The Attic Room: A psychological thriller (10 page)

Naomi brightened considerably and sat up straight to do her
research.

A young woman answered the door at the next house, a toddler
on her hip and about three-year-old twins crowding round her feet to see what
was going on. She shook her head when Nina asked about Emily Moore.

‘Sorry, can’t help. I’m the nanny here. There’s a young
family at number fifteen, I do know that much. You should ask old Mrs Peters at
number twenty. She’s a terrible gossip; if anyone around here knows, she will.’

Nina laughed and thanked her. Number twenty was diagonally
opposite, and she waved to Sam and Naomi as she crossed the lane. Fortunately
Mrs Peters was at home, though mid-sixties would have been a better label than ‘old’.
The ‘terrible gossip’ part of the nanny’s description fitted well enough,
though.

‘Emily Moore? Yes, that was quite a while ago mind you; she
was here for years and I don’t think she was ever married, either, lived alone,
she did, she was a nice lady but rather withdrawn if you know what I mean, not
the sort to pop round for a cup of coffee and a chat, though she did come to
the Woman’s Institute when they built the community hall. Are you a relative?’

‘I think I might be. I’m researching my family at the moment
and I found her name. Do you know where she is now?’

‘I don’t even know if she’s still alive. She went to live in
an old people’s place near Luton, oh, about ten years ago now. If she is alive
she’ll be about eighty, but she was always very fit, I must say. She went into
the home, or maybe it was sheltered housing, you know, the kind of place where
you can be quite independent but there’s someone to call if you ever need help,
anyway she went there because she broke her hip and though it healed all right
it was never as strong as it had been, and she had become very short-sighted
too and she thought it was risky living alone as she did, which is quite
sensible, though it must have been a blow to leave her house after all that
time.’

‘Yes. Thank you very much, that’s very helpful,’ said Nina
breathlessly. She made her escape and jogged back to the car, wondering if
there was a Mr Peters or if Mrs Peters was so loquacious because there was
nobody to talk to most of the time.

‘Right. So Emily Moore must be a generation older than John
Moore,’ said Sam when Nina reported back. ‘And if she wasn’t married then she’s
a genuine Moore and not a connection by marriage. That’s important too.’

‘I’m starving,’ said Naomi. ‘I found a pub with a garden
restaurant up at the top of the lane. There’s a children’s menu but I’d like
scampi if they have it.’

They had lunch in the garden of Naomi’s pub, then Nina and
Sam sat with the laptop trying to find out about accommodation for the elderly
near Luton while Naomi sat picking at the rubber band bracelet she was wearing,
the bored expression back on her face.

‘Do you think if we start phoning round they would even tell
us if she was a patient or resident or whatever?’ said Nina, staring at the
depressingly long list of care homes they’d compiled. ‘They might have
confidentiality rules or something.’

‘Very possibly. I think you should engage me as your lawyer.
You are trying to trace family after learning that your father was alive till
recently – perfectly true – and I’m helping you. People often give more info to
a lawyer than they would to any old Joe Plumber.’

‘Okay. At least John Moore’s estate can afford to pay your
bill,’ said Nina, and he pulled out his mobile.

Naomi sat with her chin propped on both hands while Sam
called the first home.

‘Can’t we go back to the house now? At least I can watch
telly there,’ she said in a low voice, her lower lip trembling.

Nina nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Naomi. You’re being very good.
Extra Brownie points, you can think what you want to spend them on.’

‘Yay!’ Naomi beamed. ‘Brownie points’ was an old family
tradition, awarded for particularly good behaviour and used for more expensive
treats.

They adjourned to the house in Bedford, where Naomi
commandeered the living room with the TV. Nina and Sam went on with their
search in the study, Nina accessing contact details while Sam made the calls.
All the homes were cooperative enough to reply that no, there had never been an
Emily Moore from Biddenham in their facility.

After the eighth negative call Nina went to make coffee. She
was organising mugs on a tray when Sam strode in.

