Emily had given her when she downsized to Biddenham. Claire gazed round in distaste. This house had never felt like home and her ties with Bedford had been broken long ago. Thank God.
Robert returned with two large boxes which he dumped on the floor, forcing her to crouch down, and Claire was glad she was wearing trousers. Ignoring the way he was standing there watching her, arms folded, she rummaged through the non-clothes box and found a fair-sized collection of memorabilia of her marriage. The blue vases she’d found in Portobello Road Market, goodness, she’d forgotten about them. And she’d take the Capo di Monte rose, it matched Lily’s – and Nina would love the costume jewellery. Beads and bangles were important nowadays; at ten, Nina was discovering the world of fashion.
‘You can throw out the clothes, but I’ll take the rest with me, except the blue vases,’ she said at last. ‘They’re too big. I’m going on to the theatre tonight.’
Quickly, she packed her possessions into the fold-up shopping bag she kept in her handbag. ‘I’ll come back sometime for the vases, Robert, don’t throw them away. And the secretaire’s mine too, strictly speaking. I’ll let you know. How is Emily – and Jane and Paul?’ She stared at the secretaire. It was a pity she’d lost contact with Emily. But contact with Emily might have led to contact with Robert, and Claire hadn’t wanted that back then and neither had he. Ah well. No point stirring things up now.
He followed her to the front door. ‘They’re all fine. Send for the rest if you want it. Don’t bother coming back, Claire.’
Claire shot him one more look as he stood at the door, arms still crossed in front of him, staring after her. She strode off into the afternoon, hands shaking, forcing herself not to turn round. What a fool she’d been, coming here, but at least she’d got some things back. And she had stood up to Robert – that alone was enough to make her feel stronger. Almost. A cup of coffee settled her nerves, and she sat in the café looking through her long-lost treasures. Maybe she would go back in person for the vases someday, just to spite Robert.
Smiling at the thought, Claire checked her watch. It was time to start back to the station.
Goodbye, Bedford, she thought as her train sped south. I wonder if I’ll ever see you again.
