The Girl Behind the Lens: A dark psychological thriller with a brilliant twist

by Tanya Farrelly

  ‘I’d love to. I’ve actually never been.’ Joanna relaxed, thankful that his mood had changed again. A weekend away would be perfect, give them a chance to spend time together without the risk of intrusion by his ex-wife.

  NINETEEN

  As soon as Joanna had left, Oliver called Carmen. He didn’t mention her visit in the early hours of the morning and neither did she. To keep her off his back, he agreed to meet her at the Westbury Hotel where she told him she was staying. She’d insisted on him giving her numbers of some of Mercedes’s friends in Dublin, and he’d scribbled down a few names and numbers of close friends he’d already called in the days following Mercedes’s death.

  He spotted her immediately as he entered the lobby. She was sitting at a table reading a magazine, a glass of red wine before her. She’d probably seen him already and had averted her eyes from the entrance as soon as she’d seen him step inside the revolving door. He imagined her crossing her legs into the pose in which she now sat, her whole demeanour an affectation for his benefit. She flicked through the pages of the magazine with disinterest and failed to look up until he’d spoken.

  ‘Sorry, I’m late.’

  Carmen paused, one perfectly manicured fingernail poised to turn the page. ‘Do you have the numbers?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve contacted most of them already, but there are a few people that you could call.’

  Oliver took the slip of paper from his wallet and held it out to her. Carmen closed the magazine and scanned the numbers. Then she looked up.

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  He was surprised by the even way in which she asked him. He’d been bracing himself for fireworks as soon as they’d met. He watched her face for any sign of suppressed anger that might threaten to erupt and was surprised to see none. This was an impressive display of selfcontrol on Carmen’s part.

  ‘I stayed at my father’s. I’ve stayed there a few times recently. It’s more for myself than for him, I suppose. I can’t stand to be at home when she isn’t there.’

  Carmen played with her wine glass. ‘You miss her then?’ she said.

  ‘You know Mercedes. The place is dead without her.’

  The waiter came and Oliver asked Carmen if she wanted a drink. She refused. Her glass was almost full and so he ordered a Guinness for himself, and wondered what lay behind Carmen’s cool façade. The Guinness came and he took a frothy sip. At first he hadn’t intended staying, but it had occurred to him that Carmen could be of use. And since she wasn’t being volatile he thought that it might be a good opportunity to show his willingness to unite in their quest to find Mercedes. It would be the only way to placate her.

  There was another reason why he decided to stay and share a drink with Carmen; he felt that he ought to take advantage of her seemingly genial mood. That morning he’d had a call from the human resources manager in Mercedes’s job. This time the woman had left a message to say that she didn’t want to pressurize Mercedes at such a difficult time, but they needed some indication as to when she might return. The call had given him an idea which could strengthen his alibi should the police investigate Mercedes’s disappearance, but in order for it to work he had to persuade Carmen to help him out. If she agreed, she would also make herself his unwitting accomplice.

  ‘I got a letter from Mercedes’s job today. They said they wouldn’t keep her position open for her any longer if they didn’t hear from her soon,’ he said.

  ‘She hasn’t been at work?’

  Carmen paused with the glass halfway to her damson-stained lips.

  ‘She had taken time off. She hates that job, but it seems she hasn’t been in touch with them about returning. I was thinking, maybe you could call them. You sound just like her. I don’t want her to lose her job even if she doesn’t like it. Not because of me, of what we’ve done. They’re still paying her at the moment, but they’d have grounds to fire her if she just falls off the face of the earth.’

  ‘But why, why wouldn’t she have contacted them? Something’s happened to her. It must have.’ Carmen bit her thumb distractedly. ‘I think we should call the police,’ she said.

  Oliver shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, Carmen. Don’t you think I’d have called them if I did? I know Mercedes. She’s seething. She’s hurt and she’s angry, but that’s all. There’s so much going on that it obviously didn’t enter her mind to call. Maybe she doesn’t intend coming back. But whatever the reason, we should keep her job open for her while she’s deciding what to do. Will you call them? It would give her more time?’

