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

by Tanya Farrelly

  Stepping back from the front door, Joanna glanced at the window. The curtains were drawn, but a light shone through a slight gap where they hadn’t been closed tight, and she ducked as she passed the hall window and stepped into the sodden grass beneath the sitting room window. Slowly, she uncurled her body, so that her eyes were just above the level of the windowsill. She was hidden from the view of passers-by with the help of a hedge that ran the length of the garden wall, but from Oliver’s neighbours’ garden she would be clearly visible. She prayed that no one would see her peeking through the window into his front room.

  The chink in the curtain offered her a restricted view. She saw the woman she had seen coming out of the house that day pass the window and move towards the fireplace, but she couldn’t see Oliver. She strained to hear words between them, but the woman appeared to be alone in the room. She stretched her hands towards the fire. Instinctively, Joanna reached for her camera. Oliver must have re-entered the room then, because the woman said something, then reached round to the back of her skirt, unzipped it and let it fall on the floor at her feet. The woman smiled; Joanna raised the camera, adjusted the zoom and clicked the shutter once, but she didn’t see what happened next. Instead, her attention was wrenched from the scene unfolding beyond the glass to the something that had brushed up against her legs in the dark. Startled, Joanna jumped backwards, knocking over a potted plant as she did so. She dived for cover behind Oliver’s car as the disgruntled black cat miaowed its disapproval after her retreating form.

  Joanna could hear her heart thump as she waited for the front door to open, but minutes passed and nothing happened. The cat hopped onto the neighbours’ wall and, bored now by its findings in Oliver’s garden, it vanished down the other side. Gripping her camera, thankful that she hadn’t dropped it in fright, she rose and made her way, crouching, along Oliver’s car towards the garden gate. She kept one eye on the window to ensure that nobody had looked out through the curtains, but they remained as before; the chink revealing nothing, only to those who put their faces or lens to the glass – something that she now had no desire to do.

  Having reached her car without being apprehended, Joanna fumbled the keys into the ignition and drove away from the kerb. Only when she was out of view of his house did she turn the headlights on. It didn’t take much to make sense of what she had seen through Oliver’s window. She wondered when Mercedes had returned, and when he would tell her. Anger caused a pulsing behind her temples; mostly, it was anger at her own naivety. Her mother was right: it had been too soon to get involved with him. Sure, he’d said it was over, he might have even thought it was, but it was her willingness to become involved with him that annoyed her most. She thought she’d learnt something from her experience with Michael, but sadly she’d proven that theory wrong.

  The sight of Mercedes undoing her skirt and then standing in her stockings by the fire had caused her stomach to lurch. She was glad that she hadn’t seen what happened next. She didn’t need to. Damn Oliver anyway; he’d completely led her on.

  How could she be sure that he’d even told the truth about his wife leaving him? She might simply have been away, and he’d taken the opportunity to have a fling. Though he wouldn’t be that stupid surely – bringing her to the house for the neighbours to see? No – it was more likely that he and Mercedes had reconciled despite his protests. Maybe her mother was right: he was no better than Michael with his false promises.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to think of Michael in a long time. She’d heard that he’d got married just a year after they’d split up, and her only feeling was one of pity for the woman that had got involved with him. He wouldn’t be faithful to any woman. He just didn’t have the capacity for it. She remembered how he’d denied it, talked himself round in rings until he realized that there was no absolution for what he’d done. She’d read his emails; it wasn’t something she was proud of, but when he’d started sitting up half the night on his computer she’d begun to suspect that something was wrong. And then she’d seen them, the emails that had been sent back and forth between them – a woman that he’d met in an Internet chat room – a woman that he had arranged to book into a hotel with in Brussels, a trip that he’d told her was work-related. It was pathetic, but she was glad that she’d found out before it made her life pathetic, too. She’d told him never to contact her again. He’d sent her a text message six months later, which she’d promptly deleted, and didn’t give him a thought again. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She wondered, sometimes, what he was doing, with the voyeuristic curiosity that people reserve for past loves, but it was just that. She had no desire ever to see him again.

