The Attic Room: A psychological thriller - Huber Linda - Страница 19

‘This is hopeless,’ said Nina at last. ‘Or at least it’s a long job and I’m tired. Let’s call it a day. How about a glass of wine to finish up with? If you open it I’ll check on Naomi.’

Naomi was reading in bed, her eyelids drooping, and Nina’s heart melted. Poor kiddy, she must be thoroughly upset by everything that had happened, and none of it was her fault. Time for some TLC.

‘Night, lovey,’ she said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘And don’t worry, things’ll get back to normal soon. Have a think about what you want to do tomorrow. You can choose.’

Naomi’s lip trembled. ‘I wish I could be at home with my Gran.’

Nina hugged her. ‘Sweetheart, your Gran will always be a part of you, and of me too,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll always miss her, and you wouldn’t want not to, would you? But you know she’d want us both to be happy and live our lives well. So let’s do that. For her.’

Naomi smiled sleepily and snuggled into her pillow. Nina tucked the duvet round the little girl and kissed the sun-browned face. What a good feeling it was that she could comfort her child with the sheer force of her words. She should make the most of this phase while it lasted; in a couple of years Naomi wouldn’t be hanging so trustingly on everything her mother said. And how wonderful to have a daughter and to know that they loved each other.

Downstairs, Sam had opened a bottle of Merlot. ‘Well? Are the troops settled down?’

He handed over a ruby-filled glass, and Nina sipped. With Naomi beside her and Sam to help, she was going to get through this.

‘Almost asleep. Thank you, Sam. I had a great time, and Naomi did too, though you might find that more difficult to believe.’

‘Don’t worry. I can see she’s a great girl.’

They sat there talking about children and parents and photos and houses, and Nina was startled when she looked at the clock and saw that it was after midnight. Sam left, squeezing her hand and promising to be in touch the next day. Nina watched him go, feeling the awkward silence of the old house envelope her when the sound of his car had gone. Oh, how tired she was. Creeping into the bedroom, she saw that Naomi was sleeping on her front, one hand under her cheek and the other trailing on the floor. Nina tucked her in again and slid into her own bed. It had been an interesting evening in more ways than one.

Buttered toast in one hand and coffee steaming aromatically by her side, Nina pored over the photos she and Sam had organised last night. Naomi was still asleep, so she could take the chance to do some more sorting. She poked about in the box of colour snaps they’d started on last night. Bloody hell, there were dozens of them. And really, what good would it do, searching through boxes of John Moore’s ancient pics? She wasn’t even sure what was she looking for. The photos might tell her something about her father’s life, but she already knew he’d been the biggest scumbag in creation. He himself had deemed the snaps fascinating enough to keep in the attic, so she was unlikely to find them any more interesting.

Discouraged, Nina opened the third box. More of the same. Oh! There was something else, too, under the photos.

She extracted a folded piece of paper and smoothed it out on the table. Well. Now this was interesting. Names, addresses and phone numbers, about twenty in all. There were two Moores here, they might be the distant cousins Sam had mentioned. Had the police seen this? Nina reached for her phone.

‘Yes, we photographed it yesterday,’ said David Mallony. ‘We’ll be investigating these people, but it was in that box of normal photos so I shouldn’t think it’s anything more than an old address list.’

‘Okay,’ said Nina. ‘Um – is there any word about the paternity test?’

She knew she was being naive, hoping it could still come back negative, but you never knew. People won at the lottery every week, didn’t they?

She could hear the sympathy in David Mallony’s voice.

‘You’ll be the first to know when it comes. But Nina, don’t get your hopes up.’

Nina turned back to the photos. It was difficult not to hope. Nobody wanted a monster for their father.

With no great enthusiasm she lifted a handful of photos and started to divide them into ‘with’ and ‘without’ people piles. There were such a lot of landscapes here, country pictures with farm buildings, why on earth would anyone photograph bare fields with the odd stumpy tree, and – shit!

It was her, her and Mum and John Moore, sitting on a bench, in fact it looked like one of the benches on the other side of the road here, by the river. Hell, yes, that was Claire, her hair dark and curly and a strangely subdued little smile on her face. It wasn’t an expression Nina could remember seeing before. Claire was holding little Nina, a blonde child with solemn features and a doll clutched in her arms. She couldn’t have been more than about two, here.

Hot tears burned in Nina’s eyes. She didn’t need the test result now. This photo was telling her loud and clear that those old records she hadn’t wanted to believe were telling the truth all along; John Moore was her father. She could even remember that doll – Susie, its name was, she’d taken it to Edinburgh and then to Arran, played with it for years.

She scrabbled wildly in the box and soon had a row of family photos in front of her. Her and Mum, her and the boy she’d already seen in a couple of pictures, her and… her father…

Nina stared at the three photos where she and John Moore were pictured. A solemn child, a smiling, strutting man. Did the child in those photos really look afraid and unhappy, or was she projecting that because she knew about the paedophilia? Nausea welled up, almost choking her; she had to breathe through her mouth for a few moments. She still didn’t know if he’d been an active paedophile or had ‘merely’ collected vile pictures. And – if he had abused other children, he could have abused her too. It was the blackest thought of all. There was no evidence of it and she had no memories, but… she’d been crying on the top floor… On the other hand, according to David, the images on John Moore’s computer were of young boys, and paedophiles were attracted to either girls or boys but not both – weren’t they? She didn’t know enough about it, that was the problem. But it wasn’t impossible that she’d been abused. Dear God, it wasn’t impossible.

Forcing herself to remain calm, Nina went to fetch more coffee. It’s better to find out the truth, she told herself. If she knew the worst then she could deal with it and get on with her life. But how could she possibly find out what had happened all those years ago? The hazy memory of her crying in the attic room wasn’t enough.

She went back and stood in front of the ‘family’ photos. If she hadn’t known about the paedophilia the thought wouldn’t have entered her head. There were a couple of wedding snaps she hadn’t seen before, Claire and John Moore, and oh, Grandma Lily and Grandpa Bill. A lump grew in Nina’s throat as she saw how slim Claire was in those days before motherhood, and how happy she looked, like a little girl playing at weddings – and… what was making her uneasy about these photos? Other people were there too, a young woman with a toddler and another man, as well as several older people in various combinations. Two of them might be her other grandparents. Nina stared at the photos, then shrugged and laid them down. Hopefully she could get in touch with those distant cousins Sam had turned up; they might be able to help. Or would they turn out to be as horrible as John Moore?

Her phone rang and she grabbed it. Sam’s voice brought normality back into what had already become a bad day. She told him about the photos and the list of names.

‘Well, I certainly think it’s worth trying to find them,’ he said. ‘The ones called Moore must be relatives. And Nina, remember – your mother was looking out for you.’