The Attic Room: A psychological thriller - Huber Linda (бесплатная регистрация книга TXT) 📗

‘This is it,’ said Sam, negotiating a narrow iron gateway and pulling up in front of a large, square house.

Nina craned her neck to get a better view, amazement robbing her of speech. Had John Moore really lived alone in such a huge place? It was detached, a well-proportioned building made of red brick, with generous – and dirty – windows, and a lot of them, too; there were three storeys here. Dormer windows on the top floor indicated that the attic space had been renovated at some point. A wilderness of green ivy ran up the walls, almost obliterating the downstairs half of the house and stretching up to the roof in places. The front garden was a weed-infested patch of gravel, and high wooden fences separated the plot from the properties on either side. It was obviously an expensive, solid house, but the outside at least was in need of a huge makeover.

‘Is it flats?’ she asked as Sam pulled out the front door key.

‘No, it’s all one house. Remember John Moore was wealthy. I gather he was big in property but he sold his business when he was diagnosed with cancer,’ he said, unlocking the door.

Nina pulled out her mobile to see the time. Hell, it was nearly five o’clock. Unlikely now they’d uncover the secret of John Moore’s identity today; Sam would want to go home soon.

‘Why don’t I leave you to search for documents while I have a quick look round to see if I should stay here,’ she suggested, stepping over a pile of newspapers jostling for place behind the front door.

Inside, the house looked exactly like what it was – the home of a single man who was no longer young and who hadn’t cared enough to make it a pleasant place to live. Nina’s heart sank. The hallway was dim in spite of the glass door separating it from the entrance porch, and the maroon carpet extending up the stairs and stretching towards the back of the house did nothing to brighten the place up. A grandfather clock was tick-tocking in the darkness further down the hallway, and Nina felt her shoulders creeping up.

She opened the nearest door and wandered into a generously-proportioned room, furnished with old-fashioned and possibly valuable pieces. A sombre air of genteel shabbiness hung over the place. Nina sank down on a cracked leather sofa – bloody hell, what was she doing here? She should be in the farmhouse, waiting for her girl to come home, not sitting in semi-darkness – these were the windows with ivy growing over them – in a house that had come straight out of the nineteen forties. On the other side of the hallway she could see Sam searching through a desk in the study where the lighting was even murkier. The dusty smell of old books wafted towards her.

Dismayed, Nina trailed further down the hallway. There was a loo here, so the bathroom proper must be upstairs, and it was all so dingy. They probably filmed the last Frankenstein movie in here, she thought, pushing the kitchen door open and giggling nervously when it creaked. Sound effects and everything, and the very smell seemed to come from the first half of the previous century too. A hotel was beginning to sound like a very good idea.

The kitchen wasn’t bad, though, about the same vintage as their own on Arran, with a big gas cooker and a microwave. Whatever his taste in furniture had been, John Moore had liked his kitchen functional.

The last door was beside the kitchen, and Nina put her head in, expecting to see a pantry, but found herself looking into a slip of a room with a single bed, a wooden chair, and a small table. The old ‘kitchen maid’s room’? The window faced the back garden, and she saw another patch of gravel. John Moore hadn’t been a gardener, then.

She could hear Sam’s feet thudding on wooden floors upstairs now. What a massive old place this was, and how unbelievable that it was hers.

‘Four big bedrooms, all chock-full of furniture,’ he said, running down to join her in the hallway. ‘The attic room’s almost empty and very dusty; I would leave it alone in the meantime. Nina, I have to go. What do you want to do?’

Nina glanced back at the small bedroom and came to a decision. ‘If I can find sheets etcetera for this bed I’ll stay here. Sam, thanks a million. Was there anything helpful in the study?’

‘‘Fraid not. I found some documents and a couple of photos in the desk; I left them on top for you to look through.’ He leaned against the kitchen doorway, brown eyes fixed on hers. ‘I might still hear from the GRO today, but I’ll come back in the morning anyway if that’s all right. Give you a hand to search the rest of the place.’

‘Well – if you’re sure,’ said Nina, relieved. With a bit of luck it wouldn’t take long to get things sorted out. A speedy return to the island was the aim of the game here.

He rummaged in his briefcase and handed her a business card. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get this cleared up. Here are the keys for this place. I’ll come back about ten tomorrow. Oh, and there’s a hotel with a good restaurant about two hundred yards further along this road, in case you need it.’

Nina waved as he backed out of the driveway, then locked the front door against the world. Apart from the clock, the house was deathly silent. Her courage sagged briefly before she pulled herself together. This was her house now and there was nothing scary about that. She had plenty to do, not least of which was going to Sam’s hotel to see if they could provide dinner. Nina pulled her case towards her new bedroom, chin in the air. Maybe by the time Sam came back in the morning, she’d have solved the entire mystery.

Chapter Three

Claire’s Story – Bedford

The flat door banged shut behind Robert, and Claire leapt up, balling her fists in frustration as Nina’s small voice wailed from the bedroom. Typical – she’d been sitting down for exactly five minutes after spending an exhausting day with a teething toddler, and now Robert was off God knows where with George Wright, leaving her babysitting like a good little wife. Well, she wasn’t. She was trying her best to be a good mother, but the good wife bit might be over.

‘Hush, baby. It’s all right. Go back to sleep,’ she whispered, smoothing the sparse blonde hair from Nina’s forehead and kissing the damp little brow. She hummed softly, The Skye Boat Song followed by The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen, smiling in relief as Nina’s eyes closed again.

Back in the living room of their tiny Fulham flat, Claire lifted the phone to call her mother. These early-evening chats with Lily in Edinburgh had become her lifeline. Robert was so cold these days, so hurtful when he spoke to her – it was unbelievably restful to talk to Lily, who loved her. Claire punched out the number, blinking back tears. Yes, her mother loved her, but that didn’t stop Lily constantly advocating ‘making a go of your marriage’, like she and Dad had.

But Rob’s latest escapade was something that even Lily couldn’t just smooth over.

‘He’s bought a house, Mum!’ Claire blurted it out before Lily had finished saying hello. ‘I didn’t know a thing about it until he announced it over dinner as if he was telling me he’d bought a new pullover!’

‘Oh my goodness. What kind of house?’

‘An old one, apparently. It’s in Bedford, by the river, and we’re moving next month. Two reception rooms, four bedrooms plus an attic. And I can only sound like a catalogue because I haven’t even bloody seen it!’

For once, Lily didn’t immediately launch into a variation of ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure’, and Claire was grateful for this much at least. She knew the whirlwind courtship hadn’t been time for her to get to know Robert properly, but he’d been the man of her dreams back then, all chat and charm. Not to mention good-looking. He was a walking cliche – tall, dark and handsome. Three years and a baby later, her feelings had changed and so had his; he hardly spoke to her now. Face it, Claire, she thought, blinking miserably. He’s not the man you thought you married.