  She was relieved when she got home to find that her mother was out. The urge to confide in her would be too much, and she didn’t want to prove her right, not because her mother would glean any kind of satisfaction from it, far from it, but because she didn’t want to admit her own foolishness.

  Joanna took off her coat and flung it on the sofa. She needed to distract herself; she wasn’t going to wallow. The weekend in Belfast had been ideal; that was what hurt so much. She’d had a glimpse of what life could be like with Oliver. No, not with that Oliver – but with the person she’d thought he was.

  She sighed and picked up her camera. She had rolls of film to develop – those pictures she’d taken at the canal bank the day that he’d shown her where he’d found the body. Had it only been two weeks before? Rachel Arnold’s visit really had turned her life upside down.

  In the darkroom she rolled on the film, then carefully removed it from the camera and began slowly and meticulously loading it into the spiral. She placed it in the development tank, quickly added the developer and turned it upside down a number of times. It was a tricky process that had taken her months and cost her many good photos to perfect. She thought about the pictures on the film inside the tank, the stark shots of the canal she’d taken, reeds to the foreground, dark body of water beyond – the lock that Oliver Molloy had crossed the morning he’d found her father’s body. She emptied the developer from the tank and repeated the procedure with the stop and fixer solutions. When enough time had passed she lifted the lid and ran the tap to wash the film. She sat on her stool by the tank and thought of the running water cleaning the solution from the spool, washing clear the image of Oliver Molloy’s enigmatic wife. The photographer in her wanted to see the shot – the image stolen. She didn’t doubt it would be an interesting one.

  Ten minutes passed. Carefully, she removed the spiral from the tank and began to unfurl the film. The canal bank shots were there – and the shot of Mercedes. She was turned side-profile; Joanna remembered her exact position: one hand reaching round to the back of her skirt. If it hadn’t been for that cat, she’d have found it hard to drag herself away from the window – an onlooker at a car crash about to witness carnage but unable to turn away from the scene. It was as well she hadn’t witnessed it; the images were clear enough in her head without having the physical evidence to torment her. Gently she hung the unfurled film, attached weights to the end and left it to dry. Printing would be another job, one that would require more time and uncompromised attention. She stifled a yawn, removed her gloves and, for that evening at least, closed the door on the darkroom.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Oliver didn’t have to avoid the phone anymore now that he’d spoken to Carmen Hernandez, and so when it rang he picked it up without hesitation.

  ‘Hello, would it be possible to speak to Mercedes Hernandez, please?’

  Fear. A momentary pause. ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘This is Caroline Clarke, HR manager at ITS. Is that Oliver Molloy – Mercedes’s husband?’ The tone bright but officious.

  ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’

  ‘We’re just calling to check in with Mercedes, Mr Molloy, to find out when she intends returning to work. Is she available?’

  Mind racing. Calling to check in. Hadn’t Carmen called them? He’d have to play innocen
t, feign surprise that Mercedes had not been in touch with the company. ‘I’m afraid not. She’s actually gone away for a few days. I’m sorry, but didn’t she call you? She said she was going to do it several days ago.’

  A pause, shuffling of paper, an elongated ‘Noooo. I’m afraid we haven’t spoken to Mercedes in a number of weeks, Mr Molloy. Is there a mobile number we could get her on, perhaps? It’s just, we need to know when she intends coming back to work.’

  Carmen. He’d asked her to call them. Why hadn’t she done it? ‘Yes, yes … just a moment and I’ll give it to you.’ He called out Mercedes’s number, thought of the phone at the bottom of the water. ‘The number you have called is not reachable.’ Would never be reachable again. ‘I’m very sorry about this, I’m sure she meant to call you. She hasn’t been herself lately.’ Depression, anxiety – common reasons why people disappeared. What luck that Mercedes had taken time off before it happened, that she’d been to the doctor and had got a sick note saying she was not fit for work due to stress. It wasn’t true, well it was – partly. She hated that job, had decided over the Christmas holidays that she wasn’t going back. He’d persuaded her to take some time out instead; it was his idea that she get the sick note. She could continue to get paid while she looked for another job; it would give her time to decide what it was that she wanted to do. She could get away with it for months, he’d told her.

