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

by Tanya Farrelly

  ‘Well, there you have it,’ Joanna’s mother stated. ‘They know what they’re talking about I’m sure.’

  ‘But what about the insurance policy?’ Joanna insisted. She turned to Rachel. ‘You said before, it seems an odd thing that Vince decided to change his policy just months ago—’

  Joanna’s phone went before she could finish her sentence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pulling the phone from her pocket.

  Oliver Molloy’s name flashed on the screen. She pressed the reject button and put the phone on silent. Distracted, she turned back to her mother.

  Angela had spread her hands. ‘It’s a coincidence,’ she said. ‘Of course you could say it looks strange, but life is full of strange coincidences. You two make it sound as though you’re looking for some kind of mystery to solve. Look, Rachel, there’s nothing else I can tell you, like you say, it’s all there. He added Joanna to the policy, and I witnessed it. That’s it. Not good news for you, I suppose, you’ve lost a substantial sum of money, but it’s far less than what my daughter deserves.’

  Rachel’s voice was even. ‘I don’t begrudge Joanna the money. If he’d discussed it with me, I’d have signed that form myself. He didn’t need to come to you.’

  Angela raised her head defiantly. ‘So why did he then?’

  Rachel sighed. ‘Don’t play games, Angela.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to see me … to …’

  ‘Bit late for that, don’t you think? Vince made his choice years ago. It’s obvious I’ve wasted my time coming here.’

  Angela looked as though she were about to make some retort and then stopped.

  ‘Mum, if there’s anything else you’ve not told me, I’d like to hear it. I don’t care about Vince’s money. If you want it, Rachel, you can have it. We can forget he ever amended that form. I’ve got along fine without it up till now.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘He wanted you to have it, Joanna. I want you to have it.’

  Angela gave Rachel a look, spread her hands and crossed the room to show that the meeting was over. ‘There is nothing else,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you both everything.’

  After Joanna had shown Rachel Arnold out, she rounded on her mother. ‘Why all the lies, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, please, Joanna, haven’t we just had this conversation?’

  ‘You could have told me though – about the insurance policy. As it happens, I already knew. Oliver told me.’

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘The man I’m seeing, the one who found …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, but what’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘Patrick Arnold asked him to take a look over the policy, to make sure there was nothing amiss, nothing that the insurance company could latch onto to get out of paying.’

  ‘Patrick asked him?’

  ‘Yeah, they know each other from years back …’

  Angela nodded, but chewed her lip distractedly. ‘Well, let’s hope that will be an end to it,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of hearing about the whole thing.’ She went to leave the room, but then turned when she’d reached the doorway. ‘And, Joanna, I really would appreciate if you kept your distance from Rachel Arnold. She’d like nothing better than to make trouble between us.’

  Joanna didn’t answer. Her phone had started up again, vibrating silently in her pocket.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Oliver had phoned Joanna twice the night before but she still hadn’t called him back. He’d texted her too, a quick ‘everything okay?’ message, but not a word in reply. He sat down at his desk and looked out at the traffic crawling along the quays and decided to try once more. Clearly, there was something up, probably related to the Arnolds.

  The phone rang a number of times before he was greeted with a rather curt ‘hello’.

  ‘Hey. You’re a hard woman to catch. Did you get my messages?’

  There was a pause before she breathed ‘yes’ down the line. It was matter-of-fact and she didn’t add anything to it. Something had changed in her tone. He didn’t know what it was but, curious, he continued.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to call before; things have been a bit crazy, but I was wondering if you’d like to meet for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, if you’re busy, we can do it another time …’

  A pause. ‘No – that’s all right. What time?’

  ‘Say seven o’clock? There’s a nice little Italian place by the canal, Nona Valentina. Do you know it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She wasn’t exactly talkative, maybe she was in the middle of something. ‘Is that okay then – seven o’clock?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay, I’ll see you then.’

