Joanna turned and walked back towards the Luas stop in Abbey Street. As she walked she thought about the possible reasons why her mother might have met with Patrick. If it wasn’t a relationship, then it had to be something to do with Vince. She thought of the insurance policy. It was Patrick who had approached Oliver to make sure that everything was in order with it. Her mother had signed the beneficiary form that Rachel had brought to the house. They were the only three who knew that Joanna had been made a beneficiary – that was until Rachel had found out. Joanna turned this over in her head, tried to match up the facts, but there were too few of them. Maybe Arnold was trying to get his hands on the money, but she couldn’t see how her mother might aid in that. She and Rachel were the beneficiaries after all. Joanna was so preoccupied pondering the permutations that she didn’t see the man standing just feet from her at the Luas stop.
‘Joanna?’
She turned to find herself looking up into the face of Patrick Arnold.
THIRTY-ONE
When Oliver awoke, Carmen was standing by the bed sorting through some clothes and throwing things into a bag.
‘Hey. What are you doing?’ he said.
She didn’t look up. ‘I’m going to look for my sister. Are you coming?’
He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and picked up his jeans from the floor. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Carmen continued looking through the garments which lay in a pile at her feet. She picked up a skirt. One of his socks had become entangled in it and she pulled it free and threw it on the bed.
‘Maybe you’re right. It’s better if I go alone. I have to talk to her. Maybe she won’t listen, but at least I’ll have seen her and know that she’s all right.’ She folded the skirt and put it in the bag.
Oliver pulled his clothes on. He put a hand on Carmen’s shoulder but she ignored it, zipped up her bag and left the room.
He listened to her moving around the living room. She was feeling guilty about last night. He could tell by her brusque manner. He’d hoped that what had happened might change her mind about looking for Mercedes. If she had wanted to be with him so badly, wouldn’t she be happy that Mercedes was no longer here? He wondered if he’d misjudged her. Maybe she had wanted to sleep with him again in order to vindicate why she’d done it to begin with, but instead it had served only as a reminder that they were the cause of what had happened. Either that or she’d found it a disappointment this time.
Oliver went into the bathroom and threw water on his face. Carmen was in the kitchen. He heard the surge from the tap and the water in the bathroom ran cold. He wondered what he could do to prevent Carmen from going to Belfast, but Belfast wasn’t the problem. It didn’t matter if she went there and returned without having found her sister. In fact, if she went away for a few days it would give him more time to think of a plan to end her search for Mercedes.
He walked into the living room. Carmen’s sports bag was on the sofa. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the tiny kitchen of the flat. He sat down at the table by the window and looked down at the grey street below.
‘There’s coffee if you want it,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Sit down, I’ll get it,’ he told her.
She didn’t object. She sat down with her cup of coffee, and he got up and went into the kitchen. When he returned she was sitting in the seat he’d vacated, staring out the window smoking a cigarette. It occurred to him that he had never seen Carmen not smoking, and he wondered briefly how many she went through a day.
‘When are you leaving?’ he asked.
‘As soon as I’m finished.’ She sipped her coffee and tapped her cigarette on the saucer that was already full of last night’s ash.
‘I’ll give you a lift to the station if you want?’
She nodded. ‘Thanks.’
The silence was palpable. He wished there were some way that he could dispel the tension in the room. ‘If you find her, tell her I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Do you think that will be enough?’
‘No. But it’s all I can say, isn’t it?’
Carmen stood up. She drained her coffee cup, and pulled twice on the cigarette before stubbing it in the saucer. He drank his coffee hurriedly, as anxious now as she was to be out of the flat.
In the car she didn’t speak. The traffic crawled along the quays until he branched off for Connolly Station. He was glad it wasn’t far. This was a side of Carmen that he hadn’t seen before, a seriousness that had always been hidden beneath her flirtatious façade. He didn’t dislike it, but her need to be away from him made him feel uncomfortable. It was a good thing that she was going away.
He pulled up outside the station and they both got out of the car. He took Carmen’s bag from the boot, and they stood there for a moment saying nothing.
‘You’ll give me a call if you find her?’ he said.
Carmen nodded. ‘I’ll let you know.’
He kissed her awkwardly on the cheek. She turned away from him and made her way hurriedly towards the escalator that would take her up to the station. A moment later she’d disappeared through the double doors without looking back.
Oliver sighed and got back in the car. He wondered how long Carmen would spend in Belfast looking for her sister. He felt a mild sense of guilt, knowing that he was the cause of this fruitless trip, but there was nothing he could do about that. He just had to hope that Carmen would decide her search was futile and that she’d give up after a few days.
He turned the car and drove back towards the house. He hadn’t been alone for days and he found himself looking forward to the stillness which he had dreaded in the initial weeks of Mercedes’s absence.
The house was as he’d left it. The bag that he’d taken to Belfast still lay beneath the stairs. He carried it up to the bathroom. He caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He hadn’t shaved, and he wondered what the neighbours would have thought if they’d seen him. He wondered if they’d noticed Mercedes’s absence by now, or whether they had mistaken Carmen for her sister. He took out his razor, filled the sink and lathered foam onto his skin. Carefully, he dragged the razor along his jaw, then dipped it in the water, and repeated the movement. He remembered Mercedes shaving him once. He’d been nervous and she’d laughed at him.
