The Attic Room: A psychological thriller

by Linda Huber

  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 wom
an’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.

  Nina gathered the photos together and slid them back into their envelope. When she looked up again Emily was sitting with her eyes closed, a thoughtful expression on her face. Nina raised her eyebrows at Sam, feeling guilty. They had tired poor Emily out.

  ‘Aunt Emily, we’ll leave you in peace, thank you so much for helping,’ said Nina, reaching for her handbag. ‘Would it be all right if I came back another time quite soon? There are more photos, older ones, and I’m sure the moment we’re on the road home I’ll remember lots of things I should have asked you.’

  Emily smiled. ‘I hope you will come back. And bring your girl. You two and Paul and George are all the family I have now. Maybe you can all come sometime.’

  Nina kissed her great-aunt goodbye, feeling she had found something very precious. And now she had found Emily she couldn’t possibly rush back to Arran at the beginning of the week as she’d planned to. No, she would try to get in touch with one or both of the Wrights, and come back and see Emily with them if possible. Maybe they could take Emily out to lunch somewhere. One or two more visits before they headed north was an absolute must now.

  They picked up Naomi, who had thoroughly enjoyed her afternoon fence-painting, and drove back to Bedford, pulling up in front of John Moore’s house as the church clock was striking six. Nina rummaged for her keys.

  ‘I think I’ll hire a car,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll be better able to visit Emily and do any other business while you’re away, Sam. You’ve been wonderful about playing chauffeur, thank you so much.’

  ‘Good idea. There’s a garage round the corner from the supermarket. I’ll come by tomorrow morning with the family info that I gathered for you – there’s nothing significant you don’t know, but some of the dates might be useful. I’m leaving for London late morning to have lunch with an old friend, and then it’s off down to Devon after that.’

  ‘Lucky you. Devon’s lovely,’ said Nina, keeping her voice light.

  It was hard to know how she felt about Sam leaving. He was the only person here who knew everything that was happening to her, and the thought that she would be alone with the situation wasn’t appealing. And to be honest, she enjoyed his company. He’d respected her wish to be ‘business-friends’, and Nina wondered suddenly if she was going to regret limiting their relationship. It was too late to change that now, though. The important thing was to sort the John Moore situation and get back home.

  ‘Can we go for pizza?’ said Naomi, and Nina laughed.

  ‘After all you ate at lunchtime? Sam, for goodness sake don’t tell your mother, will you?’

  He grinned. ‘My lips are sealed. Ladies, I’ll love you and leave you. I have a pile of paperwork to organise before my trip.’

  ‘Does he love us?’ said Naomi, as Sam drove off down the road.

  Nina shooed her in the front door. ‘You can’t love people you’ve only known for five minutes. You scoot upstairs and get washed and as you were so good today we’ll go to that pizzeria by the river.’

  Naomi scooted, and Nina followed on slowly. You could fall in love in five seconds, she knew that. But she hadn’t – had she?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday 23rd July

  To Nina’s relief Naomi was still asleep the following morning when Sam appeared with his folder of family information. She hadn’t mentioned her tentative plan to stay another few days, and now she could tell him without Naomi’s eagle eyes zoning in on things that weren’t there… or were they? Nina didn’t know herself how she felt about Sam; he was so mixed up in the sordidness surrounding John Moore.

  Sam’s grin stretched right across his face when she told him she wasn’t ready to leave yet. ‘Brilliant! We never did go for that pizza with Naomi, maybe we can when I get back.’

  Nina couldn’t help laughing. Naomi had eaten her own pizza last night and a slice of Nina’s too.

  ‘Well, if Naomi has anything to do with it we certainly will,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Sam. Have a safe trip.’

  His eyes met hers, and there it was again, that spark of attraction. This time, however, he made no move towards her.

  ‘I will. And Nina – don’t worry. You’re going to get through this. You must feel as if there’s bad stuff everywhere you look at the moment, but we’ll get it straightened, you’ll see.’