‘Nina, I’ve found her! At The Elms, on the outskirts of
Shefford. Emily Mary Moore, she’s seventy-nine, been there for ten years, from
Biddenham. I told them you’d be in touch about going to visit her. They said
she’s a nice old lady, quite fit and very bright.’

Nina inhaled sharply, clasping both hands under her chin.
She’d found a relative who was a ‘nice old lady’. Tears came into her eyes.

‘That’s – amazing,’ she said slowly. ‘Thanks, Sam. I’ll see
if I can visit her this weekend. But – a seventy-nine year old lady – can I
really start a conversation about John Moore’s paedophilic tendencies and his
death and by the way my mother was killed by a manic motorcyclist last month?’

He sipped his coffee. ‘Maybe in the first place you should
simply introduce yourself as John Moore’s lost daughter. I imagine she’ll know
who you are and you can take things from there. She could turn out to be a very
distant cousin who doesn’t know much about your father.’

‘You’re right. But she might know if the other names on the
list are relations too. And I could show her the photos. Sam – she might be my
great-aunt. Oh, I hope she’ll agree to a visit.’

Tears were still pricking in her eyes, and Nina tossed her
head impatiently. Getting emotional about it wouldn’t help anyone. But oh, she
hadn’t known how good it would feel to find someone who was actually related to
her.

And what would Naomi think about a visit to Emily Moore, she
wondered, putting the phone down later after arranging with one of the staff to
be at The Elms at half past two the following afternoon. Emily was out on a
trip with some of the other residents that afternoon but had left instructions
when she heard about Sam’s call, so wow – they were going to meet a relative
tomorrow.

Naomi’s face fell a mile and a half at the mention of an
afternoon in a sheltered housing complex, and Nina was racking her brains to
think of something that would make the idea attractive to a ten-year-old when
Sam beat her to it.

‘Tell you what, Naomi – and Nina. We’ll go and have lunch
with my parents in Allerton tomorrow. Then Naomi can stay there while we visit
Emily. Mum and Dad always have a crowd of grand-kids round at the weekend,
Naomi, and one of them’s about the same age as you. I know my dad’s hoping that
Amy’ll help him paint the garden fence and I’m sure he’d be very pleased to
have another pair of hands too.’

‘O – kay,’ said Naomi, and to Nina’s surprise she smiled at
Sam.

‘Won’t your parents mind?’ said Nina, when Naomi had gone
back to the television.

‘My mum’s Italian. It’s family, bambinos all the way. And
like I said, my sisters usually deposit their kids at Mum’s on Saturdays and go
into town. I’ll phone her from the office – which reminds me I should get back
there and do some proper work.’

Nina waved as he drove off. Sam was turning into a bit of a
rock here and she wasn’t sure what she thought about it. Part of her wanted to
banish her connection to Bedford and John Moore to the dim and distant past,
but with Emily Moore nearby that was unlikely to happen now. And there were
other cousins, too… And now nice-guy Sam was becoming someone she might – might
– want in her life. In some capacity. Nina sighed, and went to join Naomi
shooting bubbles on the internet. Her mind wasn’t going to be clear about this
till she’d won some certainty about what had happened, and some distance, too.

Claire’s story – The Isle of Arran

Claire stood at the farmhouse door looking across the Firth
of Clyde. The mainland was invisible today; it looked as if the sea went on and
on, almost forever until it merged into the cloudy sky. For the first time
since they’d moved here, the view failed to inspire a sense of achievement. The
family dream of opening a B&B on the Isle of Arran where Lily had grown up
was a dream no longer. Robert’s criminal cash had made the venture possible,
but how little that meant today.

Her father was dead. It was the worst thing that had ever
happened to Claire, much worse than the breakdown of her marriage or the
suspicion that Robert might have been violent towards their child. That was all
well in the past; Nina was at school now and was thriving. This would never go
away.

Claire stared up at white clouds chasing briskly across the
sky. It was almost beyond comprehension. Her father had been one of those tall,
wiry people who could eat anything and never put on an ounce, he was fit – he
played tennis and went hill-walking almost every weekend; he was a happy,
easy-going kind of person, not even a whiff of a problem with his blood
pressure – yet now he was gone. An infection, they said after the post-mortem,
and it had attacked his heart.