  Sound of the dial tone as she hung up. Oliver looked at the phone, puzzled. Something must definitely have happened to put her in such a strange mood. She’d barely said a word. He wondered if she’d changed her mind. Maybe she’d decided he was too old. But they’d had a good time in Belfast, hadn’t they? She couldn’t have changed her mind as quick as all that. No, it was probably about Vince Arnold.

  Oliver looked at his watch. It was coming on for five. There was still time to go home, shower and get changed. He picked up his keys, locked the office and made his way out to join the steady stream of people making their way home. Whatever it was that was bothering Joanna, he’d make her forget it.

  Dressed in jeans, white shirt and a navy linen blazer, he entered the restaurant. He’d splashed on a good amount of the Prada cologne that Mercedes had bought him for Christmas, and the way that the waitress was smiling at him he figured that he must have made some impression.

  ‘Table for two, please?’

  He followed the Italian girl to a table by the window.

  ‘You would like something to drink or you want to wait?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll wait, thank you.’

  The girl inclined her head briefly and smiled, a dimple showing at the left corner of her dark red mouth. He watched her retreat, hips swaying hypnotically in her tight black skirt, and he couldn’t help but think of Carmen Hernandez. She had the same sultry looks, dark hair curling to her shoulders.

  Only two other tables in the restaurant were occupied: at one, two middle-aged women were deep in conversation, while at the other an elderly couple ate in silence, looking as if they’d run out of things to say some years before.

  Oliver looked out the window. A man jogged past, breath streaming in the icy air as he made his way along the bank. It reminded him of the morning he’d found Vince Arnold’s body, and he wondered if it was a good idea to have chosen somewhere so close to the scene. He hadn’t really been thinking. It was close to home, and he hoped that Joanna would want to come back to the house with him after.

  A few minutes later, he saw Joanna’s red Peugeot pull into a parking space by the bank. She got out, wrapped her scarf tightly round her and hurried across the road, unaware of being watched. When she entered the restaurant a moment later, Oliver noted how serious she looked. She glanced around and, seeing him, she made her way across to the table. He stood up and kissed her on the cheek, but she didn’t smile.

  ‘It’s good to see you. You look great,’ he said.

  She busied herself taking off her coat and scarf and draped them across the back of her chair.

  ‘How’ve have you been?’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, busy.’

  Just then the waitress appeared with menus and reiterated her offer of drinks.

  ‘A bottle of house red, I think?’ He looked at Joanna.

  She nodded. ‘Sure, that’s fine.’ She picked up the menu and began to scan it.

  He had the feeling that she didn’t want to meet his eyes, and he wondered again if she had changed her mind about seeing him. He decided to come straight to the point. ‘You seem preoccupied. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I don’t know, is it? I was surprised when you called, I thought maybe your wife had come back.’ Her
tone was defiant.

  ‘Mercedes … no. Why would you have thought that?’ Suddenly he understood. She must have seen Carmen at the house. It would explain why she hadn’t answered his calls, why she was acting so cold now. He leaned forward in his chair and looked directly at her. ‘Okay, look, Mercedes did come by. She came over to pick up some of her things, but that’s not why I didn’t call you. I was busy with a case.’

  ‘So you had a chance to talk then, sort things out?’

  ‘We talked, yes, but that’s all. Nothing’s changed. We’re not getting back together. In fact, Mercedes made it quite clear that that wasn’t what she wanted.’

  ‘Did she?’

  Oliver leaned forward in his chair. Her attitude was beginning to irk him. He wondered exactly what she had seen. He’d prefer if she’d just come out and say it.

  ‘You saw Mercedes at the house, didn’t you? That’s why you’re being like this, but I assure you I was going to tell you. I invited you here for dinner, Joanna, because I wanted to see you. I’m not in the habit of spending time with people that mean nothing to me.’

  ‘She called by for her things, nothing else?’

  ‘I told you, that’s it.’

