Nina smiled suddenly – locking her bedroom door wouldn’t be unnecessary. Paul felt like family in the same way Emily did. Maybe she could persuade him to come with her and Naomi to visit Emily tomorrow. Somehow she didn’t think Paul saw much of their great-aunt, and it would be interesting to know why not. Of course, maybe he simply wasn’t into visiting family, but you’d think a sense of duty would prompt the odd visit. Or was that more of a girl-thing?

Paul appeared at twenty past four, clutching a well-used sports bag and a bottle of wine.

‘All ready to stay, as you see,’ he said, grinning at her, and Nina relaxed.

It was all right. This was her cousin – well, second cousin or whatever, and he was going out of his way to help her.

She accepted the bottle. ‘Cabernet Sauvignon. One of my favourites. How did you know?’

He looked pleased. ‘It’s one of mine too. Must be a family trait.’

‘Is your girlfriend – Melanie, isn’t it? – okay about you staying here tonight?’ she asked, and he nodded.

‘She’s going out with friends anyway. I brought a sleeping bag so if you give me a mattress somewhere I’ll be fine.’

Nina showed him into the little room beside the kitchen and he dropped his bag on the bed.

‘What would you like to eat?’ she asked, watching him roll out his sleeping bag. ‘We don’t do gourmet meals in this house but I could make spaghetti, or we can send out for pizza.’

‘Let’s send out,’ he said. ‘Pizza’s easier to eat when you’re looking at photos and things. Can I have a look round the house, please? I was here a lot as a kid but I haven’t seen it properly for years.’

Nina gave him a guided tour. He showed her which bedroom had been hers as a child, and told her about the time the two of them unravelled all Nina’s children’s cassettes and tied the upstairs doors together with the mess of tape.

‘It was no ice cream for us that day,’ he said, grinning. ‘Our mums were not amused.’

Nina laughed. This was exactly the kind of thing she wanted to hear, little stories about her life. She stood in the doorway of her old bedroom, which now contained an anonymous single bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. What wouldn’t she give for a clear memory of those days, but nothing was coming to mind. Disappointed, she turned back to Paul, now gazing into the room she and Naomi were occupying.

‘Those blue vases were your mum’s, you know. She bought blue ones for herself and green ones for my mum. It must have been just shortly before you left.’

Nina hugged her arms round her middle, staring at the vases. How amazing – the only beautiful things in John Moore’s house, almost, and they were Claire’s. A little part of Claire still here in Bedford. She would take them home when they left.

In the attic room, Paul walked down to the far end where the mattresses lay, then turned and stared back towards the door, the expression on his face unreadable. He was breathing heavily, Nina noticed – what was going through his mind? She was still wondering what to say when he came out of his trance and grinned at her.

‘I think you should do this place up to rent out. You could easily have it turned into flats, and the way the market is at the moment that might be a better investment than selling.’

‘I know,’ said Nina. ‘Nothing’s decided yet.’

No way was she going to keep this house, she thought, following Paul downstairs. She wanted to be able to draw a very definite line under John Moore and his sleaze.

Paul settled down with the photos while Nina phoned for pizza and opened the wine. When she went back to the living room he was engrossed in the ‘non-people’ pile, not even reacting when she made a remark about the small size of most of these photos. Nina put his wine glass down beside him and went to phone Cassie to say she’d be quite all right tonight. It would be her last night under her father’s roof. And thank God for that.

Chapter Eighteen

The pizzas were good, a Mediterranean veggie topping on a thin, crisp base, and Nina made a green salad to go with them. Working in John Moore’s kitchen was a bit like camping, she thought ruefully, having searched in vain for a salad bowl. Judging by the appliances and the meagre selection of kitchen utensils, her father’s cooking had consisted of heating things in the microwave and opening tins. Of course maybe he’d eaten out most of the time – he’d certainly been able to afford it. What an odd set-up this was. John Moore was so well-off, yet he’d chosen to live in this place, which was solid and warm but – dowdy. Yes, that was a good word to describe the house. But when you thought about his collection of paedophilic pictures it all became sick and sordid, too. So maybe the dowdiness hadn’t mattered to John Robert Moore.

She and Paul ate in the living room, each ensconced in a corner of the sofa as the table was covered with photos. Nina was silent, pity almost closing her throat as Paul spoke of his mother’s struggle to make ends meet. It didn’t make for a cheerful mealtime conversation.

His childhood had been nothing like her own. After the split with his father, Paul’s mother gave up the fight to provide for her child, and lived on social security. Alcohol had played a big part in Jane Wright’s life, too. So while Nina was watching her mother and grandparents struggle to start their business on Arran, Paul was watching his mother drink herself into her grave. How dreadful for him.

‘What happened to you then?’ she asked gently, but he looked away, shaking his head.

‘Nothing worth remembering today. I survived, thanks to social services, and here we both are, back in John Moore’s house as adults. You can survive anything, you know.’

He took a large swallow of wine. Nina frowned. It was difficult to see what he meant by ‘survive’ and it didn’t look as if he was about to enlarge on it. Poor Paul. She had always been loved and cared for, but it sounded as if no one had loved Paul after his mother died.

He wiped his fingers on the paper napkin provided by the pizza company. ‘Almost forgot,’ he said, going over to the table. ‘I found your father’s parents here. Look.’

He lifted three black and white prints, and Nina took them eagerly. John Moore senior, her grandfather, and his young wife Sylvia. They must have been in their twenties here, standing side by side beside a bandstand, presumably in some park or other, uncertain smiles for the camera and uncomfortable, formal-looking clothes. Perhaps they’d been out for a Sunday walk – people had worn ‘Sunday best’ in those days. Nina stared, trying in vain to read their expressions and feeling the enormous distance separating them from her life today. What had John and Sylvia Moore done to turn their son into such a monster? Or maybe it wasn’t their fault, maybe young John had gone off the rails by himself. You couldn’t blame parents for everything. Paul handed her another photo showing a trio of people in various shades of grey.

‘My parents with Aunt Emily,’ he said.

Nina took the photos. Black and white pictures of days gone by. She searched round for a pen and paper. ‘Let’s number them, and write down who’s on which photo.’

They sat at the table, Paul numbering the photos and providing the names and Nina writing the list. Halfway down her page she squinted at him uneasily. He wasn’t happy doing this, so much was clear. His earlier good humour was gone and his answers to her questions were getting shorter all the time. At last they came to the end of the first pile; Paul numbered the final black and white ‘people’ photo and Nina wrote down the names, Emily and her sister Ruth, Paul’s grandmother. Family photos, and dear God, what had gone on behind the scenes in the Moore family?

‘Thank you,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I can see it isn’t easy for you, revisiting the past like this. I’ll take the ones you don’t know to Emily tomorrow and see if she can add anything. Or – would you be able to come too? I’d be going in the morning, before we fly home.’