Claire knew she had to hold things together for Nina. At
six, her daughter was well able to understand what was going on and of course
she was grieving too; she’d loved her Grandpa. And Claire knew helping Nina was
the best way to help herself. Having little rituals – lighting Grandpa’s candle
when it got dark, looking at a star for Grandpa, taking care of Grandpa’s
garden – it all helped create a sense of continuity.

The awkward part was that losing her grandfather so
unexpectedly prompted Nina to ask a whole lot of questions about her supposedly
dead father, and Claire was hard put to find answers. How she wished she’d
never started this; she should have told Nina from the beginning that Daddy had
been bad to them and that was why they never saw him now. It was dreadful,
lying to her child like this. Worse still, Nina soon noticed that her mother
didn’t enjoy these ‘Daddy’ conversations and stopped asking about him, which
only increased Claire’s guilt. Fortunately Lily, who had never approved of the
lie and was now the only other person in Scotland who knew that Robert was
alive, refused to speak about him to Nina, saying ‘I don’t remember, ask your
mum,’ when Nina tried to talk about the Bedford years.

Claire turned back into the kitchen, crossing the room to
touch the photo stuck on the fridge with a magnet. Mum, Dad and Nina on the top
of Goatfell, the highest peak on the island; she’d taken it the day Nina walked
up for the first time. Pride was shining from her father’s face as he stood
there with ‘his girls’. Claire turned away before Nina noticed what she was
doing. Fathers were an awkward subject. Of course Robert himself had wanted the
break to be complete, which said everything about the kind of father he was,
but still… Nina had never had the opportunity to love her father. It wasn’t
fair. Look at Bethany down the road, with a Dad and two Grandpas and several
strapping uncles all living close by on the island. Claire rubbed her eyes.

‘Mummy? Are you okay?’

Nina was standing behind her, a sweet, concerned expression
on her face. A lump rose in Claire’s throat and she kissed the wrinkled little
brow. ‘I’m fine, lovey. I was remembering your Grandpa. It’s good to remember,
you know, even if it makes you sad. Come on, let’s make some scones for
teatime.’

Nina allowed herself to be distracted, but Claire’s thoughts
were in turmoil as she measured out flour and butter. Remembering Robert and
his wealth brought home their own financial situation. Her parents’ Edinburgh
semi hadn’t sold well; it was in need of what the estate agent had called ‘some
modernisation’, and the market was sluggish. They’d wanted a good ten thousand
more than they eventually accepted. Claire didn’t want to put all Robert’s cash
into the farmhouse in case she needed it later for Nina, so the renovation was
on hold in the meantime, which meant the B&B venture wasn’t bringing in as
much cash as it could.

But it was Robert more than the money that was the real
worry. Claire hated the stupid, false situation she was in. Nina thought her
father was dead, and that was just – wrong, and now the child was old enough to
understand more it might be time to put things right. It had been three years
now, Robert could have changed. Maybe she should find out what he was doing
these days. It was something to consider, anyway.

 Claire put the tray of scones into the oven and was setting
the timer when a new, terrible thought struck her so hard she actually
staggered. Dear Lord – what if she died as suddenly as her father? What would
happen to Nina then? Lily with her arthritis would be pushed to cope with a
six-year-old… It wouldn’t take much investigation for anyone concerned to find
out that Nina’s father was alive and well – the poor child could end up living
in that awful old house with the father she believed was dead.

The thought almost took Claire’s breath away. Definitely,
they would have to change things. If Nina got to know Robert a little, she
would be prepared if anything did happen to her mother.

‘You’re being daft, lass. You’re not going to die anytime
soon.’ Claire could almost hear her father’s voice, and oh, how she wanted to
believe that, how very much she wanted to think she’d be there for her girl
until Nina was a grown woman and could take care of herself. Fear swirled round
Claire’s head; she could land under a car next time she went down the Bay for
the shopping. No one knew what the future held.

That evening Claire wrote a letter to Robert, asking if he
would consider seeing Nina if they went down to London for a weekend.

In the morning she tore it up.