‘Oh Nina, I don’t like it. Even if this is a coincidence, it means that every begging letter you’ll be wondering about a possible connection.’

‘I know. I want to get away from here asap, Sam. All this hassle isn’t worth it; I need to get on with my life. And the paternity test result was positive, by the way.’

He grimaced again. ‘I’m sorry. I have all the paperwork ready for you to sign so there’s nothing to stop you going home. We can continue with the business stuff by e-mail and phone. And unfortunately I’m away myself for a few days at the beginning of the week; I have to see a client in Devon. It was arranged three weeks ago and I can’t get out of it.’

Nina stood straighter. ‘That settles it. We’ll leave on Monday.’

Happier now that the decision had been made, she showed Sam the ‘people’ photos.

‘Wow. You’re incredibly like your mother, aren’t you?’ he said, picking up a photo showing a young-looking Claire with her new husband.

Nina went to look over his shoulder. A very young-looking Claire… The thought that had hovered over her brain the other day came sharply and horribly into focus.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Mum looks about thirteen here. Do you think – oh Christ.’

The thought was appalling. A paedophile would enjoy having a wife who looked so much younger than she was. Dear God no.

Sam put the photos down. ‘Nina, don’t go there,’ he said in a low voice. ‘They’re both dead, it’s over. We only have to sort out what’s relevant to you.’

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a magnifying glass.

‘I borrowed this from our secretary. A vital piece of secretarial equipment when you have to work with old documents. She has two so you can hang on to it for a few days.’

He was right, Nina knew. John Moore’s actions were nothing to do with her. She pored over the photos with the glass, but although it made the facial expressions clearer, it didn’t help identify the people. Definitely, it was time to leave the winding up of her father’s estate to the lawyers, and go home and enjoy the rest of the summer on beautiful Arran.

‘Nina, look.’ Sam had lifted the list of names. He pointed to one about halfway down. ‘Emily Moore. And the address is in Biddenham, that’s a village a couple of miles outside Bedford. Maybe she still lives there.’

Nina stared at the list. Emily Moore, 15 Long Meadow Lane, Biddenham.

‘Wow. I hadn’t realised that. Let’s try the phone number.’

The number was unobtainable, though, and Emily Moore didn’t figure in the phone book either.

‘We could drive by and have a look,’ suggested Nina. ‘Even if Emily’s not there anymore, one of the neighbours might know something.’

Sam pulled out his car key. ‘Good idea. Let’s go.’

‘This is boring. You said we would do something fun,’ said Naomi as Sam drove along the main road towards Biddenham.

Nina thought swiftly. Compared to the day before, an outing to find someone they didn’t know must be boring to a ten-year-old, but she wasn’t prepared to let Naomi stay all alone in John Moore’s house when there were unknown weirdos at large writing revolting letters and making funny phone calls. Nina twisted round in her seat and made a face at her daughter.

‘I know, sweetie, but look at it this way. You can count your blood relations on the fingers of one hand. I can count my blood relations with my left thumb. Emily Moore might be another one. It would be sort of worth it if we could find her, wouldn’t it?’

Naomi sniffed. ‘You said John Moore wasn’t a very nice person so Emily might not be either. You could find her yourself and if she was nice I could go and see her too. All this driving about looking for her is so incredibly mega-dull.’

‘I know,’ said Nina helplessly. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘That doesn’t help now.’ Naomi turned away theatrically and retreated into her ipod, staring out of the side window.

Nina glanced at Sam and hid a smile at the apprehensive expression on his face. He obviously wasn’t used to sharing car-space with sparring mothers and daughters. Not that she often sparred with Naomi… Mind you, puberty wasn’t a million miles away and they would know all about theatricals then. Sam raised his eyebrows at her when they stopped at traffic lights and she winked the eye Naomi couldn’t see.

Long Meadow Lane was a quiet, leafy little place, with tall trees and bushes bordering the lane on both sides. Nina sat looking from right to left as they crept along in search of number fifteen. The houses were large and almost hidden behind the greenery; it seemed rather an affluent little area. Nina sighed. Her own branch of the Moore family lived in less well-to-do accommodation. Claire left the riches behind when she left John Moore all those years ago…

If only they knew what had gone on in her mother’s mind back then. What a heavy burden Claire had carried all those years, if she’d known about the paedophilia. Had she known? Why hadn’t Claire divorced John Moore and agitated for child support, alimony, whatever, instead of lying about his death? That lie meant John Moore had never supported his own family. It didn’t seem right.

Nina shivered. It was so true, there were things that no amount of money could buy. As soon as this thought came into her head she realised something else. Claire had made so very sure the break was absolute, never demanding the support that was hers by right – so the odds were she had known about the paedophilia. Bloody hell. What a terrible hold John Moore must have had over Claire to buy her silence all those years. Not knowing what had gone on between the pair of them was turning into the worst aspect about the entire business, and it was hard to see how they’d ever find out. So as well as finding a father she didn’t want, she’d lost the mother she thought she’d known…

Number fifteen was near the top of the lane, and Sam pulled up at the gateway. A long, rhododendron-lined driveway led down to the house, a low bungalow with an obvious garage conversion at the side. It was freshly painted in crisp white and had a swing set on the front lawn.

Leaving Sam and Naomi in the car, Nina went to ring the bell. The front room window had no net curtain, and she looked in on a large collection of cacti and an orange cat sleeping in the middle of them. No one was home, however, and she turned back to the lane.

‘I’ll try the neighbours,’ she said, leaning in the passenger seat window.

Naomi gave another theatrical sigh, and Nina handed over her mobile. ‘Naomi. We’ll have a look round here first and then go for lunch. Why don’t you use the time to find us a nice restaurant or pub in the village?’

Naomi brightened considerably and sat up straight to do her research.

A young woman answered the door at the next house, a toddler on her hip and about three-year-old twins crowding round her feet to see what was going on. She shook her head when Nina asked about Emily Moore.

‘Sorry, can’t help. I’m the nanny here. There’s a young family at number fifteen, I do know that much. You should ask old Mrs Peters at number twenty. She’s a terrible gossip; if anyone around here knows, she will.’

Nina laughed and thanked her. Number twenty was diagonally opposite, and she waved to Sam and Naomi as she crossed the lane. Fortunately Mrs Peters was at home, though mid-sixties would have been a better label than ‘old’. The ‘terrible gossip’ part of the nanny’s description fitted well enough, though.

‘Emily Moore? Yes, that was quite a while ago mind you; she was here for years and I don’t think she was ever married, either, lived alone, she did, she was a nice lady but rather withdrawn if you know what I mean, not the sort to pop round for a cup of coffee and a chat, though she did come to the Woman’s Institute when they built the community hall. Are you a relative?’