Difficult. Had her mother been difficult? Is that what he’d set out to do, to conquer her? Joanna saw the waitress coming towards them with the tray. ‘What kinds of things?’ she said, before the girl could interrupt.
‘There were so many, let me see … riding. Horse riding. He didn’t like heights; he was terrified when he started. A few weeks later, he was doing jumps. He was still terrified; he just refused to give in. As soon as he’d managed to get around a circuit a few times without falling off, he stopped. Maybe that’ll give you some idea of what he was like. Bullheaded.’ Rachel smiled, a sad nostalgic smile.
Joanna could see that it was for his stubbornness, his utter perseverance, that she loved him. Rachel had continued to talk as the girl served them. Now she paused to butter a scone and spread it with dollops of jam.
Joanna leaned towards her, eager for more information. She hadn’t come to question Rachel about the triangular relationship between Vince Arnold and the two women. She wanted to know who her father had been, what it was that had drawn her mother to him. ‘His brother, Patrick … are they alike?’
‘Not really. He’s equally charming, persuasive, but there was more of an edge to Vince. He was more determined. Patrick is …’ She paused, looking for the word. ‘I don’t know; I never really feel that I know him. He’s not the sort of person I’d confide in. I feel slightly bad saying that; I probably shouldn’t. He’s been incredibly helpful during the past week. He came back from Italy when Vince went missing, he’s been living there for the last few years, and he’s stayed on to sort things out. Legal things. It was he who identified Vince’s body, I … I couldn’t do it. To see him like that … I couldn’t bear it.’ A tremor in her voice, eyes watering over. She sipped her tea, attempted to recover herself. ‘You know you look like him. You’ve the same eyes.’
Joanna thought of the pictures she’d seen on Google. Did she resemble Vince? She hadn’t thought so. Maybe when he was younger, or maybe it was just what Rachel wanted to see. What did she really think – sitting there, talking to her husband’s only child? She certainly didn’t come across as hostile. Maybe it helped her to talk about him; it didn’t place him so immediately in the past. Joanna wondered what she thought of the mess Vince had got himself into, the gambling debts that Oliver had told her about. She didn’t want to bring it up directly, that would be to admit that Patrick had told Oliver who, in turn, had told her. She didn’t want to become involved in some kind of family dispute. ‘How do you think it happened?’
Rachel looked up sharply. ‘The accident?’
Joanna nodded, sipped her coffee.
‘Despite what I said about Vince wanting to conquer things, water was the one thing that beat him. He never learnt to swim, was terrified of putting his head under the water.’
‘So, why would he have been down there … at the canal?’
‘Oh, he didn’t mind walking by water; he just didn’t like being in it. When I think of it, it’s the worst kind of death he could have imagined.’
‘They say it’s not that bad. That it happens quickly. The police, I presume they don’t think there was any foul play involved?’
Rachel paused, the scone to her lips. ‘God, no. The autopsy said he died of cardiac arrest brought on by hypothermia. You land in water that cold and the shock is enough to kill you. There’ll be an inquest, but it’s just a formality.’ Rachel was silent for a moment, but then she smiled. ‘He’d have liked you, Joanna. You’d have had so much in common, I think. Did your mother tell you he was into photography? There are scores of albums at home – pictures that he took travelling, and at sports events. If you come to the house some day, I’ll show you.’
Joanna smiled. ‘I’d like that,’ she said. She couldn’t help but like her father’s wife.
SEVENTEEN
Oliver took Mercedes’s phone from the drawer in his desk. He had switched it off the night that it happened. He had considered sending Carmen a text message, but then he remembered that the telephone company could ping it to find out where the message had been sent from. A client had told him that once. He’d had a friend who worked in a service provider trace a message sent from his wife to prove that she was in a place other than where she said she was. He’d have to take a trip out of town in order to send a message to Carmen. Then there was a second problem. The sisters always communicated with each other in Spanish. He didn’t trust that his Spanish was good enough to construct a perfectly fluent message, nor did he have faith in the accuracy of any of the translation sites: he knew from translating Spanish to English when he’d attempted to decipher conversations that Mercedes had with her sister when they spoke on the phone. No, he would have to send the text from Mercedes to himself. That would temporarily keep Carmen at bay. It would be the weekend, though, before he had a chance to get away. He put the phone back in the drawer and locked it.