‘What – you think I’m going to cut you?’ she said.
He didn’t. Not on purpose anyway, but if he had moved unexpectedly it would have been easy for the blade to nick his skin no matter how steady her hand. He had felt completely at her mercy. It was a feeling alien to him and he hadn’t liked it. He knew that Mercedes had liked the intimacy of it, but it had made him feel vulnerable and it was the only time he’d allowed her to do it. If she were here now, he thought, she would gladly cut him.
He towelled off his face and went into the spare bedroom. He had thought about moving into this room so that he didn’t have to think about Mercedes. He looked at the double bed. The sheets had not been changed since Carmen had stayed. He decided that he would strip the covers and move his things into this room. He couldn’t escape the memories in the house, not unless he sold up and moved somewhere else. It was a thought that appealed to him, but he knew that it would look odd to those who thought that Mercedes had so recently left him.
The house had never been in Mercedes’s name. That was one thing he was glad about. He had bought it before they’d met, and she had never raised the question. When the time came he could sell it without her signature on the contract. But not yet. He would wait until a respectable period of time had passed and then he would think about moving to a place where no one knew him, and he could try to start anew.
He noticed that the red light was flashing on the answering machine by the bed. Someone had phoned while he was in the shower. He threw the towel down and walked round to where the phone sat on the bedside table. He picked up the receiver and punched in the code. A woman’s voice told him that she was leaving a message for
Mercedes Hernandez. She was from a bookshop and wanted to inform Mercedes that the books she’d ordered had now arrived. She could collect them whenever it was convenient for her to do so. Oliver erased the message and sat there looking at the phone. He wondered, briefly, what books Mercedes had ordered. It must have taken a long time for the bookshop to get them in. Perhaps he would pick them up the next time he was passing.
THIRTY-TWO
‘How have you been?’
He was taller than she’d remembered. His skin dark from his time abroad, making him stand out from the pasty white faces that crowded the Luas stop. Joanna mumbled something about not having recognized him, which he ignored while gesturing towards her bag.
‘Doing some shopping?’ he said.
His attitude was casual, familiar; less like someone she’d met once and whose brother hadn’t deigned to acknowledge her existence, more like someone confident of his ability to beguile. Immediately, she raised her guard.
‘I’ve an exhibition in a few days’ time; I was picking up some materials.’
A jingle in the distance: the Luas crawled into focus and the crowd surged nearer the line. Was that his hand on her back gently conducting her towards the doors? Deftly, he guided her onto the tram. There weren’t any seats, and she had no option but to stand close to him as the doors closed.
‘So you paint then?’
‘What?’ She clutched her bag of materials, and planted her feet apart to prevent herself lurching forward as the bell rang and the Luas chugged into motion.
‘An exhibition, you said, I assumed it was paintings?’
‘Oh, no, photography; I’m doing a degree. It’s just a college exhibition.’
Thoughts whirling round her head. What if she were to tell him she’d seen him with her mother – what would he say? He was looking at her keenly, interest in his green eyes. He was handsome, there was no denying that. She wondered if Vince Arnold had had his magnetism.
‘Where do you study?’
Genuine interest? Maybe. If not, he was good at feigning it. The tram stopped, doors opened and more people got on. ‘The IADT, Dun Laoghaire.’ Scent of cologne; his or someone else’s? No direct questions – not about her mother, not yet. She’d suddenly had an idea.
‘Would you like to come?’
Patrick looked at her, surprised. ‘What – to your exhibition?’
Joanna held his gaze. ‘Sure, why not? If you’re interested …’
He paused, thinking. ‘When is it?’ he said.
‘Friday evening. From about seven.’
A slow nod of the head. ‘Maybe so – I might have something on, but if not, I’d love to. Vince used to take pictures, you know. He was bloody good too. If you come by the house, you can take a look at some of his albums. Rachel’s got dozens of them.’
‘Yes, she mentioned it before.’
The idea had come to her suddenly. If Patrick came to the exhibition, he would meet her mother there. Would they pretend they didn’t know each other? She’d refrain from the direct approach until then, plan her next step based on their reactions. If they lied, then they were definitely concealing something. She’d confront her mother about it there and then. Confront them both if it came down to it.
‘Rachel came by the house the other evening,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know I was a beneficiary to my father’s life insurance policy.’
Patrick nodded. ‘Yes. I should have told you about that when you came to the house that evening,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get a chance, it was all, well – rather awkward, wasn’t it? I figured then it could wait till after the inquest when everything’s sorted out. I must say, Rachel was surprised.’
‘I can imagine. She was nice about it though – when she came, said she wanted me to have it.’
Patrick smiled. ‘And why wouldn’t she be? I mean, it’s not like you don’t deserve it.’
Another stop, they shifted to allow a group of passengers to get off. Two seats became available and they sat. Her guard was coming down. He seemed a straight talker, her father’s brother, or had he honed it – this ability to make you feel like he was on your side? Is that what he’d done with her mother – and if so, to what end? Joanna looked at him closely.
