The Attic Room: A psychological thriller, стр. 9

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 hallway 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.