by Linda Huber
‘I think you’d better tell me why you want it,’ said David Mallony, staring at her over the table. ‘Is there any doubt about who your father is?’
Nina took a deep breath. All she could do was tell the truth. She was in the middle of explaining when the doorbell rang and Sabine Jameson went to let Sam in. He touched Nina’s shoulder and sat down beside her.
David Mallony listened without speaking, his face grave. ‘I see. Well, we can certainly arrange a paternity test though I imagine you’ll have to pay for it yourself.’
‘Nina – I’ve heard back from the GRO. They traced your birth certificate. John Robert Moore was your father,’ said Sam, putting a hand on her shoulder again.
Nina winced. How stupid, her own birth certificate – it was the logical starting place; she should have thought of that herself. It must be at home, in the folder where Claire kept all the important documents, but for the life of her Nina couldn’t remember ever seeing it. And why on earth that should be was difficult to understand.
She glared at Sam. ‘Hell. But that can’t be right. There must be some mistake. I still want the test.’ She raised her eyebrows at David Mallony.
‘Of course.’ His voice was quite neutral.
Nina nodded. Thank God he’d agreed. Surely the test would show that she wasn’t John Moore’s daughter. And when she was safely back on Arran she would research Robert Moore’s side of the family. It might be something Naomi would enjoy helping with, too.
Sam leaned towards her. ‘You’re doing the right thing; a test’ll give you certainty. Oh, and the cremation’s organised for 10 a.m. Wednesday,’ he said, and David Mallony took a note of the details. Nina was silent. A cremation with no service, no mourners, no funeral flowers. How tragic. A sordid end to any kind of life. But oh, God, what had John Moore done? Was there any truth at all in that blackmail letter?
David Mallony asked several more questions about John Moore, the house, and if she had noticed anyone hanging around since she arrived. Nina answered as well as she could, wondering all the time if she should tell them about the moment when she’d felt she remembered crying up in the attic room. But it was so vague – what child didn’t cry at some point? Yet the phrase ‘screaming my poor little head off’ had stirred something deep inside her, some long-forgotten terror.
Say nothing for the moment, she thought. She could tell the police later if she remembered anything more concrete. Anyway, there was nothing to say that the accusation in the letter was true, and even if it was, John Moore was beyond prosecution now.
The two detectives had a look round the house, spending quite a long time in the study, then left, taking John Moore’s laptop with them and telling Nina to go to the police station for a cheek swab later that morning.
Nina closed the door and turned back to the kitchen, where Sam was making coffee.
‘Are you all right, Nina? What an ordeal.’
‘I want to go home,’ she said, sinking onto a hard wooden chair and rubbing her face with both hands. She would phone Beth as soon as Sam had gone, and – but dear God, she couldn’t tell her friend over the phone that she thought she remembered screaming in the attic owned by a man who might turn out to be her father and who had now been accused of being a paedophile… She would break down and howl before she’d said six words. A sob escaped before she could suppress it.
Sam put a mug of coffee in front of her. ‘Nina, talk to me. I can see there’s something more.’
She turned her face away. This was way too personal to tell someone she’d only known a few days, even if he was her lawyer and ‘nice’. And fancied her. Especially if he fancied her.
‘It’s nothing,’ she tried to say, but the words came out in a cracked whisper.
…screaming my poor little head off… Fuck, fuck, that was a memory, she could remember screaming, there had been a lot of screaming…
What had happened to her?
Sam tried to grasp her hands and she yanked them away, conscious that she was shaking all over now.
‘Nina, you can tell me, or you can tell the doctor. Whatever this is you can’t deal with it alone. Which do you want?’ He was holding his mobile, thumb poised to tap.
Nina stared at him, bleary-eyed. She didn’t want to confide in him, but perhaps she should. She needed an impartial opinion, and telling Sam would be better than having him summon yet another stranger here.
