‘I didn’t know him. My mother left him when I was very small and we had no contact after that, so the loss feels a bit unreal, somehow.’

Cassie patted her shoulder. ‘I didn’t know. Sam didn’t go into details. Then I’m doubly glad you’ve found another relative to visit – family’s important. And you mustn’t worry about Naomi, she’ll be fine here.’

Lunch was an exuberant, noisy meal in the garden, with the children sitting round a smaller table beside the big one. Nina was grateful that none of the adults made any attempt to question her about her family; they had evidently been forewarned and it did make things easier. Sam’s sisters and their husbands were good company; their good-natured banter was the kind of exchange Nina often had with Beth and Tim. A fresh wave of homesickness swept through her. It would be so great to be back on Arran next week, working in the farmhouse, digesting whatever Emily Moore would tell her about the family, and planning what she would do with John Moore’s fortune.

At two o’clock Sam stood up. ‘We’d better get going, Nina. Emily might be a stickler for punctuality and we don’t want to make a bad first impression, do we?’

Nina reached for her handbag. ‘We do not. Naomi, I’ll see you later. Have fun and be good.’

It was her standard ‘goodbye’ phrase, and Naomi barely glanced up long enough to wave as Nina and Sam left the house.

Nina was silent on the way to The Elms, thinking about the questions she wanted to ask Emily Moore. The relationship between John and Emily. John’s parents. If there was any other family nearby. And hopefully Emily would recognize some of the people on the photos she’d brought.

And of course the more awkward topics. Did Emily know about the paedophilia? But of course she didn’t – hell, she didn’t even know if Emily Moore was aware that John was dead.

The Elms was an attractive grey stone building, three storeys high with a well-kept garden where groups of people were sitting under tall, shady trees. Behind the main building was a little row of ten cottages, each split into two apartments, and Emily lived in one of these. It was everyone’s vision of the perfect old people’s home – residents out in the garden, their children and grandchildren around them on a Saturday afternoon. Happy families yet again. Nina bit her lip. And here they were, coming to visit with death and paedophilia in their pockets. I hope we don’t frighten poor Emily into the middle of next week, thought Nina, as Sam pulled up in the last of the ‘visitor’ parking spaces.

Emily Moore’s cottage was number 3a, and Nina wiped damp palms on her trousers as she walked along the pathway. The door opened before they reached it. Emily was small and grey-haired, and the eyes smiling up at Nina and Sam were dark blue and intelligent behind thick brown-rimmed glasses.

‘Hello, dear. So you’re the Nina Moore who thinks we’re related – and I think you’re right, too. Come in and sit down, the pair of you,’ she said, indicating a two-seater sofa and a reclining chair grouped round a little coffee table.

Nina presented Emily with the pot plant she’d bought on the way over, feeling quite weak with relief. This was a ‘nice old lady’, and one who was clearly very sharp too.

‘What a great place,’ she said, looking round appreciatively.

They were in a fair-sized living room looking out towards the back of the sheltered housing complex, where a grassy area ended in a belt of trees. Nina could see into a little kitchen to her right, and the other door must lead to the bedroom. It all looked quite luxurious; Emily was apparently another rather affluent Moore.

‘Yes, it’s lovely. The staff are very kind – it’s perfect for me,’ said Emily, placing the miniature rose bush on the coffee table. ‘Thank you, dear. I love roses. Now, tell me how you came across my name. The warden said you were researching your family tree?’

Nina made the introductions and told Emily about finding out that John Moore was dead, and then discovering that he was her father. Making no mention of the paedophilia or the threats, she went on to talk about the house and the boxes of photos in the attic. Emily listened without interrupting.

When Nina had finished she spoke in a low voice. ‘John Moore was my brother’s boy. I last saw him at his father’s funeral, years ago now, and after that he didn’t get in touch again and nor did I, I’m afraid. We didn’t get on – I was maybe too much of a sharp-tongued old spinster for him. So you’re the Nina I used to know. I saw you quite often when you were a toddler, you were a pretty little thing. And then your mother went off with you.’ She cocked her head to one side, frowning. ‘But why did she tell you your father was dead?’

Nina met Sam’s eyes. It was clear the older woman knew nothing about the paedophilia.

‘I think she felt my father was – violent – in some way,’ she said gently. ‘Did you ever notice anything?’

Emily looked shocked and Nina was glad she hadn’t said more.

‘Oh dear – I don’t think so,’ said Emily. ‘But that kind of thing usually goes on behind closed doors, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Nina. ‘And as far as I knew there was no other family left to ask about things. I was so happy to find you. Could you maybe tell me a little about the Moore family?’

‘Of course. And you’ll take a cup of coffee, won’t you?’

Emily went through to the kitchen and reappeared with a coffee tray. Sam jumped up to help her, and Emily sat back as he poured coffee from a thermos jug into blue and white mugs. Tears welled up in Nina’s eyes as she looked at Emily, who was staring wistfully at the miniature rose bush. This poor old lady, a part of her own family, alone now and nearing the end of her life, remembering days gone by. All the living and loving and people now gone.

‘There were three of us,’ said Emily, putting her mug on the low table beside her chair. ‘My brother John was the oldest, then Ruth, and then me. Our parents ran a chemist’s shop. They were always very busy, stressed out you would say nowadays. John and Ruthie both married, but I never did. I was engaged as a girl but my fiancé Dan died of a ruptured appendix. No one could ever replace him, you see.’

Nina leaned across and squeezed Emily’s hand. ‘So you’re my Great-Aunt Emily,’ she said, yet more tears pricking in her eyes. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you. The only other blood relation I knew of is my daughter Naomi. How many children did John and Ruth have?’

Sam’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he took it outside.

Emily passed the biscuits to Nina. ‘One each,’ she said. ‘But look. When they told me you were coming, I drew a family tree. I didn’t put dates in, they’re difficult to remember off-hand.’

She produced a sheet of notepaper where a family tree diagram was set out in a surprisingly clear hand. Nina bent over it.

‘Brilliant!’ she said. ‘This makes the different relationships quite clear. And I suppose my father was always called Robert because his father was John too. And the Wrights… so Paul

Wright is the same generation as me?’

‘Yes,’ said Emily. ‘He’s about three years older than you, and you used to think he was wonderful. I didn’t see him very often after you and your mother left. He was a shy, quiet boy – I think his mother had a drink problem, and that must have affected him. He had a hard time at school. His parents split up a few years after yours did, but I never knew all the ins and outs.’

Nina’s mind had snapped back to the list she’d found in the house. There were two Wrights there, Paul and another – Paul’s mother, or his father? For the life of her she couldn’t remember if the second name was a man or a woman. George Wright was the ‘Moore’ in that family, anyway. She would show the list to Emily in a minute. She checked to make sure it was in her bag, realising guiltily that she hadn’t been paying attention to what the old woman was saying.