  ‘Funny, because I called by on Wednesday night and I saw her … Mercedes, she was standing by the fire, undressing. Did she leave you at all, Oliver, or did you think you’d just have a little fun while your wife was away on a trip. Is that it?’

  ‘No …’

  The waitress appeared with the wine, saving him from giving an immediate answer. Joanna stood.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll be needing that,’ she said, turning to the girl.

  ‘It’s okay, just put it here,’ Oliver told her. ‘Joanna, please, I can understand why you’re upset, but just give me a minute to explain.’

  She was still standing. ‘Go on then.’

  He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. He glanced around the room. ‘At least sit down for a minute.’

  Reluctantly, she did so.

  ‘You remember what it was like on Wednesday evening?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Well, you were out in it, so I assume you remember it was raining?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mercedes had walked from the bus. She was soaked when she arrived, and I went upstairs to get her something to wear. She took off her wet clothes in front of the fire. But obviously you felt you’d seen enough at that point not to stick around to see what happened next.’

  Joanna took a sip of wine. ‘What – you expect me to believe that?’

  Oliver spread his hands. ‘It’s true, Joanna. Nothing happened that night. She got changed, we talked and she collected some of her things. End of.’

  Joanna didn’t answer.

  ‘Look, if you don’t believe me, come back to the house right now and I’ll show you. I was going to invite you back anyway – I’d hardly be doing that if my wife was at home now, would I?’

  Joanna sighed. He could see that she wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.

  ‘I’m not lying, Joanna. I swear. Nothing happened – in fact, nothing has happened between Mercedes and me for quite some time. But if you don’t believe me, maybe it’s best that we forget the whole thing.’

  The waitress was watching them from behind the counter. She hadn’t dared approach to take their order.

  ‘I was sure you’d sorted things out,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Well, we didn’t. How did you see anyway?’

  ‘I heard voices and I looked through the window.’

  ‘You looked through the window?’

  She turned red. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you usually go around spying through people’s windows?’

  ‘No, look, can you blame me for being suspicious? There was a woman undressing in your living room.’

  He shook his head. ‘Which you wouldn’t have seen had you not been snooping.’ He could see she was on the point of getting up to go again, so he stood before she had a chance to do so. ‘Look, there’s no point in continuing this conversation. Either you choose to believe me or you don’t. I’m not going to spend the evening arguing about it. Come back to the house with me now and we can settle this – or don’t. I like you, Joanna, but I’m not about to beg.’ He signalled to the waitress to pay for the wine. ‘We’ll take this with us,’ he said, lifting the uncorked bottle.

  Joanna put on her coat. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Show me.’

  He followed her out into the night.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Joanna awoke, she found herself alone in Oliver Molloy’s bed. She sat up, looked at her watch and found that it was just after nine o’clock. She thought of the events of the night before. She’d been unsure about going back to the house with him, but she’d wanted to see for herself that Mercedes had moved out. He’d led her upstairs as soon as they’d got in, flung open the wardrobe and asked her if she believed him. She did. Only a few items of Mercedes’s clothing remained, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t slept with her that night.

  They’d argued further. At one point he asked her to leave, but when she’d been about to oblige he asked her to rethink – said he was sorry that she’d misinterpreted what she’d seen and that he wanted her to stay. Finally, because he seemed so upset, she agreed. They’d spent most of the night making up for their argument.

  Now, she got out of bed, pulled her clothes on, and opened the door to the landing. She peered through the banisters, but there was no sign of Oliver, only the drone of the radio. Leaving the door ajar so that she might hear his approach, she returned to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Just as she had seen the previous night, few hangers remained with Mercedes’s things. They swung and clanged together when she disturbed them: a couple of blouses, a short silky skirt that had fallen or been flung on top of a row of shoes. Why had she not taken everything? An excuse, she wondered, to return again; the tie not entirely severed. Joanna stooped down to pick up a pair of red stilettos with peep-toes. The heels were newly repaired, and she sat on the side of the bed and slipped one on. It fit perfectly, but it was higher than she was used to wearing, and when she put on the other one and stood she wobbled slightly before the mirror.