  ‘Okay, Mr Molloy, thank you very much. And when you speak to your wife, could you mention that I called, in case I don’t manage to get through to her. It’s very important that she contacts us directly. We haven’t had a doctor’s certificate from her in over a week. I know that you brought one in previously but I’m afraid she must bring the next one in herself. Company policy, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Okay, Yes, I’ll tell her.’

  Now what? Mercedes’s doctor had given her the certificate for a week. He’d prescribed her pills to help with anxiety. Oliver had taken a chance on requesting the second medical certificate on her behalf. The doctor was reluctant. He’d sat the other side of the mahogany desk and asked Oliver how Mercedes was doing. Oliver told him that she was better, that the pills were helping but she felt she needed more time off. Grudgingly, the doctor tore a sheet from the pad on his desk and extended her sick leave by a further two weeks.

  ‘I generally have to see the patient,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll give you the note, but if she needs anything further, she’ll have to make an appointment herself.’

  ‘Of course, I understand.’

  Oliver had taken the note, folded it and put it in his jacket pocket. He’d hoped the doctor hadn’t noticed the slow panic rising inside him. When he got home, he’d searched Mercedes’s bag for the small jar of Xanax and took one himself. Those little white pills had got him through several bad moments in the past few weeks.

  Carmen. She had said she would phone the job. The question was why hadn’t she? Had she been clever enough to know that he was trying to implicate her – did she sense that something wasn’t right? He needed to find out. After tomorrow there would be no point in Carmen calling them. Mercedes would supposedly be on the ferry from Belfast – a call from a number in the Republic would only complicate things. He’d tell her to leave it be. The fact that they’d both heard from her and that she was okay meant that she could take care of it herself.

  He thought of Carmen’s visit the night before – the somewhat mellowed attitude, her conciliatory tone as she left. ‘We don’t have to be enemies.’ What could they be – allies? Had she started to consider the possibilities that her sister’s absence presented, better still, that the end of their marriage posed – or was it a ploy? Why hadn’t she insisted on seeing the Facebook message that he’d claimed Mercedes had sent him? How had that become suddenly so unimportant? One thing was for certain, he would have to be careful around Carmen. He had set out to placate her, to get her on side, but how could he be sure she hadn’t the same objective in mind? Mercedes’s sister was sharp – one wrong move and she would be onto him. Carmen would have her own agenda, of that he was sure – but if he misread it, if she succeeded in leading him down a false track, it would mean the end of everything.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘You can’t deny it, Angela. Your signature is right here on the form.’

  Joanna heard the voices as soon as she entered the hall. They hadn’t heard her come in, and she crept close to the living room door to listen.

  ‘I want to know how long you’d been back in touch with him and how? Was that the first time you’d seen him?’

  A mocking exclamation. ‘What? Do you think we were carrying on behind your back all those years?’

  ‘Come on, Angela, just tell me the truth. You’ve nothing to gain from hiding anything, do you? There’s no point in one-upmanship. And besides, what’s Joanna going to think when she finds out you’ve lied to her?’

  ‘Lied to me about what?’ Whatever it was they were talking about this time, Joanna wanted to hear it directly.

  The two women looked up, startled, when she appeared in the doorway. Something akin to satisfaction crossed Rachel’s face.

  ‘Joanna, I didn’t hear you come in,’ her mother said.

  ‘Evidently.’ Joanna looked from one woman to the other. ‘What’s going on?’

  Rachel Arnold waved a piece of paper at Joanna.