‘I – when I read the letter I remembered screaming too, upstairs in the attic room,’ she whispered, not looking at him, unable to stop her teeth chattering.
For a moment there was silence, then Sam reached out and squeezed her hand very briefly. Nina fought for control over her breathing. It was a relief to have told someone, though Beth would have been a better someone.
‘But Nina – if that’s an accurate memory then - ‘
‘Then the allegations in that letter could well be true,’ said Nina bleakly. She took a deep, shaky breath, then another. ‘Sam, I know. It’s so horrible – I just don’t remember enough. Hell, I was only three years old when we left this house, nobody would - ‘
She broke off, yet more horror flooding through her as she realised what she had said. This house… it had been this house, her gut instinct was shrieking that now.
Another thought crashed into her head. This could be the reason for Claire’s flight from Bedford and the Moore family. Maybe they hadn’t left because Robert Moore died – Claire could have been running from an abusive John Moore. But how could she find out, all these years later? Nina swallowed, her throat dry and painful.
And of course, of course, hell – this would be why Claire took over the application for both their passports so firmly. Nina closed her eyes, remembering. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time; she signed the appropriate pages and left the bundle with Claire to ‘send off with all the paperwork’. Shit. She’d been twenty-two, Naomi was a toddler, and Claire had ‘done the donkey work’, as she called it. Did she do it to prevent Nina noticing her father’s name on her birth certificate? Nothing seemed more likely now.
Dear God, where was this going to end?
‘I think you should go to a hotel,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t forget, whoever wrote that letter is out there somewhere.’
Nina stared out of the kitchen window. Rain was dripping from the ivy growing up the garden wall. ‘There’s no reason to think he’d harm me. All I want is to finish up here as soon as I can and then go home, Sam. Back to Arran.’
‘I’ll do everything I can to get you on the first possible plane north. Let’s wait and see what the police say when they get into John Moore’s computer. They might find an explanation there.’
Sam left soon after and Nina set her shoulders. She was going to get on with things here. First stop was the police station for her cheek swab, and then she would continue what she’d started yesterday, bagging John Moore’s stuff.
But how scary it was that John Moore, whether or not he was her father and whether or not he was a criminal – had known about her all the time. The thought made her feel invaded, as if he’d been snooping about in her life.
By evening she’d made good headway clearing John Moore’s possessions and organised with a charity shop in town to take some bits and pieces. It felt good, having a menial task to do, and it gave her time to think. Either John Moore was her father – and she was still hoping he wasn’t – or he was a more distant relation. He may have abused the letter-writer in the past, but it was also possible that the writer was nothing more than a mean chancer after the money. After all, a sick, single man might pay up simply to stop someone making a false allegation.
Nina shook her head. It sounded logical enough when you thought it through like that, but somehow her gut instinct was jumping up and down again, telling her that a piece of the puzzle was still missing. The best thing would be to stay here a few more days and get things sorted out before she headed north again. Slowly, she walked through the house, trying to remember being he
re as a child. But nothing came to mind. You couldn’t force memories, she knew that; they had to come by themselves.
At five o’clock the doorbell rang. Sam stood there, clutching a laptop, his face a mixture of exasperation and apology.
‘Nina, I’m sorry. I wanted to keep you company this evening but I’m in court first thing and something new has come up – so I’ve got masses of reading to do on the case before morning. I’ve brought you this; I thought it might be useful now the police have taken John Moore’s laptop.’
Nina was touched. ‘Thanks, Sam, that’s kind of you. And don’t worry. I have a gourmet microwave meal for one waiting in the fridge. I’ve decided to stay on for a day or two anyway, till we know more.’
His face lit up. ‘Excellent. I’ll make us pizza tomorrow night, shall I? I do a real mean pizza.’
Nina accepted, wondering if she was doing the right thing. But you could have too much of your own company, and with all these vague feelings and uncomfortable memories welling up it was better not to be alone too much.