To distract himself, he thought about Joanna. He’d enjoyed their flirtation in the pub that evening. He took his own mobile from his pocket and decided to send her a text. He’d like to meet her, but it would be no harm to build up a little anticipation first.
He typed, and then sent the message.
Any more pics?
A few minutes passed before the phone blipped.
What did you have in mind?
Hmm. Artistic self-portrait?
But you’ve seen those ones already ;-)
He stared at the phone. What to write next?
Did I? Afraid I’ve more of a kinaesthetic memory.
Silence. Hmm. Maybe she wasn’t ready for that.
Oliver was at the bottom of the stairs when the doorbell rang. He stopped dead. Carmen had already phoned several times, and he knew from the voice messages she’d left that she wasn’t happy. That unhappiness had probably been upgraded to a smouldering rage the moment he’d taken the phone off the hook, and now she was out there, nothing but the front door and a few feet of hallway separating them.
The bell went again. Oliver remained perfectly still, thankful that he’d confiscated the key from Carmen the night before. The net curtain on the hall window rendered him invisible from the outside; he just hoped that it wouldn’t occur to her to crouch down and look through the letterbox, or to cup her hands and put her face against the glass. He was ready to move if she should do so; with one swift movement he would wedge himself against the hall door out of sight.
He was barely breathing when the figure outside moved, but what he saw from his place at the foot of the stairs was not the svelte form of Carmen Hernandez, but Joanna, striding towards the gate. Hurriedly, he opened the door.
‘Joanna.’
She turned as he called her name. ‘Hey, I’d just given up.’
‘Sorry, I was in the middle of something, come on in.’
He stood back, and Joanna stepped into the hall. He caught a scent of something as she passed close to him, not the woody scent of the Chanel that he’d got the other night, but something fresh, citrus.
‘Hope you don’t mind me stopping by, I ran out of credit.’ A sly smile.
He laughed. ‘No, it’s great to see you.’
‘I just had coffee with Rachel Arnold.’
‘How did that go?’
‘Yeah, good. My mother said she’d prefer if I didn’t see her, but I’m glad I did. She told me some stuff about my father, gave me a better idea of who he was.’
Oliver nodded. ‘She’s probably afraid you’ll take Rachel’s side. It’s understandable. Tea?’
‘No, I’m good.’
She followed him into the living room. He pulled the curtains lest they be disturbed. She sat next to him on the sofa.
‘Can I ask you? You know Patrick Arnold; what kind of man is he?’
Oliver thought for a moment. How much should he tell her? He’d already told her about Arnold being debarred, so why not tell her the rest. ‘I don’t know him that well,’ he said. ‘We studied together, but I didn’t exactly hang out with him. That said, he
paid me a visit in the office the other evening.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted me to look over your father’s insurance policy. He’s afraid he might have problems, what with the circumstances of your father’s death. You see Vince only took out the policy six months ago.’
‘That’s pretty strange, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what he figures the insurance crowd will think. You see they don’t pay out on a suicide.’
‘Is that what he thinks happened?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Not at all. He reckons it was an accident.’
The girl looked relieved. He wondered what difference it would make to her if she thought her father had taken his own life. How might that affect a person, being the child of a suicide? If the insurance company knew about his debts, they would surely try to make a case of it. Oliver wondered if Patrick were covering anything up. It seemed rather likely. A man runs up several debts, owes money to the wrong kind of people, and then takes out an insurance policy for a hundred thousand to bail out the wife.
