The Attic Room: A psychological thriller (4 page)

‘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.

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?’