Chapter Seven
Claire’s story – Bedford
Nina’s third birthday was a big family event. Lily and Bill came down from Edinburgh for a few days, so all four grandparents were there, plus Robert’s Aunt Emily and the Wright cousins. Claire congratulated herself on getting the whole family together for the first time since her wedding. That was what families did, wasn’t it – they gathered under one roof and celebrated the grandkids’ birthdays. And as Robert went out of his way to demonstrate to the older generation what a brilliant father he was, the birthday party had gone off rather well.
‘I see you’re making a go of it,’ said Lily, approval in her voice.
They were washing up after the party. A dishwasher was high on Claire’s wish list, especially as the Wrights spent more time in her home than they did in their own. But Robert held the purse strings and as yet he hadn’t considered it. Claire shivered, in spite of the hot dishwater. Robert should open a joint account; it really bugged her that she had to ask for every single thing. She was doing her best – she had lost weight and was genuinely trying to take an interest in Rob’s hobbies and his work. Mind you, his only hobby was going out with George Wright and heaven knows what the two of them got up to. Robert barked at her every time she opened her mouth, too. It felt as if she was the only one trying to save the marriage. Of course there could be another reason for his crabbiness – maybe his property business was going through a bad patch. That didn’t excuse the churlish behaviour, but it might be a reason for it. People did let off steam on their nearest and dearest.
‘I’m doing my best, but it’s not easy, Mum,’ she said at last. ‘Rob spends more time with George than he does with me. Sometimes I wonder why he married me.’
‘That’s men for you,’ said Lily, hanging up her dish towel. ‘Maybe if you made the place a bit more… modern? Welcoming?’
Frustration fizzed up inside Claire. ‘I’d like nothing better but he won’t cough up for new stuff. All the furniture apart from what’s here in the kitchen came from his Mum and Dad’s old place. I had nothing to say about buying the house and now I have nothing to say about the furnishings. I feel like a servant most of the time.’
‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,’ said Lily. ‘It’s good quality stuff. Maybe you can replace it little by little.’
Claire shrugged. Her mother had always been good at whistling in the dark.
As soon as his in-laws returned home Robert reverted to his old insulting manner, and Claire found herself avoiding him and beginning to hate him, too. Her suggestion that they talk things through with a marriage guidance counsellor met with ridicule, and he started calling her ‘fat cow’, even in front of other people. The constant jibes about her weight hurt – she was a size twelve now and anyway, had he only married her for her matchstick figure? It was beginning to look like it. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had sex.
But the most disturbing thing of all was he’d started to push her around a bit. Oh, nothing you could call violent, but he’d chivvied her out of the way a couple of times, and recently he’d taken to brushing past her a shade too closely, forcing her to move aside. Claire knew it was the kind of thing that people said would only get worse. She couldn’t go on like this; she’d done her best but the marriage was dead. She should leave. The thing was – what would she use for money? She had no training, no prospects, and a three-year-old daughter. Could she swallow her pride enough to ask her parents for help? That wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly.
Things came to a head one Saturday afternoon a few weeks later. Claire had an emergency dental appointment – she’d lost a filling and it was giving her gyp – which meant leaving Nina at home. The Wrights were there too; George and Robert were up in the attic as usual, along with several bottles of beer, and loud laughter wafted down at regular intervals. George had taken up photography; his camera was permanently round his neck and he’d set up a dark room at home. Whatever photos he took caused a lot of hilarity whenever he and Robert got together but he never showed them to the women. Claire had to fight to keep a pleasant expression on her face when George was around, but if she didn’t the jibes were worse.
Fortunately Jane had come too that afternoon and was doing a jigsaw with Paul and Nina, glass in hand as usual. Claire hesitated in the living room doorway; hell, that was Jane’s second G&T, she’d be pie-eyed by tea time if she went on like that. It might be better to take Nina with her. But watching her mother have a tooth filled would put Nina off dentists for life…
‘Hey, leave some for me,’ she said lightly, shifting the gin bottle back to the sideboard. Jane smiled, and Claire decided to risk it. Nina adored Paul, anyway, look how she was hanging on the six-year-old’s every word. Removing her now would only cause a scene, and Claire didn’t have time for that.
