The Attic Room: A psychological thriller Read online

  The Attic Room

  by

  Linda Huber

  Contents © Linda Huber 2015

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by The Cover Collection

  http://www.thecovercollection.com/

  All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  The Attic Room

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Preview

  Acknowledgements

  Very special thanks go to Debi Alper, whose advice, support and encouragement helped me shape this book into the version we have here.

  Thank you to my oldest school friend Anne Paterson, for living on the lovely Isle of Arran and in the Bedford area, and for her hospitality so many times over the years.

  Many thanks to my nephew Calum Rodger and my sons Matthias and Pascal Huber for technical help and information, and to Pascal for his work on my website.

  Special thanks too to Bea Davenport, for help with the book blurb, and to Debbie at The Cover Collection for the amazing cover image.

  And to the many, many people who have helped and supported me in so many ways with this book and my others, both in real life and via social media – thank you SO much!

  Dedication

  In memory of Kurt and Mum

  About the Author

  Linda Huber grew up in Glasgow, Scotland, where she trained as a physiotherapist. She spent ten years working with neurological patients, firstly in Glasgow and then in Switzerland. During this time she learned that different people have different ways of dealing with stress in their lives, and this knowledge still helps her today, in her writing.

  Linda now lives in Arbon, Switzerland, where she works as a language teacher in a medieval castle on the banks of beautiful Lake Constance. The Attic Room is her third novel. The Paradise Trees, 2013, and The Cold Cold Sea, 2014, are published by Legend Press.

  Chapter One

  Wednesday 12th - Friday 14th July

  The house was empty without Claire.

  Nina made coffee and took a mug out to the bench in front of the farmhouse. From here she could see right across the Firth of Clyde to the mainland, a mere fuzzy line in the distance today. The lunchtime ferry was inching out from behind the neighbouring Holy Isle, and the hills of Arran behind her separated a perfect summer sky from the sea. And the beauty of it all made a mockery of the fact that, two weeks ago today, she had switched off her mother’s life support system and banished Claire into eternal peace. Far away from home.

  Nina shivered. The world had changed, and it wasn’t going to change back. For the zillionth time the lump in her throat expanded and dear God, how painful it was. Hot coffee slopped over shaking fingers, and Nina winced. She would never get used to this brave new world of hers. It was so bloody unfair – what had Claire ever done to deserve such a horrible death? Nina scrubbed her face with her sleeve. They’d been happy, her and Claire and Naomi. Three generations in one house didn’t work for everyone but it had suited them, maybe because having the B&B meant that, in summer at least, the old farmhouse was full of people. Thank God Beth was around to help her cope. They’d been inseparable since primary school, and now the two of them ran the B&B. Nina pressed unsteady fingers on her hot forehead. It had been the three of them when Claire was alive.

  And then some stupid kid with half a bottle of vodka inside him mowed Claire down with his motorbike. He’d died too, which made things no easier – she couldn’t even rage at him now. The pain was never-ending.

  The sound of the landline trilling into the farmhouse kitchen jolted her back to today. Another query about accommodation, no doubt, and Beth wasn’t here to answer it. Thrusting out her chin, Nina forced herself to her feet and blew her nose on the way to the phone. She was coping – she was coping – and more importantly she was helping Naomi cope. Ten-year-olds needed stability as well as love and Naomi was damn well going to get both.

  The voice on the phone was English and brisk. ‘Ms Moore, good afternoon. My name’s Samuel Harrison and I’m your father’s lawyer. Mr Moore contacted us through the nursing staff yesterday afternoon, and requested that we call you. He wants to resume contact – I gather you’ve been out of touch for many years.’

  For a moment Nina struggled to find the right words. ‘I suppose you could call it that – my father died when I was three. You must have got hold of the wrong Nina Moore.’

  There was a pause before Samuel Harrison spoke again, his voice puzzled. ‘O – kay.’ Nina heard his fingers clicking over a keyboard. ‘But you are Nina Claire Moore, born in Ealing, West London, now living on the Isle of Arran?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nina, hearing the bewildered tone in her own voice too. What on earth was going on? ‘My mother’s family were originally from Arran, and we moved back here shortly after my father died.’

  ‘I see. There must have been a misunderstanding somewhere. I’m working on this case for a colleague who’s away at the moment, so I haven’t met John Moore personally. He’s in a hospice near Bedford. I’m sorry to tell you he’s suffering from lung cancer, and my colleague’s impression was that he was a father wanting to contact his daughter before it was too late. Could he be an uncle?’

  Nina had to make an effort not to sound impatient. This was an absurd conversation to be having.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. My father was Robert Moore, and as far as I know my mother had no contact with his family after moving back here. I wasn’t aware I had any relations left on the Moore side.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And my mother died in an accident two weeks ago so I’m afraid there’s no one I can ask.’ She closed her eyes to keep the tears in. Thank God he couldn’t see her.

