The Attic Room: A psychological thriller

by Linda Huber

  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 f
or 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 hallwa
y 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.