  ‘Let me deal with this,’ her mother said, angrily.

  Joanna took the paper from Rachel’s hand before her mother had a chance to intervene. It was a form. ‘Change of Beneficiary’ the title read. ‘What’s this?’

  As she asked the question she scanned down the page, saw her own name and details written in an unfamiliar hand. She knew before her mother said anything that it was connected to the insurance policy Oliver had told her about. At the end of the paper, two signatures – the first: Vincent Arnold’s, and the second, her mother’s. She looked up.

  ‘Mum?’

  Her mother waved a hand as though it were no big deal. ‘Your father made you a beneficiary to his insurance policy.’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’ Joanna glanced at the form again. ‘But this was only three months ago. Why didn’t you tell me? I don’t mean about the money – I don’t care about that. I asked you straight out if you’d had any contact with him over the years, and you downright denied it.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t, not over the years.’

  ‘You saw him three months ago – you signed this.’ Joanna waved the form before her mother in anger. ‘I don’t see any reason for you not to have told me that when we talked about it, when you told me about him.’

  Rachel Arnold looked at Angela expectantly. Her mother cast about her looking for something to say.

  ‘I should have, I suppose. It didn’t seem relevant at the time. I … when you told me, I wasn’t thinking straight.’ This was directed at Rachel Arnold. ‘Vince was in touch. He phoned me one afternoon, said he wanted to talk to me about Joanna. I didn’t want to meet him; it had been a long time. I didn’t want to dredge it all up again. He insisted; said it was important, that if I didn’t meet him, he’d contact Joanna himself. Naturally, that was the last thing I wanted, so I agreed to meet.’

  ‘Where?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Here, one morning when Joanna was at college. He’d brought that with him.’ She indicated towards the form in Joanna’s hand. ‘He said he wanted to make you a beneficiary to his life insurance, Joanna. I asked him if he was sick; why else would he turn up after all these years talking about life insurance. He laughed and said no, it was nothing like that.’

  ‘So what was it like exactly?’ Rachel’s tone, impatient now.

  ‘He said he was sorry for what had happened, for what he’d done. He wanted to do something, anything, that might make up for it.’ Angela’s words were directed at Joanna.

  ‘Did he explain why? I mean it seems a little strange, doesn’t it, that after all those years he’d suddenly developed a conscience?’ Joanna said.

&n
bsp; Her mother shook her head. ‘Naturally, I asked him that. He said he’d been thinking about it, and about you, Joanna.’ She turned to Rachel. ‘The girl, he called her, didn’t even remember her name. It was too late to make up for things, Vince knew that – but he figured that some day, when the time came, he could contribute something.’

  Rachel looked from one to the other of them. ‘So three months ago he changed his insurance policy and now he’s dead. It doesn’t seem right, does it? Like he’d somehow tempted the gods.’

  Angela nodded. ‘That night, when you came to the house, the first thing I thought was suicide. That he must have come here to put his affairs in order.’

  ‘Insurance companies don’t pay out on suicides,’ Joanna said.

  Her mother nodded. ‘I thought of that then; it wouldn’t make sense. And Vince wasn’t stupid; he’d have been aware of that. No, if that were his intention he could have just given me a cheque for you, or deposited the money in your account.’

  ‘He didn’t have any money,’ said Rachel.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Vince was broke. He’d gambled everything away – there was nothing to give.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Joanna could see that this news had taken her mother by surprise. But then there was no reason why Angela would have known anything about Vince’s finances.

  ‘Nothing. He’d borrowed money, he owed several creditors, and not all of them legitimate either.’

  ‘Did you tell this to the police?’ Joanna asked.

  Rachel nodded. ‘They know about it.’

  ‘And they don’t suspect, I mean if he owed a lot of money? There’s the possibility that something might have happened to him, isn’t there? That one of these, these loan sharks …’

  ‘They’ve already said they don’t suspect anyone else was involved. It was simply a tragic accident.’