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

by Tanya Farrelly

  Oliver opened his wallet and took out Mercedes’s debit card. He’d had a sudden thought. If he booked a Eurolines ticket to take Mercedes from Belfast to Glasgow, there was nothing to say that she hadn’t left the country. His heart thumped as he typed her details onto the site. He booked the ticket for two days’ time.

  He looked at his watch. He’d been gone an hour already. It was time to get rid of the mobile and get back to the hotel. He went into a newsagent’s, asked for twenty Silk Cut and ninety pounds sterling cashback. The assistant didn’t even glance at the card as he placed it in the machine. When he left the shop he dropped the cigarettes in a bin.

  He strolled down to the quays, Mercedes’s phone in his jacket pocket. When he was sure there was no one around, he leaned over the railing and dropped it in the water. In seconds it was submerged. He had to be sure there was nothing that the police could trace back to him.

  He turned and walked back in the direction of the hotel. He switched off his own phone, sure that Carmen would try to ring him too when she got the message. He walked slowly, going over his actions in his head. Had he covered everything? He thought so. There was nothing more he could do now but try to convince Carmen to call off the search for her sister.

  He thought of Joanna waiting back in the hotel room. She was a nice girl, and she’d been through a lot. He didn’t want to mess her around. Was it right that he had brought her? He hadn’t had the nerve to make the trip alone. Joanna could make him forget – at least, temporarily. There was a tremor in his hands. He needed to get it together before he got back to the hotel. He stopped off at a bar and ordered a brandy. His feet stuck to the carpet as he made his way to a darkened corner. The place reeked off stale beer. He was a killer – a person he’d have taken pleasure in sending down. Now he had covered his crime – and, he hoped, covered it well enough never to be caught. Eventually, there would be an investigation – one that he figured he would have to instigate. A concerned husband would surely report his wife missing after a number of weeks of failed contact. He sipped the brandy and considered his next move. Today was the last day anyone would have heard from Mercedes. As far as the police were concerned, she boarded a ferry for Glasgow and hadn’t been seen again.

  In a few weeks’ time it would all begin again. Carmen would get restless. Mercedes’s friends would begin to ask questions. He would have to play the role of concerned husband and report his wife missing before her sister had a chance to. It would mean keeping Carmen close – knowing her every move; ready to act before she did.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Oliver had been gone a long time. Joanna had come back from the spa expecting him to have returned, but still there was no sign. She crossed the room to look out the window, but there was no view, just a yard where some cars were parked. She drew the curtains and bounced onto the king-size bed. She was in no hurry to get dressed; he would be back soon, and her intention was to seduce him.

  When he returned he seemed edgy. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think that would take so long.’

  He kissed her and she tasted alcohol. He pulled off his tie, shrugged out of his suit jacket and threw it on a chair.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, I’m going to have a shower. I need to get out of this suit. Makes me feel I’m still working. You stay right there.’ He pulled her to him, and kissed her again, but tension showed in his face.

  She wondered if the meeting hadn’t gone so well. He’d definitely been drinking. She took off the robe, slipped into the sexy red underwear she’d bought for the occasion and lay on top of the bed. She heard him run the water in the bathroom as she waited for him to return. When he came out, he stood there for a moment and looked at her.

  ‘I want to remember you just like this,’ he said.

  For some reason his words sent a cold wave through her. ‘Remember? You don’t have to remember. I’m here right now.’ She laughed, nervous.

  He leaned over her on the bed, took both her wrists and raised her arms above her head. She was trapped now. He could do what he liked to her. For a moment she felt panicked; she didn’t know him that well after all.

  ‘Oliver.’

  He silenced her, his lips on hers, tongue probing. Then he released her wrists, and ran his hands over her body, exploring. She wondered how many lovers he’d had and guessed that the answer was many. He kissed her neck, her breasts – examining every crevice. He put his head between her legs and she opened them wider lifting herself up to him.