‘I told Arnold I was too busy to take anything on.’
‘Oh?’ She looked at him, curious.
‘Yeah, I thought it best not to get involved. There is one thing, and I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but you’ll find out eventually. The policy names two beneficiaries: Rachel Arnold, obviously, is one – but the other is you, Joanna.’
Joanna’s eyes widened. ‘Me? Are you sure? Why would he …?’
‘I was surprised too when I saw it, but when you think about it, it makes sense – the guy obviously wanted to make up for the past.’
‘Maybe, but he knew the money would only come to me after his death. Surely, if he was in that frame of mind, he’d have made some kind of effort to know me when he was alive.’
‘There’s no telling why people do the things they do. Sometimes, they don’t know the reasons themselves. Maybe he was afraid.’
‘Did Patrick say anything else about it? I mean, does Rachel know? She didn’t say anything.’
‘Hmm. She might be in for a surprise. Patrick is the executor of the will. Unless Vince discussed it with Rachel when he had the policy drawn up, there’s no reason she’d know anything about it yet. Nothing will happen until after the inquest. I suspect, as Patrick does, that the insurance company will be out to find any loophole they can. But if Patrick’s right and your father’s was simply a tragic death, you’re set to come into a fairly substantial amount of money.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Wow.’ Joanna was quiet.
‘It’s nothing less than what you deserve. Think what it costs to bring up a child.’
She nodded. ‘I wonder what my mother will say.’
‘Well, it would buy a whole lot of phone credit.’
Joanna laughed and swatted him. ‘It’s nice here,’ she said. ‘Quiet.’
He’d moved closer to her while she was talking. Now he took her hand.
‘I know the timing’s not great on this, and if you don’t want anything to happen, I totally understand, I’m just recently separated and there’s all that stuff going on with your father, but I really like you, Joanna. And if you think you might feel the same, well … it’d be great. If not, I suppose I’ve always got those photographs.’
Joanna started to laugh. She hadn’t pulled her hand away. Nor did she back off when he kissed her.
EIGHTEEN
Joanna was woken by a loud banging. Disoriented, she reached for the bedside lamp but, instead, her hand found warm flesh and she remembered that she was not in her own bed. Disturbed, Oliver moaned and turned on his side. She shook him gently.
‘There’s someone at the door,’ she whispered.
‘Hmmm?’ Suddenly he sat upright. ‘Sssh. Don’t make a sound,’ he said. The covers were pushed back and he climbed out of bed.
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Joanna said. ‘It’s Mercedes.’
Oliver didn’t answer.
She heard him rummaging in the dark, then the rustle of him pulling his clothes on.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘She’s not getting in.’
‘Doesn’t she have a key?’ Joanna was halfway out of bed at the thought. Maybe she ought to get dressed, ready to hide if necessary.
‘No. No, she didn’t take it.’ His voice a whisper in the dark.
Joanna fell back against the pillows. Oliver had moved to the window. A shred of light entered the room as he lifted a corner of the curtain to peer down into the garden.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he said. He dropped the curtain and the room was plummeted into darkness again.
Joanna heard him open the bedroom door. ‘Where are you going?’ she said.
‘It’s okay, just stay here.’
The door closed leaving her alone in the dark. She shivered, pulled the covers up around her. What was he doing? She hoped he hadn’t decided to answer it. What if the woman suspected that there was someone there and forced her way upstairs? Joanna’s boots were in the living room. She should’ve brought them up, but how was she to know that someone would call in the night? And anyway, what kind of hour was this to come knocking? Surely, if she wanted to talk to him, she could have done so at a normal time. Maybe she was drunk, which really spelled trouble. Joanna listened for any sounds from downstairs, but she heard none. A few minutes later, Oliver reappeared in the doorway.
‘It’s okay. She’s gone,’ he said.
‘Did you answer?’
