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

by Tanya Farrelly

  ‘Right, well we’ll have to talk to your sister-in-law, see if she can verify what you’ve told us. Would you have a contact number for her? How long does she intend staying in Dublin?’

  Oliver gave them Carmen’s number, only, he changed one digit; he had to be sure he had a chance to talk to her, to set her straight about what he had and hadn’t told them before she got the call. He said he didn’t know how long she would be around, but that he suspected she’d stay until they had some news of Mercedes.

  Sweeney looked at him, serious. ‘Your concerns are probably premature, Mr Molloy, given the situation, but every report of a missing person has to be taken seriously irrespective of the circumstances. We’ll need some personal details about your wife: date of birth, description, that kind of thing.’

  Oliver described Mercedes. He pointed out the photo on the mantelpiece, and they asked whether it was a recent shot. He said that it had been taken two years ago, but that he could show them a more recent photo if they needed one. They said they would: it would be uploaded on the Garda website.

  ‘Could you tell us what your wife was wearing the last time you saw her?’

  He thought for a moment, tried to exorcise the image of Mercedes in the clingy blue dress she’d been wearing the night it had happened. ‘I’m not sure. Like I said it was a few weeks ago. I think she was wearing a skirt, boots – maybe a black leather jacket. It was raining the night she came. She usually wore a leather jacket.’

  ‘And you said that she came to collect some possessions. Did she leave any documents, her passport, for example?’

  ‘No, I think she’s taken everything like that. She had a file where she kept her documents, and it’s gone. What happens now? I mean how will you go about finding her?’ Her passport, he’d have to find that – destroy it and any other documents she’d have been expected to take with her if she’d planned on leaving the country.

  Sweeney sighed and shifted on his stubby legs. ‘We’ll put her details on the website, see if anything turns up. We’ll need to speak to family members, friends who may have seen her recently. Were there any places that she went to regularly, hang-outs or haunts?’

  ‘Nowhere regular, no. We liked to eat out, go to the cinema. I guess you could say we’d had a fairly quiet social life in the last few years.’

  He was aware of the young garda taking note of everything he said.

  ‘Was your wife working, Mr Molloy?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a translator.’

  ‘And you’ve tried to contact her at work?’

  ‘No, she’d taken time off before any of this happened. I doubt she’d have gone back; like I said, she was suffering from stress.’

  ‘Okay, well we’ll need to contact them too. What’s the company name?’

  ‘ITS. International Translation Services.’

  ‘Right. That’s enough for the time being. We’ll get your wife’s profile up on the website. We’re going to need a copy of that photograph. Here’s my email address, Mr Molloy. I’d appreciate if you could get it to me this afternoon. We’ll talk to your sister-in-law and, in the meantime, if anything turns up, we’ll be in touch.’

  The young garda put his notebook away, rose from his seat and followed Sweeney to the front door.

  ‘What do I do in the meantime?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘You could contact Mercedes’s friends if you haven’t already done so; see if anyone’s heard from her. We’ll be doing that anyway, but it might be better coming from you, less alarming.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘Thank you – I’ll send the photo on to you, straightaway.’

  As soon as they were gone, he went upstairs. There was a drawer where Mercedes had kept most of her documents. He pulled it out and began to search through the papers. He found a copy of her birth certificate, a few old car insurance certificates, pay slips, bank statements, but no passport. Where could it be? While he searched he thought of the questions Sweeney had asked him. Had there been any suspicion in the older man’s face, in his tone? He didn’t think so. Not yet anyway. It was more likely that they thought he was wasting their time.

  It was after they had traced Mercedes’s movements that the trouble would begin. He knew that, as the husband, he’d come under suspicion. There was no avoiding that. There had been too many cases in the last decade and, if he were caught, he would be no more than another statistic – a husband who wanted his wife out of the way.

  He thought of the money he’d given Carmen. It placed her right at his mercy. If he told the police that she had claimed to have seen Mercedes, that she had extorted twelve thousand euro from him on the pretence of giving it to his wife, he would succeed in taking any spotlight off himself and placing it firmly on his sister-in-law. It was an ace he was prepared to play if she attempted in any way to incriminate him. He gathered the papers and put them back in the drawer, trying to think where Mercedes could possibly have put her passport. He would search again later; right now, he had to talk to Carmen before the police discovered he’d given them the wrong number.

  FORTY-TWO

  In the darkroom, Joanna searched through the recent photos she’d taken until she found the one of Mercedes – or was it Carmen? – Hernandez. She held the picture under the spotlight and stared at it. Certainly, if she’d known only of Carmen she’d have had no doubts that it was her, but sisters could be remarkably alike, couldn’t they? The figure was the same, the tangled black hair, the full lips painted red. It was a shame she had never seen any pictures of Mercedes when she’d been at Oliver’s house – then she’d know for sure, then she would not be plagued by these awful doubts.