  Nina didn’t answer. He was right, but discovering that your father had been a paedophile and your mother had lied to you about him all your life – bad stuff didn’t get much mightier than that.

  Alone again, she sat down with the address list and Sam’s laptop. Now to see if she could find a phone number for Paul or George Wright.

  There were two Pauls and seven George Wrights in Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire, and Buckinghamshire. Okay, Paul was probably going to be easier to track down than his Dad.

  Nina picked up her mobile, then stopped. Ten o’clock on Sunday morning was maybe too early to phone. Better wait an hour or so.

  She used the time to call the police for an update in the investigation, only to be told that David Mallony was off that day but would be in touch with her early in the week. Depressed, Nina hung up. She didn’t expect them to get excited about John Moore himself, the man was dead, but there was still the anonymous letter writer and threatening phone-caller, not to mention all the possible victims, including herself. Oh well, it was Sunday.

  She went upstairs and lured her daughter out of bed with the promise of warm croissants for breakfast, then when Naomi was under the shower she tried the first Paul Wright’s number. The voice in her ear sounded calm and awake, and Nina’s hopes soared.

  ‘I’m researching my family tree and I’ve found relations called George and Paul Wright,’ she said after giving her name. ‘My father was John Moore – he and George Wright were cousins.’

  There was a long pause before the voice answered. ‘Well, I guess I’m your Paul Wright,’ he said. ‘So you’re little Nina who used to play with me on Sundays? Gosh, I – I don’t know what to say – I hadn’t quite forgotten about you, but… what a long time ago it was. I haven’t seen my father for years, we don’t get on. But – Uncle John – is he - ?’

  Nina explained about John Moore’s death. It was impossible to tell what Paul Wright felt about her getting in touch like this. He was polite and interested in her story, but there was no ‘wow, how fantastic’ tone in his voice. He did ask several questions about his uncle and the house, which he was evidently familiar with. Nina hesitated for a second before suggesting a meeting, but Paul agreed immediately.

  ‘As a matter of fact I’ll be driving right past Bedford late this afternoon, on the way home from friends. Shall I stop by then?’

  Nina agreed to a visit between five and six o’clock, and punched the air as she put the phone down. She had found another relation, and even if Paul didn’t get on with his father, he should be ab
le to give her a phone number for George Wright. And according to Emily, they were all the family left. So she’d done it – she had found everyone who could possibly help her reconstruct the years she and Claire spent with John Moore. The feeling of relief surprised her in its intensity, and she went to splash cold water on her face. It was going to be all right. Her programme for the week now was to talk to the Wrights, especially George, who would remember more than Paul, visit Emily a couple of times, and see Sam when he returned, after which she’d be free at last to take Naomi back to Arran. Would it be ‘Goodbye Sam’ forever? Nina didn’t know any more.

  She and Naomi spent the afternoon at a craft workshop near Biddenham where children could make their own candles from beeswax, something Naomi could do despite her sprained wrist. By quarter to five they were home again, and Naomi ran to email her friends with the candle-making news. Nina went through to the living room, rubbing her stomach, which was churning nervously. Wow, oh wow. Soon now she would meet another relative, the second in two days, and this one was her own generation. It was exciting, in spite of the bad stuff. Hope flared inside her – how amazing it would be if she liked Paul as much as she liked Emily.

  She sat arranging the last of the black and white photos into ‘people’ and ‘no people’ piles while she waited. Hallelujah, that was the photos organised. Maybe Paul would be able to identify some of the family on these, and she would take a new selection to show Emily on Tuesday too.

  A thought struck Nina and she frowned. With Naomi there, she wouldn’t be able to go into the paedophilia problem with Emily. But then – did Emily actually need to know? It was such a terrible thing… Why spoil the last years of an elderly lady’s life? Nina stared blindly at the last photo, remembering the yearning look on Emily’s kind, wrinkled face when they left. An old woman, watching her new-found family leave. A lump rose in Nina’s throat. She had found both a father she had no wish to have, and a great-aunt she would love. How very – surreal it felt.