‘No. no.’ He climbed back into bed. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Joanna whispered, but the woman turning up like that had put her on edge. Maybe she had been hasty in believing that his marriage was over. Clearly, there were unresolved issues.
‘What do you think she wanted?’
‘Who knows? It’s three in the morning. Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait.’
She lay there listening to him breathing, wondering what it was that was going through his head. ‘Are you sure it’s over?’ she said.
‘Yes. You needn’t worry about that.’ He leaned across and kissed her.
She kissed him back, tried to forget about the woman at the door. She hoped it wasn’t just a one-night thing; something he would say had been a mistake. But she was here now and it was what she wanted.
Some time later she woke needing to go to the bathroom. Silently, she slipped out of bed and made her way across the landing. A full moon lay beyond the frosted glass of the bathroom window and illuminated the room in its milky light. The tiled floor was cold beneath her bare feet. On the back of the bathroom door hung a pink bathrobe which she guessed belonged to Mercedes. She took it down and held it to her face before slipping it on. It smelled of some expensive perfume. She pulled the cord on a small fluorescent light above the mirror and blinked until her eyes adjusted. In a cabinet to the right of the mirror there was moisturizer, nail varnish remover, hand cream, things that belonged to Mercedes. Joanna wondered why she hadn’t taken them with her. Had she left in such haste? A loofah hung in the shower. She was sure that if she looked closely enough she would see Mercedes’s long dark hairs clogging the bath. She closed the cabinet door wondering if Oliver Molloy was truly over his wife. She turned off the bathroom light, and then stood in the landing, listening. There was no sound from the bedroom. She crept quietly down the stairs, felt her way into the living room. She fumbled for the switch, her eyes adjusting slightly to the darkness. When she turned it on, the room was as they had left it. Her boots lay on the floor near the sofa. She looked around the room, then got up and began to walk around, stopping to look at things. There weren’t any photos. Had he taken them away? Most people had photos. Perhaps it was too difficult just to look at his wife. On a shelf above the television stood an old music box. She picked it up and opened the lid. A ballerina began to twirl accompanied by the sound of tinkling music.
‘What are you d
oing?’
She jumped at the sound of his voice and snapped the music box shut. He stood framed in the doorway in his dressing gown.
‘My God, you scared me,’ she said. He was looking at the music box in her hand, a strange expression on his face.
She put the box back on the shelf. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I came downstairs. I hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘I don’t sleep really,’ he said. ‘Insomnia, it’s a curse.’ He rubbed at his eyes.
She wanted to cross the room, put her arms around him, but something stopped her. She wondered if he thought she’d been snooping while he was asleep. Maybe she should have stayed in bed instead of walking around the house at night. It was only then that she remembered she was wearing Mercedes’s robe. No wonder he’d looked at her so strangely. She fingered the cotton, began to apologize.
‘I’m sorry. You must’ve thought … I just found it hanging on the bathroom door. It was cold … I shouldn’t have …’
Oliver shrugged. ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ he said. He scratched his head. ‘Do you want something to drink – hot chocolate maybe?’
‘Yeah, great. I don’t think I could sleep.’ She felt uncomfortable now in Mercedes’s dressing gown. What was she thinking putting it on? So stupid. She heard him move about in the kitchen and went back upstairs to get dressed.
He looked surprised when she reappeared in the living room fully clothed. ‘Are you leaving?’ he said.
‘No, I was cold. But I can, if you want me to?’
He put down the mugs. ‘No, I don’t want you to leave. Why on earth would I want that?’ He smiled, pushed her hair back and kissed her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘The robe, it was stupid. I didn’t think.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I was a bit surprised, that’s all.’ He sat down and sipped his hot chocolate. Joanna sat next to him. ‘How would you feel about going away this Friday night? I’ve a bit of business to do up in Belfast. We’d have to leave in morning?’
The Girl Behind the Lens: A dark psychological thriller with a brilliant twist Page 8
