The Attic Room: A psychological thriller (11 page)

Saturday 22nd July

Nina could have guessed Sam’s mother was Italian even if
she hadn’t been told. Cascata Harrison was small and plump with dark hair piled
on top of her head, and shiny brown eyes that lit up when she saw Naomi.
Surrounded by grandchildren, she looked like a typical Italian Mamma and Nonna,
and she obviously revelled in her role. For a moment Nina felt as if she’d
landed in one of those Hollywood perfect-happy-family rainy-Sunday-afternoon
kind of films. No sooner had she thought this than the youngest child, a
toddler of about eighteen months, brought reality right back to centre stage by
being sick on the kitchen floor.

‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ Sam said to Nina as a younger
woman rushed to help the child.

Sam’s mother rolled her eyes, shut the door on the clean-up
operation and squeezed both Nina’s hands before turning to Naomi.

‘So this is Naomi. What gorgeous hair. You’ll break a few
hearts before you’re too much older,’ she said in faultless English, kissing
Naomi on both cheeks.

‘You don’t sound Italian,’ said Naomi, and Glen Harrison
clapped the little girl’s shoulder.

‘Well spotted. She hasn’t actually lived there since she was
five,’ he said.

‘But I go back every year for a holiday,’ said his wife,
taking Nina’s jacket. ‘Call me Cassie, Nina, everyone does. Sam told us you
have a lot of business – we can take care of Naomi as much as you need us to.
All you have to do is ask.’

It was impossible not to like Sam’s parents, thought Nina,
watching them fuss over their son and joke with each other. This was what she’d
never been part of, a big normal family having fun with each other. And yet
they weren’t quite a normal family, with dark-skinned Sam and his white
adoptive parents. But the love was there; she could see it shining out of Sam’s
face when he spoke to his mother. And the pride in Glen Harrison’s eyes when he
listened to Sam talking about last week’s court case was unmistakable. You didn’t
need to share blood to be a family.

Sam’s two sisters, their husbands, and five children ranging
in age from one to nine were all in the garden, running around, helping to lay
the table and arguing good-naturedly.

Cassie took Nina’s arm. ‘Come and help me with the salads.
We’ll leave Sam to sort out the drinks with his Dad.’

Nina looked outside where Naomi was playing with Sam’s
oldest niece, throwing balls for Cassie’s dog, a Westie named Kira. A dog had
been top of Naomi’s wish-list for ages, and Nina smiled ruefully as she
followed Cassie into the kitchen. ‘Let’s get a dog’ would be topic of the week
now.

‘Sam said you’re having problems getting your father’s
estate settled. I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Cassie, removing plastic
containers from the fridge and transferring their contents into a series of
bowls.

Nina leaned on the worktop, sighing inwardly. Cassie’s
motherly presence and her words brought back exactly what she’d lost, and it
wasn’t John Moore. Sam had been discreet, so Cassie presumably didn’t know about
Claire’s death. Nina straightened up and gave Cassie a smile. Sympathetic as
Sam’s mum was, this just wasn’t the time. The realisation that she had no one
in Bedford to confide in struck anew.

‘I didn’t know him. My mother left him when I was very small
and we had no contact after that, so the loss feels a bit unreal, somehow.’

Cassie patted her shoulder. ‘I didn’t know. Sam didn’t go
into details. Then I’m doubly glad you’ve found another relative to visit –
family’s important. And you mustn’t worry about Naomi, she’ll be fine here.’

Lunch was an exuberant, noisy meal in the garden, with the
children sitting round a smaller table beside the big one. Nina was grateful
that none of the adults made any attempt to question her about her family; they
had evidently been forewarned and it did make things easier. Sam’s sisters and
their husbands were good company; their good-natured banter was the kind of
exchange Nina often had with Beth and Tim. A fresh wave of homesickness swept
through her. It would be so great to be back on Arran next week, working in the
farmhouse, digesting whatever Emily Moore would tell her about the family, and
planning what she would do with John Moore’s fortune.