  Carmen shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Oliver. It could just make things worse. What if she calls them and they discover it was all lies? Then they’ll fire her for sure.’

  ‘It’s a risk. I know that, but I think we should do what we can to keep it open for her. Mercedes is smart. If they manage to contact her, she’ll go along with it. I know her.’

  Carmen nodded and cradled her wine glass in both hands, the stem dangling between her fingers. She eyed him over the rim. ‘I suppose you hate me. You think this is all my fault?’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t done what you did, but it can’t be undone. We just have to get on with it.’

  He wondered how many drinks Carmen had had. Her eyes were slightly glassy, glittering like black gems amidst the whites of her eyes. He often thought that she possessed an almost masculine aggressiveness. He pitied the man that would become involved in a power struggle with Carmen. He was unlikely to escape unscathed and, with that in mind, he knew that she would make a better ally than an adversary.

  Her glass was almost empty. She was watching him closely, and he waited for her to speak.

  ‘I never saw you as a match,’ she said. ‘I thought Mercedes would marry a Spanish boy. There was someone …’

  She said it to provoke him. But rather than take the bait he leaned in towards her.

  ‘Naturally. We all have our history,’ he said. ‘But tell me about yours.’

  Carmen laughed and swirled the liquid in the end of her glass. ‘Ah. My history. My history is not so interesting,’ she said. She put her head back and drained the glass. Her neck was long and slender.

  ‘I doubt that.’ Oliver waited, watched her smile into the empty glass.

  Her teeth were perfectly white between her wine-stained lips, but Carmen was not beautiful. Her mouth was too wide, her lips slightly too full. She was an imperfect model of her sister and she knew it.

  ‘You made the right choice with Mercedes,’ she said.

  ‘There was never a question about choice.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ He watched her face, saw her eyes flash with annoyance.

  She leaned forward in her chair. He could see the tanned flesh of her breasts as she crossed her arms beneath them, accentuating her sexuality. Every move Carmen made was calculated. He had never met a woman so aware of her body and the power it yielded.

  ‘I saw the way you looked at me. You’re doing it now. You can’t help yourself, you’re a man.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘Do you think every man wants you?’

  She shrugged. ‘At first they do. Then they want something else, something new.’

  She was drunker than he’d thought. ‘And what do you want?’ he said.

  ‘I want another drink. How about you?’ She signalled to the waiter nearby.

  ‘I should probably get going. I’ve a meeting with a client in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, one more won’t hurt. You don’t want me drinking alone here, do you?’

  Oliver smiled as he stood up. ‘I don’t think you’d be alone for too long, Carmen.’

  ‘No? Then maybe we should go to my room. We could get them to send our drinks up.’

  She rose, walked round the table and stood too close to him. She put a finger to her lips and swayed slightly. ‘Don’t worry. This time I won’t tell anyone,’ she said.

  Oliver smiled. He could smell her perfume, the same perfume that Mer
cedes had worn, and he remembered how the scent of it had lingered. The concerned husband was the best card to play now that he had Carmen partly on side.

  ‘If it weren’t for Mercedes, I’d be tempted, but the most important thing now is to get her back.’

  Carmen reached up and he held her wrists to prevent them from snaking round his neck.

  ‘I think you’ve had a little too much to drink. You’ll regret it in the morning.’

  ‘Je ne regrette rien.’

  Carmen swayed and he put out a hand to steady her. He walked her to the lift and when the doors opened he guided her inside.

  ‘Which floor is it?’

  ‘I’ll only tell you if you come, too,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take you to your room, but then I’m going home.’

  They stood in the corridor and Carmen searched in her bag for the key. As soon as she’d swiped it in the lock and pushed the door open, Oliver said goodnight, kissed her lightly on the cheek and made his way towards the lift. He had to convince Carmen that he was serious about finding Mercedes, and sleeping with her, tempted as he was, would not do that.