  There was only one way she could find out and that was to go back there. She couldn’t do it right away – she still felt sick over Oliver’s revelation – nor did she want him to think that everything between them was okay when it wasn’t. She had told him not to call her, but she figured he would. If he didn’t, she could call him – ask him if he’d found out anything about the number she’d asked him to trace. Besides, if he managed to do that it would be a huge step in finding out what it was her mother had been planning these last few weeks. She would take the risk to discover the truth. Joanna pinned the photo of Mercedes/Carmen on her picture board, turned out the light and closed the door on the darkroom.

  ‘Mum, what has you up so early?’

  Joanna had been nursing her coffee, staring out the window, when her mother appeared in the doorway in her dressing gown looking as tired as she felt. Joanna looked at her watch: she’d have to leave in five minutes if she didn’t want to be late for class.

  ‘I wanted to catch you before you left to ask if you had any plans this evening.’

  Joanna drained her coffee cup, stood and looked around for her rucksack. ‘No, why?’

  ‘Good. I’ll make dinner for us both, I … I have a bit of news for you.’

  Joanna looked at her mother; the search for the bag instantly forgotten. ‘Oh, what kind of news?’

  Her mother smiled, but looked uncomfortable. She pulled her dressing gown tighter round her, closing the belt. ‘I’m not telling you now; you’ll have to wait till later.’

  ‘Well, should I be worried or is it something good?’

  Her mother looked away. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Anyway, look you’d better be off. I don’t want to make you late. I’ll tell you everything this evening.’

  Everything? That would make a change. Joanna’s already knotted stomach twisted further in anticipation. All of a sudden she wasn’t sure that she wanted to hear her mother’s news.

  The day passed in a haze. Joanna made mistakes in simple tasks – mixed up the solutions when she was developing shots – managed to get a rise out of Lord Byron for wasting college materials. She didn’t care; all she wanted was to get home and find out what it was her mother had to tell her. She also checked her phone several times throughout the day to see if she’d received any messages from Oliver Molloy, but he’d respected her request and the
phone remained stubbornly inert.

  Her mother was home when she got in from college. She’d already begun cooking; the aroma of garlic and other herbs wafted from the kitchen. The radio was on, and her mother was singing along with an eighties pop song. The table had been laid, and a candle burned in its centre. For a moment Joanna wondered if someone else were joining them, but no, there were two places set. Whatever it was Angela had to tell her, she was certainly making it an occasion. Joanna wandered into the kitchen where her mother was stirring sauce in a pan.

  ‘Whatever it is, it smells great,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’

  Her mother smiled. ‘Roast potatoes, garlic chicken and roast veg,’ she said. ‘There’s a bottle of white chilling in the fridge, if you want to open it. I’m almost ready to serve up.’

  Joanna took out the wine. Her mother’s tone was too bright, a forced gaiety. She took a corkscrew from the drawer. ‘So what’s this big news then?’ Her tone equally bright to match her mother’s.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a few minutes, just let me dish this lot out – and pour me a glass, would you?’ She stooped to open the oven.

  Joanna took two glasses from the press and poured the wine. She took a long swallow of the liquid; it was bitter but it warmed her insides. Her mother placed the food on the table and sat opposite.

  ‘So what’s it all about then?’ Joanna leaned in to scoop some roast potatoes onto her plate.

  ‘The job.’

  ‘The job?’ She paused – disappointment like lead in her insides. What – had her mother decided to take early retirement – was that it? No big revelation after all.

  ‘I’ve been offered a new position in the company.’

  ‘Oh – that’s, that’s great. Congratulations.’ Joanna raised her glass. A celebratory meal then. Nothing about Patrick Arnold. Nothing to explain the spare phone. Nothing of any great consequence.

  ‘It is; it’s great. The thing is, Joanna, it’s in the head office in … Milan.’ Her mother exhaled, as though on that breath she’d let go of a great worry. Joanna put down her knife and fork.

  ‘Milan? What – you don’t mean permanently?’

  Angela took a sip of wine, lowered her eyes. ‘I don’t know. The contract is for six months initially, but if it worked out … I could use the change, Joanna. I’ve been here in this house all my life, the office more years than I want to count, and to tell you the truth the idea of a new place, new faces, it’s very appealing.’

  ‘But what about the house? What about … what about me?’

  Her mother leaned forward. ‘Oh, Joanna, I wouldn’t be abandoning you. It mightn’t even work out – I might go for six months and hate it. Look, you’ll be finished your course in a few months – you could come out, maybe you could even find a job there? We could rent out the house – short-term – until we’d decided it was what we wanted to do. No matter what happens this house will be yours. You don’t need to worry about that.’

  ‘You’re talking like you’ve made up your mind already. Have you accepted the offer?’

  Her mother nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t want to tell you, not until I was sure that it was going to go ahead. It’s all arranged – I leave in a month’s time.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Come on, Joanna. Don’t look like that. It’s six months – and besides, you’re not a child anymore. You’ve got your own life. How are things going with that man you’re seeing – Oliver, isn’t it?’

  Joanna didn’t answer. Milan. Not unrelated after all then. Isn’t that where he lived, where he would return to in a few weeks’ time – Italy?