  ‘Jesus.’

  He knew how to touch a woman.

  Despite herself she thought of Mercedes. He had done these things to her, touched her like this. And she, what had she done to him, for him? In another place, she thought she’d have been free of Oliver’s former lover, but instead she felt an affinity with the other woman. When she sat astride him, eyes closed, moving against him, she imagined she was Mercedes and the thought shattered any inhibition she might have felt. Mercedes was beneath her skin, closer now than she was to Oliver, and it was almost with violence that she moved on top of him, hair swinging wildly in his face until they climaxed at almost the same time. Breathless, she looked down at him and laughed. He brushed her hair back.

  ‘God, I’ll have to take you away more often,’ he said. He ran a hand over his face. He was soaked in sweat.

  Joanna rolled off him and, laughing, padded to the bathroom. ‘Won’t be long,’ she said.

  She stood under the buzzing fluorescent light and examined herself in the mirror. Mascara was smudged beneath her eyes. Her face was flushed and her hair was charged with electricity, so that she resembled something wild. She did the best she could to restore normality, but her make-up was in her bag in the room, and so she dampened the corner of a towel and rubbed at the creases beneath her eyes where the make-up had settled, and dampened her hair down with water. When she opened the bathroom door, he stirred, lying as she had left him on the bed.

  ‘God, I was almost asleep. What time is it anyway?’

  Joanna crossed to the window and pulled one of the curtains back to check her watch. It was four in the afternoon and already the light outside had faded. She switched on a light by the bed. ‘I guess we should get something to eat, I’m starving.’

  ‘Mmm, in a minute.’ He pulled her into the crook of his arm.

  An hour later, they were walking the city streets. The edginess from earlier had left him and he held her hand as they walked. She guessed he wasn’t afraid of meeting anyone he knew in this city. She hoped that in the future they could do this in Dublin. Her mother must have felt the same when she’d met Vince Arnold. They would never have had the opportunity to walk hand in hand like other young couples. Instead, she’d had to settle for clandestine meetings in hotels. It must have made her feel frustrated, being hidden away; a shadow in the background of Vince’s life.

  They strolled through the streets, glancing in shop windows, looking for a good place to eat.

  ‘It feels a million miles from home here, doesn’t it? I don’t just mean because of the red post-boxes or buses, if you listen to the people. Some of them have such accents it could nearly be another language they’re speaking.’

  ‘You know, a few years ago, a group of young activists were arrested for painting the post-boxes in the north back to their original green,’ he told her.

  Joanna laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘They said they were doing An Post a favour for when the country would be united. It’s not an impossibility, you know; if enough people north of the border wanted it, it could happen. It’s in the Good Friday Agreement.’

  ‘Can’t see it ever happening though, can you? I mean it would have huge economic implications.’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t rule anything out.’

  He stopped to look down a side street off the main thoroughfare. ‘Let’s go down here for a minute. There used to be a little shop here … I want to see if it’s still … yep, there it is.’ He tugged at her hand and brought her down th
e narrow street where a faded sign read ‘Harry Hall’s Bookshop’.

  Oliver ducked through the door and Joanna followed. Instantly, they were met by the musty smell of old books Joanna had loved since childhood. There were old and not so old books – covers varying from faded pink and green hardbacks to the creased but still glossy covers of recently read romance novels. Oliver ran his fingers along the books’ spines clearly in search of something, while Joanna allowed her eyes to wander across the handwritten signs that differentiated genres. She wandered over to the crime fiction section and took down a book by John Connolly. Her eyes scanned the shelves and soon she’d amassed a pile of books: Hughes, Hunt, Nesbø, Le Carré. She took them to the cash register where Oliver had already finished making his purchase, and the old man at the desk smiled as she complimented the range of books the small shop had.

  When the old man had carefully placed the books in a red-and-white striped bag, they left. Oliver stopped outside the door of the shop and pulled a book out of his own bag.