  TWENTY

  Joanna was excited about Belfast. The invitation had calmed her fears about Oliver regretting spending the night with her. Mercedes turning up had served a purpose: it was a reminder to her to take things slow. He liked her, she knew that, but it would take time for him to recover from the break-up with his wife.

  When she got home, her mother was dragging a large sack down the stairs. She puffed and swiped a hand across her forehead.

  ‘What’s that?’ Joanna asked.

  Her mother took a deep breath. ‘Clothes. I’m doing a clear-out. It’s been a while. You’d be amazed at all the stuff that accumulates.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘At the rate you buy stuff, not really. Do you want a hand?’

  ‘Yeah, there are two more bags on the landing. Maybe you could run them down to the clothes bank for me later?’

  ‘No probs.’ Joanna skipped up the stairs two steps at a time to get the bags.

  ‘Where did you get to last night?’ her mother asked.

  ‘I stayed at a friend’s. Well, more than a friend actually.’

  Her mother looked up, interested. Joanna had decided to tell her about Oliver, not the full story because it would worry her, but she was doing her best to get back to how they’d been before and that meant no more secrets.

  ‘Where did you meet him, college?’

  Joanna hesitated. ‘No. He’s … he’s the man who discovered Vince’s body. I met him that night at the funeral. He gave me his number and we’ve met up a few times. His name is Oliver.’

  Her mother frowned. She hadn’t expected her to be happy about how she’d met Oliver, but it would be worse if she’d omitted it and it came out later.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to say. I suppose people do meet in the strangest circumstances. What does he do, this Oliver?’

  ‘He’s a solicitor.’

  ‘And why was he at the service – does he know the Arnolds?’

  ‘Not exactly. Not Vince anyway, but he knows the brother, Patrick. Apparently, they studied law together. Have you ever met him?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘As you can imagine, Vince wasn’t exactly taking me round introducing me to his family.’

  ‘Oliver said that Patrick was debarred from practising. He committed some kind of fraud.’

  Her mother reddened. ‘Did he? Well, like I said, I don’t know him. So, tell me about this Oliver, how old is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Older than me.’

  ‘Not married, I hope?’

  ‘No. Well, yes he was but he’s separated now.’ It was Joanna’s turn to colour.

  ‘Do you know that for certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Because he told you?’

  ‘No, because I’ve been to his house. Do you think he’d have brought me to the house if he were still living with his wife?’

  Joanna was angry. Her mother knew nothing about the situation. She had no right to question her like this. She was sorry she’d decided to say anything.

  ‘Look, just because he found Vince that doesn’t mean you have to take an instant dislike to him.’

  ‘Dislike? I don’t dislike him. I haven’t even met him. It’s you I’m worried about, Joanna. You get taken in by people sometimes.’

  ‘What? I made one bad judgement and now you think I’m likely to be taken in by every man that comes along. God, you must think I’m naïve.’ Joanna stood up and paced the room.

  ‘Joanna, you’re taking this the wrong way. Oliver might be a very nice man. I just don’t want to see you getting hurt again.’

  ‘If I get hurt, that’s my problem.’

  She was glad that she hadn’t mentioned anything about Mercedes. If her mother knew how recently they had separated she would definitely have something to say about it.

  ‘It’s this tendency of yours to go for older men. They have a lot more experience than you, Joanna. They … they know how to manipulate people.’

  ‘Like Vince Arnold, you mean. You think everyone’s like Vince Arnold, don’t you? That’s why you were so against Michael. Now I understand. All the time it was Vince that you were thinking about. Well, Oliver isn’t my father, Mum. Sure, things mightn’t work out. You take that risk in any relationship. I wish you could just give people a chance.’

  ‘I can see why you might think that. Of course, it made me cautious, but this isn’t about me, it’s about you, Joanna. It took you so long to get over Michael. I know he wasn’t married, but he was too old for you. You need someone your own age.’