At two o’clock Sam stood up. ‘We’d better get going, Nina.
Emily might be a stickler for punctuality and we don’t want to make a bad first
impression, do we?’

Nina reached for her handbag. ‘We do not. Naomi, I’ll see
you later. Have fun and be good.’

It was her standard ‘goodbye’ phrase, and Naomi barely
glanced up long enough to wave as Nina and Sam left the house.

Nina was silent on the way to The Elms, thinking about the
questions she wanted to ask Emily Moore. The relationship between John and
Emily. John’s parents. If there was any other family nearby. And hopefully
Emily would recognize some of the people on the photos she’d brought.

And of course the more awkward topics. Did Emily know about
the paedophilia? But of course she didn’t – hell, she didn’t even know if Emily
Moore was aware that John was dead.

The Elms was an attractive grey stone building, three
storeys high with a well-kept garden where groups of people were sitting under
tall, shady trees. Behind the main building was a little row of ten cottages,
each split into two apartments, and Emily lived in one of these. It was
everyone’s vision of the perfect old people’s home – residents out in the
garden, their children and grandchildren around them on a Saturday afternoon.
Happy families yet again. Nina bit her lip. And here they were, coming to visit
with death and paedophilia in their pockets. I hope we don’t frighten poor
Emily into the middle of next week, thought Nina, as Sam pulled up in the last
of the ‘visitor’ parking spaces.

Emily Moore’s cottage was number 3a, and Nina wiped damp
palms on her trousers as she walked along the pathway. The door opened before
they reached it. Emily was small and grey-haired, and the eyes smiling up at
Nina and Sam were dark blue and intelligent behind thick brown-rimmed glasses.

‘Hello, dear. So you’re the Nina Moore who thinks we’re
related – and I think you’re right, too. Come in and sit down, the pair of you,’
she said, indicating a two-seater sofa and a reclining chair grouped round a
little coffee table.

Nina presented Emily with the pot plant she’d bought on the
way over, feeling quite weak with relief. This
was
a ‘nice
old lady’, and one who was clearly very sharp too.

‘What a great place,’ she said, looking round
appreciatively.

They were in a fair-sized living room looking out towards
the back of the sheltered housing complex, where a grassy area ended in a belt
of trees. Nina could see into a little kitchen to her right, and the other door
must lead to the bedroom. It all looked quite luxurious; Emily was apparently
another rather affluent Moore.

‘Yes, it’s lovely. The staff are very kind – it’s perfect for
me,’ said Emily, placing the miniature rose bush on the coffee table. ‘Thank
you, dear. I love roses. Now, tell me how you came across my name. The warden
said you were researching your family tree?’

Nina made the introductions and told Emily about finding out
that John Moore was dead, and then discovering that he was her father. Making
no mention of the paedophilia or the threats, she went on to talk about the
house and the boxes of photos in the attic. Emily listened without
interrupting.

When Nina had finished she spoke in a low voice. ‘John Moore
was my brother’s boy. I last saw him at his father’s funeral, years ago now,
and after that he didn’t get in touch again and nor did I, I’m afraid. We didn’t
get on – I was maybe too much of a sharp-tongued old spinster for him. So you’re
the Nina I used to know. I saw you quite often when you were a toddler, you
were a pretty little thing. And then your mother went off with you.’ She cocked
her head to one side, frowning. ‘But why did she tell you your father was dead?’

Nina met Sam’s eyes. It was clear the older woman knew
nothing about the paedophilia.

‘I think she felt my father was – violent – in some way,’
she said gently. ‘Did you ever notice anything?’

Emily looked shocked and Nina was glad she hadn’t said more.

‘Oh dear – I don’t think so,’ said Emily. ‘But that kind of
thing usually goes on behind closed doors, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Nina. ‘And as far as I knew there was no other
family left to ask about things. I was so happy to find you. Could you maybe
tell me a little about the Moore family?’

