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.

‘I’ll have a look and then decide,’ she said, turning back to the admission form. John Moore’s date of birth was the 15th of October. Her father had been born in October too, but in the stress of the moment she couldn’t remember the date. How shameful, her own father – and unnerving to realise how little she knew about him.

Nina thought about this during the short drive to Bedford. Why had Claire spoken so little about her husband? Was there some kind of family secret about Robert Moore? Of course Claire been in other relationships over the years; she had moved on. But even so, that was no excuse for her own ignorance now. She’d never been interested enough to probe into her father’s family, and the thought didn’t make her feel proud today.

On the other hand, if this John Moore had left her all his money, it was difficult to see why he hadn’t been in touch with them before. And surely if Claire’d had a bust-up with a rich relation in the past she would at least have mentioned it at some point? Think as she might, Nina could find no explanation.

Chapter Two

Friday14th July

The smell in the hospice took Nina straight back to the day of Claire’s death, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to banish the dizziness swirling round her head. After the accident both Claire and the motorcyclist were helicoptered to Glasgow, leaving Nina to make the agonisingly slow ferry-crossing and then drive to the hospital, well over an hour away. That day she’d felt as if she was standing outside her own body, watching the terrible events unfold. Claire’s poor battered face… and her pitiful attempts to talk that first hour, and then the slide into coma from which she had never awakened. The memory still took Nina’s breath away.

Pushing the thoughts aside, she followed Sam into the hospice reception area. The building was an unattractive seventies concrete cube on the outside but quite homey and cheerful inside, with blue-uniformed nurses rustling along the corridor, and floral prints on the walls. John Moore had suffered and died here, and she – apparently his only relative – had never met him and didn’t know who he was. Poor John Moore. But it was preferable to dying the way Claire had. Nobody knows their future, thought Nina soberly. Carpe Diem; how true that was.

A middle-aged nurse handed over John Moore’s suitcase and a black plastic bag of soiled clothing and Nina, feeling more and more like an imposter, signed for them.

‘I gather you didn’t know John,’ the nurse said. ‘But we put him in the chapel in case you wanted to see him anyway.’

Nina blinked at the woman, consciously preventing her mouth from falling open. The thought would never have crossed her mind. Apart from Claire’s she had never seen a dead body, but that had been enough for her to know there was nothing frightening about a corpse. Like the cliché said, the body was a shell, and when life had gone there was nothing of the person left inside. That hadn’t stopped Nina shedding horrified, disbelieving tears over dead Claire on her hospital bed, but she wouldn’t do that for John Moore.

‘I won’t recognise him, but I guess to make sure I should see him,’ she said, noticing the look of respect Sam gave her.

The nurse led her to a dim little chapel, where a vase of red roses on the altar perfumed otherwise musty air and provided the only real colour. A solitary coffin was set on a wrought iron stand, and Nina followed the nurse across the room. In spite of the brave words apprehension wormed its way through her gut as the older woman slid back a wooden panel to reveal the face of John Moore and his right hand, resting below his neck.

Nina winced, leaning on the coffin to steady herself. He wasn’t an old man, but his face was deeply lined as well as being yellow and emaciated, and his greying hair was sparse. The cancer had marked him. What a horrible way to go. But not as horrible as…

‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, her voice echoing round the bare little room. ‘Was he – a nice person?’

The nurse closed the coffin, nodding. ‘He was very brave,’ she said, putting a hand on Nina’s shoulder as they left the chapel. ‘He had a lot of pain, but we helped him with that and fortunately he didn’t linger long. He’d only been here ten days when he died.’

Sam was waiting outside, and Nina went into the ladies’ to recover. She hadn’t expected the sight of John Moore to shake her, but it had. Dear God, this was all so impersonal. She pressed wet hands to her face, feeling her cheeks hot under the coolness of her palms. She was this person’s nearest relation, but she still felt – empty.

Sam took one look at her and guided her towards the car, his right hand under her elbow. ‘Come on. The sooner we find out what relation John Moore was to you, the better you’ll feel.’

Nina nodded. It was true. Everything would seem more organised when she could file her newly-found deceased relative into a box in her head labelled ‘42nd cousin John’. There was no reason for her to feel guilty about this man; it wasn’t her fault she hadn’t known of his existence until Wednesday.

John Moore’s house wasn’t far from the town centre. Nina was silent as the car passed through the usual kind of urban sprawl; streets lined by chain stores and supermarkets, anonymous in their normality. She was beginning to regret her decision to come here; the thought of Naomi, who was probably still on a pony, sent heavy waves of homesickness all the way through her. But then, Naomi was so thrilled about her trekking weekend she would barely notice her mother’s absence, and they could phone soon and have a long chat. Even so, real life on the island felt very far away right now and it wasn’t a good feeling.

Sam drove down a wide road where the shops were smaller, their fronts making a colourful patchwork on both sides, then crossed a bridge and turned into a narrower street beside the river. They were in a residential area now, tall houses on the left facing a wide strip of grass stretching down to the river on the right. Nina gazed out at well-kept flower beds, shady trees, and people on benches enjoying the sunshine. It was nothing like Arran, but it was nice here.