  ‘I prefer older men. That’s not a crime, is it? They have more to say. And they don’t play stupid games like guys my age. I don’t set out to meet them, it just happens.’

  Joanna looked away. She could feel her mother’s eyes upon her, but she refused to return her gaze.

  ‘I’m not against you, Joanna. Please, don’t think that. I’d love you to meet someone, someone that’s going to look after you. But don’t go rushing into anything with this man. You barely know him. Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Joanna stopped chewing on the corner of her nail and looked up. Maybe her mother did only have her interests at heart. She couldn’t help but think that she was trying to turn her off Oliver because of the link to the Arnolds.

  She had been contemplating bringing up the insurance policy, but she figured she’d said enough. She didn’t know what her mother’s reaction would be to Vince leaving her the fifty thousand euro. Would she be pleased, or would it seem a buy off: the same as the money they’d offered her all those years ago for her baby.

  ‘Right, I think I’ll run those bags over to the clothes bank for you,’ Joanna told her mother. ‘Is that the lot?’

  ‘For now, yes.’

  Joanna nodded. ‘Oh, and Mum, I won’t be here for the weekend. Oliver’s taking me to Belfast. We’re leaving in the morning.’

  ‘Already? That’s a bit fast …’

  Joanna’s eyes narrowed, and her mother raised a conciliatory hand.

  ‘Okay, okay. I get it – back off. Just bear in mind what I said, love, won’t you? Don’t let your heart run away with you.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Oliver had asked Joanna to book a hotel in Belfast. The room would be in her name and he would pay for it in cash. There would be no evidence that he had ever been in the city. They’d arranged to meet at Connolly Station to take the ten o’clock train. He’d told her he had a meeting at noon, and planned to disappear to an Internet café where he would access Mercedes’s Facebook account. He wanted to be sure to leave a trail that would place her in the city.

  When they’d booked into the hotel, a spa hotel, which Joanna had got a deal on, he gave her money and told her to book herself in for whatever treatment she liked. She kissed him and asked him if he was sure and then, delighted, phoned reception to book an appointment.
He left her changing into a white robe and slippers, and took the lift to the ground floor where he asked the receptionist to direct him to an Internet café. The girl showed him a map of the city and circled the spot where the café was. He thanked her and stepped out into the crisp morning.

  Belfast was grey even in the white winter sunshine. Oliver carried a case into which he’d put a sheaf of papers along with the mobile phone that had belonged to Mercedes. As soon as he was a few hundred metres from the hotel, he took the phone out, switched it on and dialled into the voicemail. The automated voice told him there were twelve new messages. He pressed the phone to his ear to hear above the din of traffic. He heard his own voice asking Mercedes to call him. Then a number of messages from Carmen urging Mercedes to return her calls, her words so hurried that he could barely keep up with her Spanish. There was a voicemail from the HR woman in Mercedes’s job too. It had been left a few days before and he wondered whether Carmen had called her that morning. If she had, she had undoubtedly implicated herself in her sister’s disappearance.

  When he’d finished listening to the messages, he sent Carmen a text.

  No me llamas mas.

  Keep it simple, he didn’t want to run the risk of making a mistake. ‘Don’t call me anymore’ would, of course, have the opposite effect on Carmen, and so he switched the phone off again as soon as he’d sent it.

  In the Internet café, he opened up Mercedes’s Facebook account. Luckily, she had been totally open about her passwords. If you had nothing to hide, she said, why be secretive? He scrolled down through the newsfeed, stopping occasionally to click the ‘like’ button under photos that her friends had posted. He replied to two messages from work friends enquiring about her whereabouts to say that she’d taken time off for personal reasons. That should be enough to keep them at bay for now. He then sent himself a message to say how disgusted she was by him, so that the location of the message would register as Belfast. It wasn’t hard to do: he’d repeated some of her final reproaches to him. It was a message that, when he showed it to her, would truly put Carmen off the track.