‘Of course. And you’ll take a cup of coffee, won’t you?’

Emily went through to the kitchen and reappeared with a
coffee tray. Sam jumped up to help her, and Emily sat back as he poured coffee
from a thermos jug into blue and white mugs. Tears welled up in Nina’s eyes as
she looked at Emily, who was staring wistfully at the miniature rose bush. This
poor old lady, a part of her own family, alone now and nearing the end of her
life, remembering days gone by. All the living and loving and people now gone.

‘There were three of us,’ said Emily, putting her mug on the
low table beside her chair. ‘My brother John was the oldest, then Ruth, and
then me. Our parents ran a chemist’s shop. They were always very busy, stressed
out you would say nowadays. John and Ruthie both married, but I never did. I
was engaged as a girl but my fiancé Dan died of a ruptured appendix. No one
could ever replace him, you see.’

Nina leaned across and squeezed Emily’s hand. ‘So you’re my
Great-Aunt Emily,’ she said, yet more tears pricking in her eyes. ‘I’m so glad
I’ve found you. The only other blood relation I knew of is my daughter Naomi.
How many children did John and Ruth have?’

Sam’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he took it outside.

Emily passed the biscuits to Nina. ‘One each,’ she said. ‘But
look. When they told me you were coming, I drew a family tree. I didn’t put
dates in, they’re difficult to remember off-hand.’

She produced a sheet of notepaper where a family tree
diagram was set out in a surprisingly clear hand. Nina bent over it.

‘Brilliant!’ she said. ‘This makes the different
relationships quite clear. And I suppose my father was always called Robert
because his father was John too. And the Wrights… so Paul

Wright is the same generation as me?’

‘Yes,’ said Emily. ‘He’s about three years older than you,
and you used to think he was wonderful. I didn’t see him very often after you
and your mother left. He was a shy, quiet boy – I think his mother had a drink
problem, and that must have affected him. He had a hard time at school. His
parents split up a few years after yours did, but I never knew all the ins and
outs.’

Nina’s mind had snapped back to the list she’d found in the
house. There were two Wrights there, Paul and another – Paul’s mother, or his
father? For the life of her she couldn’t remember if the second name was a man
or a woman. George Wright was the ‘Moore’ in that family, anyway. She would
show the list to Emily in a minute. She checked to make sure it was in her bag,
realising guiltily that she hadn’t been paying attention to what the old woman
was saying.

‘So Paul and I are what – second cousins?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Emily, as Sam came back into the room. ‘Your
fathers were first cousins, so you and Paul are second cousins. You and George
Wright are first cousins once removed. One generation apart. Though nowadays
people tend to say ‘cousin’ for any kind of relationship.’

‘I see,’ said Nina, impressed. ‘I’ve never understood all
that ‘once removed’ stuff. Thanks, Aunt Emily. Look, Sam, isn’t this helpful?’

Emily looked flushed and pleased, and Nina leaned across and
squeezed the old woman’s hand. Here at last was a member of the Moore family
she would love. How tragic; she could have loved Emily all those years, if
Claire hadn’t lied… Oh God – why hadn’t Claire kept in touch with Emily at
least?

Sam was examining the family tree. ‘Excellent!’ he said. ‘You
can put in Naomi, too.’

Nina wrote Naomi’s name under her own. ‘My daughter,’ she
said to Emily. ‘She’s ten. I’ll bring her to see you another time. Could you
have a look at some photos and see if you recognise anyone?’

With the help of her powerful magnifying glass Emily was
able to identify quite a few people on Nina’s selection of photos. As well as
John Moore and Claire there was George Wright and his wife Jane, as well as
Paul, the little boy who was on several photos, and a few friends and
neighbours from the time when Nina and Paul had been young children. Nina sat
wishing she’d brought some of the older, black and white photos as well. She
showed Emily the address list, but apart from telling them about a few people
who were dead Emily was little help with this. Most of the people on the list
must have been friends of John Moore, and Emily hadn’t known them. But it was a
start.