  ‘Is that the only reason you’re going?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The job. Did they really ask you to set up in Milan, or did you request a transfer?’

  ‘They asked me – why?’

  Her mother looked nervous now. This time she’d follow it up. What did it matter if she had to admit she’d been snooping through her mother’s things? What did anything matter? She’d waited long enough to hear the truth.

  ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with Patrick Arnold, would it?’

  ‘Patrick Arnold … what are you talking about?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, Patrick – your old friend. Look, we’ve both done enough skirting round the matter. The thing is, last week I was looking for my birth certificate – I took down the box in your wardrobe, the one you keep those things in, and a picture fell out. A picture of you and Patrick Arnold taken at the beach years ago.’

  Silence. Then admission. ‘Yes, I knew him then.’

  ‘And then, by coincidence, I saw the two of you in town together having coffee.’ She decided to jump right in, reveal all. There was no point in listening to her mother’s further excuses – of how she knew him then, but hadn’t seen him for years.

  Her mother put down her glass and nodded. ‘You’re right. I was going to tell you. We are, like you say, old friends; but Rachel Arnold doesn’t know that, and Patrick thought she’d been through enough – that it was better to keep it from her. That’s why we had to pretend not to know one another at your exhibition. She invited herself along at the last minute.’

  ‘And it’s a coincidence then that you’re moving to Italy, is it?’

  ‘Actually yes, but Patrick’s been helping me. You know he works in real estate – so he’s been trying to find an apartment for me to rent. That’s what we were discussing that day that you saw us.’

  ‘And you’re not – you’re not involved with him?’

  ‘With Patrick?’ Her mother laughed. ‘No. He’s been nothing more than a friend.’

  What she said could be true. It made sense given that he worked in real estate. But Italy – it seemed too much of a coincidence. Her mother could easily have requested the move. And if it was all that innocent, what about her mother’s second phone – the one used to contact one number only? There was something else that her mother was hiding – and she couldn’t ask her about it without looking like she’d been carrying out some Nancy Drew-type investigation. No – she’d leave that one for now, give it a few days and then run it by Oliver. If she was never to see him again, this could be the most important thing he could do for her.

  ‘So has he found a place for you?’

  ‘Possibly. There’s a two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city, reasonable rent.’

  Joanna nodded. ‘And you leave when exactly?’

  ‘Four weeks’ time. What do you say, will you come when you’ve finished your course – spend a bit of time in the sun?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe. Will he be there?’

  ‘Patrick? He works in Milan. It will be good to know someone there – he can help me settle in. There’s nothing between us, Joanna, if that’s what you’re thinking. Besides, he is your uncle. If you come out, it will give you a chance to get to know him – in a different environment, away from Rachel and from the past.’

  When they’d finished their meal, Joanna excused herself on the pretence of having an assignment to complete. She spent the rest of the evening in her room going over her mother’s revelation and thinking about Oliver Molloy. Maybe her mother was right to make a fresh start in a new country. She was still a young woman, and Joanna wanted her to be happy. In a few months’ time, she would finish her photography course and it would be time to make decisions about her own life. It wasn’t like her mother was leaving her homeless, or penniless for that matter. Things with Oliver were not going to work out now, and she had no ties once her studies were done. Milan didn’t sound like the worst option provided it was as her mother said. But there were other questions to be answered – chiefly, the mystery surrounding that second mobile phone.

  FORTY-THREE

  Carmen Hernandez refused to answer his calls. Several times he had tried and got through to her voicemail. Finally, he withheld his caller ID and tried again. ‘Carmen, don’t …’ As soon as she heard his voice she hung up. Damn that woman and all th
e trouble she had caused. He took his car keys and drove to the apartment where she was staying.

  The door to the complex was shut this time, so he buzzed the intercom. No answer. She clearly knew it was him. He put his finger on the button and left it there, imagining the shrill sound reverberating through the apartment. Finally, she picked up and uttered an expression in her native tongue which he knew was far from polite. There was a click and the connection was cut. He put his finger on the buzzer again. This time when she picked up he didn’t give her a chance to say anything.

  ‘The police want to talk to you.’

  No reply, but the door clicked open this time. He hung up and, two steps at a time, climbed the stairs.

  ‘What do the police want with me?’

  She was carefully made-up, wearing a blue dress that reminded him of the one Mercedes had worn that night. She was barefoot, and a book lay where she’d left it face down on the table. It was one of the ones he’d picked up from the book-store.

  ‘I called them this morning to report Mercedes missing.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because, Carmen, you told me she is. Up until last night, I was made to believe that you’d found her up in Belfast. Which reminds me, you’ve got twelve thousand euro belonging to me – anyone might call that extortion.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Oliver.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t said anything to the police about it: not yet. Despite what you might think about me, I have no real wish to land you in that kind of trouble.’

  ‘How considerate of you.’ An arch of the eyebrow, a sardonic smile – but the worried look hadn’t left her.

  ‘I told them what happened.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Curiosity in her dark eyes.

  ‘That you and I had slept together, that Mercedes had left because of it.’

  ‘Surely, there was no reason to tell them that?’