  ‘I got you something,’ he said.

  Joanna looked at the cover, where a naked woman whose head was unseen sat in a Victorian armchair by a window. The title was Henry and June by Anaïs Nin.

  ‘I think you’ll like it,’ he told her.

  Joanna thanked him, looked quickly at the blurb on the back of the book and put it in the striped bag with the others.

  That night, after they’d made love again and Oliver slept, Joanna slipped from beneath the covers, sat on the toilet seat beneath the buzzing fluorescent light and read of Anaïs Nin’s obsession with the writer Henry Miller and his enigmatic wife. She likened it to her curiosity about Mercedes and wondered if Oliver was aware of it. Is that why he had bought her the book? She wished they could stay in Belfast. Oliver had seemed more at ease as the day wore on, and she liked him like that.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Oliver had been home less than an hour when the doorbell rang. He’d put Joanna in a taxi at the station knowing that there was every chance Carmen Hernandez would turn up. Now, she was on the doorstep struggling with her umbrella. When she’d managed to put it down, she walked past him into the hall. Rain dripped from the umbrella and left dark spots on the carpet surrounding her feet, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Where have you been? I spent all of yesterday calling you.’

  ‘I thought I told you not to come to the house.’

  ‘Well, I got a message.’ Carmen looked around for somewhere to put the umbrella. He took it from her, opened the front door again and left it outside. Rain blew in on an easterly wind. Carmen lifted her hair from beneath her jacket collar and threw it over her shoulder. He closed the front door and turned to face her.

  ‘You mean from Mercedes?’

  ‘Of course Mercedes. Why else would it matter?’

  He spread his hands – tried to look eager. ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘Nothing, just that I shouldn’t call her.’

  ‘What – that’s it? Nothing else?’

  ‘Naturally, I tried calling her immediately, but she’d switched off again. I tried I don’t know how many times. Always the same – the customer you are calling … blah … blah.’

  She followed him into the living room where he’d got a fire going when he’d come in. It spit and crackled, the flames throwing shadows round the room.

  ‘Well, as it turns out, you’re not the only one to get a message.’

  ‘What – you heard from her too?’

  ‘Mm-mm. Apparently, she’s in Belfast.’

  ‘Belfast? How do you know? Did she say that?’

  ‘No. She sent me a message on Facebook. She probably didn’t think about the location coming up. I’m sure she’d prefer to have us going crazy wondering where she is.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘How much she despised me. You can read it if you want. I know you probably won’t believe me otherwise.’

  Carmen took her jacket off and hung it on the back of a chair. She didn’t sit down, but crossed the room to stand before the fire. ‘What, and you didn’t think to call me? What have you been doing? I’ve been trying to contact you since yesterday afternoon.’ Her tone was sharp, impatient.

  ‘In court. I’ve got a big case on at the moment. I crashed out last night as soon as I got in. You should have left a message. I’d have called.’

  ‘When? Next week? Besides, your phone’s off.’

  ‘Is it?’ He took the phone from his pocket, made a show of switching it on.

  Carmen shivered and moved closer to the fire. ‘Look at me. I’m completely wet. I hate this country. I don’t know how Mercedes could choose to live here.’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘You get used to it.’

  She slipped out of her shoes and wriggled her feet. ‘Maybe I could change into something of Mercedes’s?’ she said.

  Oliver hesitated. ‘She took most of her clothes, but there are a few things in the wardrobe.’

  ‘I’ll go up and take a look,’ she said.

  Oliver put a hand on her arm to stop her. What if she saw something she shouldn’t? He couldn’t think of anything offhand, but it was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take. Carmen looked up at him, curious.

  ‘Stay here. I’ll get you something,’ he said.