She arrived home late afternoon to find Jane asleep on the sofa and no sign of the children. Shaking the other woman, Claire saw it wasn’t as much sleep as a drunken stupor that was afflicting Jane. The men were out, if the absence of jackets in the hallway was anything to go by. Hell, she should never have left Nina – and what was Robert thinking, leaving his daughter with a drunk woman?
‘Nina! Paul!’ she called, running upstairs.
Nina’s bedroom door banged opened and the little girl stumbled out and ran towards Clare, arms outstretched. There were tear-stains on the child’s face, and Claire scooped her up and held her tightly, horrified to feel the little body tremble in her arms. What on earth was going on here?
‘Sweetheart? What’s the matter?’
‘Paul’s crying. Daddy said he was bad,’ said Nina, squeezing Claire’s arm in a painful grip and pushing her other thumb into her mouth. Claire stroked damp curls into place and kissed the hot little head.
‘Why? Did Paul hurt you?’
She knew that Paul’s exuberance was sometimes difficult for Nina to keep up with. Nina shook her head and removed her thumb long enough to reply. ‘No. Daddy was cross. He was in the attic… he hurted Paul and then he - ’ She sobbed into Claire’s neck.
Claire carried Nina into the bedroom. So Robert had been in a temper with the children – nothing new, but as far as Claire was aware he’d never struck them before. But then maybe she didn’t know everything.
Paul was sitting on the floor, his face blotchy and a wild expression on his eyes. There was an enormous red lump on his forehead and his small frame was shaking with every breath. Aghast, Claire crouched beside him, Nina in her arms.
‘What happened, Paul?’ she asked, stretching a hand out to him. ‘Did you bang your head?’
He slid away from her. ‘He – Uncle Robert said… ‘ The words seemed to stick in his throat and he stared at Claire, his eyes wide, then giggled nervously.
‘Where is he, darling? What did he say?’
Claire reached out again but Paul pressed himself against the bed.
‘He – he sa
id I – we – were bad. He said we’re always bad and he – he – he hit – us. I ran away and I banged my head on the attic door and Uncle Robert shouted and Nina – Nina was scared.’
Claire’s arms closed round her own child. Right. She had come to the end of her tether. No matter how loud and disruptive the children had been, there was no excuse for violence. And there was every reason to leave a man who would strike his own daughter.
Nina had fallen asleep in her arms, and Claire laid her on the bed, noticing grimly how exhausted the child was. As soon as Nina awoke she would examine every inch of her skin and check for bruises. And then…
And then they would leave. Anger was fuelling her determination now and her hands were shaking almost as much as Paul’s. That was it. She was finished here and finished with Robert too.
Tomorrow, she and Nina would ‘go for a walk’ and they would take a train up north. She wasn’t helpless; she would find a job in Edinburgh, and Mum and Dad would help her. Outrage filled her mind as she considered this might not be the first time the children had suffered under Robert’s hand. Paul obviously wasn’t lying; the child was distraught.
‘Come on, Paul lovey,’ she said, tucking the duvet round Nina. ‘Let’s put some magic cream your head and then we’ll phone for a taxi to take you and Mummy home, will we? You can be all safe and warm again there.’
The child was looking at her with a closed expression on his face, but he allowed Claire to take his hand. She sighed. Paul didn’t have a regular home life, but his mother loved him when she was sober, and he had stability at school. And she certainly couldn’t take him to Edinburgh. But she could take Nina – and she would.
A lump came into Claire’s throat as she led Paul downstairs. How much in love she – they – had been, what high hopes she’d had at the beginning of her marriage. She’d known Robert for – what? – just over four years. Four years which had made her life a million times better, because now she had Nina. And Nina was more important than anyone – or anything – else.