  She examined her reflection in the glass. The red shoes were beautiful, too stylish for her skinny jeans. She thought about Mercedes and the type of woman she was – the type of woman on whom red stilettos never looked overdone. Joanna pulled her auburn hair back from her face. She wondered if Oliver compared them, if he favoured his wife’s sensual style to her more youthful simplicity. Mercedes had not left behind many possessions, only a hairbrush lay on top of the dresser, and yet her very essence seemed to linger in the room. Joanna picked up the brush, looked in the mirror that Mercedes must have looked in every day, and ran Oliver’s wife’s brush through her hair. With a sigh, she slipped off the red shoes, automatically threw the brush into her bag and wondered what it would be like to be the kind of woman who wore heels in the daytime.

  Oliver looked up as she entered the kitchen. Seated at the table, he’d been reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.

  ‘There you are. I have some coffee on,’ he said. ‘Can I make you some toast?’

  ‘It’s okay; finish your own. I’ll get it myself,’ she said.

  ‘There’s bread there. You’ll find jam and cheese in the fridge, whichever you prefer. Or if you want there’s cereal, but there isn’t much milk.’

  Joanna poured herself a coffee. She loaded two slices of bread into the toaster, and tried not to think about Oliver’s wife and how she must have done this every morning while he drank his coffee.

  ‘Have you classes today?’ he asked.

  ‘Not until the afternoon. I’ll go home first, get showered and changed. And you – work?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t have to go in for another hour.’ He smiled. ‘We okay now?’ he asked.

  She nodded. She still didn’t know if she believ
ed that he and Mercedes had not slept together, but she certainly wouldn’t be having breakfast with him if there was any likelihood that his wife might walk in. He must be sure that Mercedes was not about to turn up.

  After breakfast, she left – breezed out, telling him to have a good day. She’d pull back a bit, take her mother’s advice and not be so trusting. Besides, looking too eager never worked. She had to remind herself of that sometimes. She was too honest, didn’t believe in playing foolish mind games, and she expected other people to be open too. Recent events had taught her not to trust anyone – not when the people closest to you were capable of such terrible lies.

  It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock when she got home. There wasn’t a sound in the house. Her mother, she assumed, was still in bed; she was generally a late riser. Joanna made coffee and took it with her into the darkroom. She took the three trays and filled each with solution. The negatives were still hanging where she’d left them. Carefully, she took them down and slotted one into the enlarger, the one which held the image of Mercedes Hernandez. She adjusted the focus until it was clear, then set the timer, blocking sections of the image as it was burned onto the paper. As she lifted the image with the tongs and lowered it into the tray of developer, she thought about the money she would get from her father’s life insurance policy. She’d meant it when she’d said that Rachel could keep it, but now that she knew Rachel wanted her to have it she began to entertain thoughts of what she could do with a sum of money like that. She swished the liquid in the tray, turned the picture with the tongs. She could put a deposit on an apartment with that money, although she knew that the bank wouldn’t give her a mortgage until she started working. She swished the liquid and turned. With any luck she would secure a job in the not too distant future. The course was coming to an end in a matter of months and already she’d begun looking to see what sort of job she might apply for. After turning the paper a number of times, the image began to appear.

  Joanna gazed into the solution, watched as the image of Mercedes developed slowly before her eyes. Dark hair, tangled to her shoulders, white blouse, short skirt – hands poised to undo the zip. Appalled and fascinated, she watched, an unwilling yet enthralled voyeur. She took the picture with the tongs, removed it from one tray and placed it in the next. She allowed it to soak for a further thirty seconds, and then placed it in the fixer tray. She had just done that when she heard a noise outside. It sounded like the hall door opening, probably her mother checking for post.