  There was silence for a couple of beats; the usual pause while people worked out what to say. Samuel Harrison did better than many. ‘That’s terrible. I’m sorry for your loss. Um, I’ll go and see John Moore tomorrow, find out what’s going on, and get back to you.’

  Nina replaced the handset and stood staring at the phone. What the hell was she supposed to make of that? Life was messy enough at the moment without something weird going on with her father… who she didn’t even remember. Had Claire known this John Moore? If so, she’d never mentioned him. Which meant – what?

  Bethany’s car pulled up outside and Nina went to help bring in the shopping. Naomi hurtled out of the car and danced round Nina, her eyes huge and pleading.

  ‘Mum! We met Ally and Jay in the shop and they’re goin
g pony-trekking starting Friday for a long weekend and there’s a place free, can I go too? Ally’s mum said she’d book it for me if you said yes. Please?’

  Nina took a deep breath. A long weekend pony-trekking sounded like the best possible way to help Naomi ease into the new normal and have fun holidays, especially as there was no summer visit to her father for the girl to look forward to this year. Alan and his new family had moved to South Africa and Naomi was going for Christmas.

  Nina stroked the girl’s blonde hair, so like her own, and kissed Naomi’s nose. ‘Sounds brilliant! You’d better call Ally’s mum, then.’

  Naomi whooped and disappeared upstairs with the phone. Nina and Bethany grinned at each other.

  As they unpacked the shopping Nina told her friend about Samuel Harrison’s call.

  ‘How very odd,’ said Beth, staring. ‘Sounds like he’s got hold of the wrong daughter for the right father, or something like that. Moore isn’t an uncommon name.’

  ‘He had my full name and date of birth – place of birth, even,’ said Nina. ‘What I really don’t get is why Mum never mentioned this John Moore. Unless… hell.’ Claire hadn’t mentioned John Moore, but maybe she’d tried to.

  Bethany touched her shoulder. ‘What’s up?’

  Nina closed her eyes for a moment; the memory was so terrible. ‘After the accident, you know, the first day in hospital before she had the brain haemorrhage, she wanted to tell me something. She was saying things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I should have told you’ but it was all so garbled and then she lost consciousness and –’

  And she had never heard Claire’s voice again.

  It was late the following afternoon before Samuel Harrison called back, sounding guarded. Nina took the phone into the deserted living room and sat down.

  ‘Ms Moore, I’ve got more news for you and I’m afraid it’s not all good. I went to the hospice this morning, but John Moore wasn’t well enough to see me and in fact he died a little later. He’s left a will, made with my colleague a few years ago, with instructions for it to be opened in your presence. You must be related, but I haven’t found anything so far that explains the connection. Are you quite sure your father didn’t have a brother?’

  Nina’s head was reeling. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m – almost sure he didn’t.’

  She’d never known her father, of course, but – actually, why the hell wasn’t she absolutely sure?

  The lawyer was speaking again. ‘I’ll get onto the General Register Office; they’ll have all the information we need. Would it be possible for you to come down to Bedford for a day or two? We could read the will and work out what would be best for you.’

  Nina thought quickly. With Naomi on a pony all weekend, this would be the ideal time to sort out whatever needed sorting in Bedford. She could fly down tomorrow, see Samuel Harrison, and be back by the beginning of the week. It would do her good to get away from the island for a day or two, and as Beth and her husband Tim lived in the barn conversion next door they would be around for Naomi – exactly what was needed right now.

  Two o’clock on Friday afternoon saw Nina stepping into the arrivals building at Luton Airport. She’d spent the flight thinking about the almost faceless blur in her mind that was her father, not even sure if the blur was a memory or something she’d seen on a photo. Come to think of it, photos of him hadn’t exactly been strewn all over the house while she was growing up, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing photos of any other Moores. Nina knew she’d lived in Bedford with both parents when she was a toddler, but her memories of those days were hazy to non-existent. Was there an Uncle John in her little life all those years ago? She simply couldn’t remember.

  Two very different emotions were fighting for place inside her as she looked round the arrivals hall for the lawyer – uppermost was a definite ‘oh no not all this as well’ feeling, but – what on earth was going on here? Was John Moore her uncle? Even a distant cousin would be a find – there could be a whole family waiting in Bedford, and with Naomi being her only blood relation Nina wasn’t going to worry about how distant other family members were. But then – wouldn’t any family in Bedford have kept in touch with Robert Moore’s widow and child? So maybe it was all a mistake. Nina set her shoulders; worst case, she’d have a wasted journey, but at least it was giving her something fresh to occupy her mind. The grief swirled up again and she pushed it down. This was neither the time nor the place to throw a wobbly.