  As Oliver climbed the stairs, he thought of all the clothes he’d taken to the charity shop. He was glad that he had left some of them. Carmen would see it as a reason for Mercedes to return. He opened the wardrobe. The short silk skirt hung just inside the door. The fabric slid between his fingers, cool against his skin. He took it out, then decided against it, and instead took a pair of jeans from a hanger. He closed the wardrobe and went downstairs.

  Carmen was sitting at the fire. She had peeled off her stockings and her bare legs were outstretched. If he narrowed his eyes a little, she could have been Mercedes sitting there. She looked up as he entered.

  ‘I hope these are okay,’ he said.

  She stood up and he handed her the jeans. She started to unzip her skirt and he turned away before he heard the fabric fall to the floor.

  ‘So chivalrous,’ Carmen said.

  He ignored her sarcasm, waited until he had heard her zip up the jeans before he turned back to her. ‘Can I get you something warm to drink? Hot chocolate? Or whisky maybe, I wouldn’t mind one myself.’

  Carmen shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  They sat opposite each other and sipped the hot whisky. He’d put an extra shot in each and he wondered if it might go to her head. Carmen seemed calmer now. She cradled the hot mug and stared into the flames.

  ‘I should never have told her. It was stupid,’ she said.

  Oliver nodded. ‘You know I won’t disagree with that. So why did you?’

  Carmen shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know.’ His voice was gentle, coaxing.

  She looked at him, eyes glittering black in the firelight. ‘Don’t you know? I’ve always wanted what Mercedes had. When we were children, Mercedes always seemed to get everything she wanted. They didn’t notice me. It was always Mercedes. She was the best at everything.’

  ‘Who didn’t notice?’

  ‘Anyone that mattered. At school she always got the highest grades. She was the most talented, the most beautiful.’

  Carmen stopped talking.

  ‘But you’re beautiful,’ he said. He watched her reaction, saw that his comment had disarmed her.

  ‘But you want Mercedes,’ she said.

  ‘True. But you’re different, and you should be different. I don’t know what it’s like to experience rivalry like that. There was just me. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters.’

  Carmen put her mug on the fireplace. She leaned forward in her seat. ‘How old were you when your mother left?’

  ‘Seven, almost eight.’

  ‘And you never heard from her again?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘No. I spent years wondering what had h
appened to her. Then I just stopped. She’d walked out, so why would I want to find her?’ He stood up. He knew that Carmen had heard his history from Mercedes, but it was not a story that he felt like retelling. He didn’t want or need Carmen’s sympathy. ‘Look, when you’re finished, I’ll give you a lift back to the hotel. I don’t want to risk having you here. Imagine how it would look if she did turn up.’

  ‘Do you want her to?’

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’ He pretended to feel needled.

  Carmen put her shoes on and stood up. She stood close to him; put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Oliver. We don’t have to be enemies.’

  He didn’t answer. He had succeeded in softening her. It was a start, something that would have to count in the weeks of Mercedes’s supposed silence. It was only after he’d dropped her off at the hotel that he remembered he hadn’t shown her the Facebook message. It surprised him that she hadn’t insisted on seeing it. Still, that would keep for another day.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Joanna pulled up outside Oliver’s house and cut the engine. He wasn’t expecting her, and she was relieved to see his car in the driveway. Lights shone in both the hallway and behind the closed curtains in the front room, and she imagined him and the kind of welcome she might get before she’d even undone her seatbelt. In Oliver, she’d found a kind of sanctuary. She felt that, no matter what she told him, he wouldn’t judge her. And it was with this feeling of jubilant anticipation that she stepped from the car and arrived at his front door.

  Joanna raised her hand and was about to ring the doorbell when the sound of voices inside made her quickly withdraw. She crouched closer to the door to listen; careful, as she did so, to keep out of view of the hall window through which she might be spotted. The first voice she heard was Oliver’s, but she couldn’t make out what he said. The voice that answered was a woman’s. Then there was a bump and a door closed muting the voices within before she could make out what they said. She’d heard enough, however, to know that Mercedes had returned.