‘So Rachel said you live in Italy. What do you do there?’ she asked.
‘I’m in real estate. We buy and sell houses, land.’
‘Guilty of fraud, something to do with a land deal … ’ Oliver’s words resounded in her head, reminding her not to trust him. ‘Oliver says you used to practise law.’
This took him by surprise. ‘Oliver Molloy?’
Joanna felt the colour come to her face. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Oliver, but she wanted to see how he would react. It might concern him that she should know about his dodgy past. But he answered, unruffled.
‘That’s right. I studied with him at the King’s Inns back in the day. Couldn’t believe it when I heard he was the one discovered Vince. How did you meet Ollie – at the funeral, was it?’
‘Ollie’? He made it sound as though they’d been friends. ‘Yes, Rachel pointed him out to me – said he was the one that …’
Patrick gave a short laugh. ‘And he offered a listening ear, did he?’
‘How do you mean?’
He shook his head, still smiling. ‘Ah, just that he was always a good one for that … with the girls, you know. He’d work his way into their confidence and then …’ He laughed again. ‘That was Ollie for you. Mind you, I heard he married a right cracker – she wouldn’t be much older than you. Where was it she was from again – South America? No, Spain maybe. Yeah, I think that was it, Spain. Stunning-looking girl – I saw pictures of the wedding. They’re still together, I suppose?’
Joanna felt her cheeks burn again. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’ She must have looked flustered.
He leaned in towards her, his face serious now. ‘Well, I’d be careful there, Joanna. Oliver’s a nice guy, but when it comes to women … well, let’s just say, the less proximity, the better.’
Joanna was about to say that he was just a friend. But then, what was the point? For all she knew her mother may have already told Patrick about her recent involvement with Oliver. Though, judging from his reaction to his name, she didn’t think so. She just nodded and, face flaming, thanked him for the advice. Patrick shifted in his seat.
‘Well, the next stop’s mine,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I bumped into you. You should come by the house – have a look at those albums.’
‘Aren’t you going back to Italy?’ she asked.
He stood up. ‘Not for a couple of weeks. There are a few things I need to take care of first … for Rachel.’
Joanna nodded. ‘So, I might see you on Friday then – if you can make it.’
Patrick took his phone from his pocket. The Luas was slowing down, preparing to stop. ‘You’d better give me your number,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you beforehand, let you know if I can come.’
‘Okay.’
Joanna called out her number – watched him punch it into the phone. The Luas stopped at Blackhorse Avenue. He got off, smiled and waved before it pulled off again, and Joanna waved back. She was annoyed with herself for having mentioned Oliver. She was sorry she’d said anything about it to her mother, too. She’d been hasty. Patrick had intimated that Oliver was a womanizer. It had raised her hackles – but what if he was right? She thought of her mother disappearing into Tara Street station, dressed for the gym but clearly bound for someplace else. Everyone seemed to be in the know but her. And talking to Patrick, rather than enlightening her had served only to make her more confused.
THIRTY-THREE
Oliver sighed and shifted position, moving a step closer to the fat American woman who’d been holding up the queue for at least ten minutes.
‘Maybe it’s Reid with double e instead of ie. I know it’s something like that,’ she said.
The assistant, ever-patient, frowned and pounded
on the keyboard. ‘No, I’m afraid there’s nothing coming up on the system,’ she said.
The fat woman sighed. ‘Oh well, that’s a shame. Also, I was wondering, do you have any books by James Joyce?’
Oliver coughed and attempted to make eye contact with the assistant. She ignored him.
‘Yes, if you go to the ground floor and look in the Irish Fiction section you should find what you’re looking for,’ she said.
Finally, the woman picked up her shopping bags and turned away from the counter. One of the bags knocked against Oliver as she passed, but she didn’t apologize.
‘Some people,’ he said, as he stepped forward.
The assistant smiled briefly, but didn’t comment.
‘I’m here to collect some books for my wife. She got a call to say they were in.’
‘Okay, what’s your wife’s name?’
‘Mercedes Hernandez.’
The assistant stooped under the counter and took out two books. He could see a yellow Post-it stuck to one. It had Mercedes’s name on it.
‘Would you like a bag for them?’ she asked.
‘That would be great. How much is that?’
The girl told him the price and he handed her the money. ‘Do you happen to know when my wife ordered these books?’
‘One second and I’ll find out for you.’
The girl went back to the computer and typed something. Oliver waited, curious to see what books Mercedes had ordered. He assumed that they were from one of the obscure Spanish writers that she liked to read and that they’d had to be tracked down.
‘Yes, she ordered them almost two weeks ago. Sometimes it takes a while to get them in. Do you want to check and make sure they’re the ones she was looking for?’
‘No, no that’s okay. I’m sure they’re fine. And it was definitely two weeks ago?’
‘Yes. February nineteenth.’
Oliver nodded. The assistant handed him the bag. ‘If there’s anything wrong, tell your wife she can return them, it’s no problem.’
Oh, but it is he thought as he hurried out of the shop.
The Girl Behind the Lens: A dark psychological thriller with a brilliant twist Page 14