  As soon as she set eyes on Samuel Harrison Nina smiled to herself, remembering what Beth had said that morning. ‘Be careful, Nina. You don’t know what kinds of sharky old lawyers there are around the place.’

  This was almost certainly no shark, and definitely not an old one. He must have been about the same age as she was, with fine features set in milk chocolate skin, and jet-black cornrow plaits just tipping his collar. There was an appealing air of enthusiasm about him as he stood holding a card with ‘Nina Moore’ printed in large blue letters. Apart from the sober grey suit he didn’t look in the least like a lawyer. Nina pulled her case across the arrivals hall.

  He strode towards her as soon as he noticed her, hand outstretched. ‘Nina? Hi, I’m Sam. Was your flight okay?’

  Nina shook hands – his handshake was warm and firm – and allowed him to take her case.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, following him to a dark blue Zafira. ‘I’m glad you could meet me.’

  He nodded. ‘We’ll drive to my office in Allerton and open the will, and then go on to the hospice in Bedford. It’s not far.’

  Nina settled into the passenger seat. Sam Harrison seemed an easy person to be with; attractive too, now she thought about it. Nina sighed. It was ages since she’d done more than go out for the odd dinner date. Being a single mother and B&B-owner meant that relationships had taken a back seat while business and her daughter were right up in the front row.

  ‘Do you know any more about John Moore?’ she asked, as Sam drove into Allerton, a bustling little place close to both the A6 and the M1. It was a lot bigger than Brodick, the largest town on Arran, and Nina sniffed dolefully. Her island nose wasn’t used to exhaust fumes and the smell of a busy town.

  ‘I’ve got his hospice admission sheet,’ said Sam. ‘His GP’s down as next of kin, so his death was registered by the hospice. I haven’t heard from the General Register Office yet. The admission sheet’s a bit odd, but you can have a look for yourself and see what you think. This is our office now.’

  He pulled up in front of a red sandstone building. There was a combination of dentists’ and lawyers’ practices inside, noticed Nina, going through the old-fashioned revolving doors. Sam’s name was at the bottom of a list of five on a plaque on the office door.

  He saw her looking. ‘Junior partner, that’s me. My grandfather established the firm, so I’m carrying on the family tradition.’ He opened the door and stood back for her to enter.

  In spite of the age of the building the offices were bright and airy. Nina followed Sam along a corridor and into a small room with stark white walls and black and chrome furniture. A Chagall print above the desk provided a vibrant splash of blue and green, and Nina gazed at it admiringly.

  Sam fetched coffee then sat down at right angles to her, a slim folder in front of him. Nina straightened in her chair. This must be the will. And maybe the answer to the mystery of who John Moore was.

  It was very short. Sam read it aloud and then explained the details, and Nina sat gaping at him, her heart pounding. John Moore, a man she knew nothing about, had left her over two million pounds – two million pounds – plus a house. With no mention at all of how they were related. How in the name of all that was sensible could this be? Hot confusion made sweat break out on her forehead and she leaned back in her chair, struggling not to hyperventilate.

  Sam put the will to one side and pulled a sheet of thin white paper from the folder. ‘It’s a straightforward will, though it’s unusual that it makes no mention of your
relationship to John Moore,’ he said. ‘Quite legal, though. But Nina, have a look at this – it’s John Moore’s hospice admission form. His name was John Robert Moore.’

  Speechless, Nina stared at the sheet of paper on the table top. John Robert Moore. And her father had been Robert Moore. Her hands began to shake. Dear God… who was this man?

  ‘But – if his second name was Robert, he can’t have been my father’s brother…’ Her voice trailed off. If he wasn’t her uncle…

  Sam put the will back into its envelope. ‘It doesn’t seem likely, I agree.’

  ‘I – I don’t get it. If he was some sort of distant cousin he wouldn’t have left everything to someone he’d never met, would he? He’d have left it to the cat and dog home or his best mate or – something.’

  Nina realised the implications as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Somehow or other, John Moore must have been her uncle. And it must mean too that he had no other family to leave his fortune to, so she and Naomi were still alone in the world. For a moment the disappointment was crushing; she hadn’t realised how much she’d been hoping to find more relatives here, distant ones, maybe, but family was family. Two tears escaped and Nina wiped them away before Sam noticed, forcing herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find out who he was. I suggest we go by the hospice now – I said we’d collect John’s belongings – and then on to the house. We might find some papers there to explain the mystery. I guess you’re staying overnight? Do you want to stay in the house itself?’

  The thought of sleeping alone in a dead man’s house was unnerving. Nina hesitated, wishing she knew more about the Moore side of the family – she should have asked Claire before it was too late. But neither of them had known ‘too late’ would come so soon.