‘What’s this – not ashamed, are you? They wanted to know why I hadn’t reported her missing immediately. I explained that we were separated, that I’d only seen Mercedes once – the night that she returned for her stuff. They asked what the circumstances of the separation were. I could hardly go making it up now, that would be inviting trouble.’
‘She came back for her stuff? When?’
He thought for a moment. ‘A night or two before you turned up.’
A shift in her expression. The cogs of her mind turning. ‘You didn’t say that before.’
He shrugged.
Carmen stepped closer to him. She was wearing that scent again – the Chanel that he associated with Mercedes. She looked directly at him. ‘Where is she, Oliver?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And the other one – how long has that been going on?’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘What – that you think I’m out of the city for one night and you have some … some girl in your bed? Familiar tune, isn’t it, Oliver? Maybe I wasn’t the only one, eh? Maybe Mercedes had more to worry about.’
‘Come on, Carmen, we were hardly an item, you and I? The girl … that was nothing – a friend who stayed the night. And I hate to admit it, but she was nothing compared to you, not in that respect anyway. Still, I paid good money, didn’t I? I’d say you owe me a lot more for twelve thousand euro.’
The slap came like lightning. He lifted a hand to his jaw, which stung and burned from the impact.
‘You bastard,’ she said.
He fought to stay calm. ‘Where’s my money?’
‘It’s gone.’
‘What do you mean it’s gone? You spent twelve thousand euro in a matter of days?’
‘Not exactly, I … invested it.’ She smirked.
‘Invested it? And would you mind telling me what you invested my money in?’
‘It wasn’t your money, it was Mercedes’s. And besides, it’ll be worth it, you’ll see.’
He was beginning to wonder if he ought to be concerned. What could she possibly have done with that amount of money in so short a time? He shook his head.
‘That’s what worries me,’ he said.
Carmen circled the room, ‘And what exactly will the police want to know when they talk to me?’ she asked.
Oliver shrugged. ‘They’ll ask you when you last saw Mercedes, I suppose. How she had seemed to you in the last few months, and if you’ve heard from her.’
‘And thanks to you, they’ll look at me as the whore, the one that slept with her sister’s husband,’ she said, sulkily. ‘I suppose you gave them my number.’
‘Not exactly. I gave them a number – but not the right one. I wanted to talk to you first, let you know what to expect. I’m sure they’ll be in touch again once they’ve discovered it’s the wrong number.’
‘So you decided to dump me in it, and then protect me, is that it? You are so many contradictions, Oliver. Besides, they might not get me. I have to go to Spain in a few days’ time.’
‘Oh?’ He wasn’t expecting that. ‘And are you coming back?’
‘That depends …’ She stopped pacing and stood before him. ‘Why? Would you miss me, Oliver? I think, maybe, after the last few weeks the least you could do is give me a send-off, no?’
Flirtation – blatant, the Carmen of old. The girl changed mood so often it was impossible to keep up. She reached a hand round the back of his neck and pulled him towards her. He didn’t resist, why would he? Whatever it was that Carmen was up to – what was on offer was too good to resist. In a few days she would return to Spain to do who knew what – and he would contact Joanna to try to get her back on side. The fewer enemies and more alibis he had, the better. It wouldn’t be long before the guards discovered that Mercedes’s was a legitimate missing person’s case, and the groundwork he’d laid had better pay off.
FORTY-FOUR
Two days later, he called. Joanna saw his name flash up on the phone and debated whether to answer it or not. If she didn’t, she’d have to ring him back anyway, and so she picked up before it cut off.
‘Joanna, hi. I’m sorry for ringing. I know you said not to, but I have the information you were looking for.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes, look I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, could we meet?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Okay. I’ll meet you by the canal at the place where you found Vince.’
She didn’t know why she picked there, but she knew she didn’t want to meet him anywhere crowded, or, worst of all, at the house. She wanted to see him first somewhere neutral – somewhere she could easily escape should that nauseous feeling overpower her.
She arrived before him, sat in the car until she spotted the familiar figure walking up the bank. Then she got out and went to meet him.
‘Hi. How have you been?’ His tone, uncertain, penitent almost.
‘Okay.’ She kept her hands firmly in her coat pockets. No physical contact; if he touched her she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t give in, that she wouldn’t make herself believe he was sorry. ‘So you were able to trace it – the number?’
Oliver nodded. ‘To the exact place and, this is the surprising part, the location is a boat – a barge – docked at Grand Canal. Any ideas?’
Joanna shook her head. She thought of her mother going into Tara Street station that day, after she’d left Patrick Arnold. Is that where she’d been going – to Grand Canal dock – and to see who? Not Patrick, but somebody else, somebody unknown.
‘You have the location?’
He gave it to her. ‘It won’t be any more than fifty yards out if it’s anything. What are you going to do?’
‘Find out who owns that boat.’
‘Do you want me to? I will – if you want. I don’t want you getting involved with anything … anything that might be dangerous.’
Joanna gave a short laugh. ‘It’s hardly dangerous, Oliver. This is my mother we’re talking about – I doubt there’s anything criminal in what she’s doing.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I don’t know. You know she’s thinking of emigrating? She told me last night. I’m not sure it’s even sunk in to be honest. I can’t imagine her not being here. The job is sending her to work in the head office in Milan – a promotion of sorts, she says – six months to begin with. She’s suggested that I join her as soon as my course is done in the summer.’
They’d begun walking. It was still so easy to talk to him despite what had happened. She found herself making excuses; it was Mercedes he’d cheated on, not her. At least that was how he’d told it. Carmen claimed the affair had been ongoing – but then she had seemed unhinged. Was it Carmen she had seen through the window that night – was there any possibility that it had been Mercedes?
‘And will you?’
‘What?’
‘Milan – do you think you’ll go? There are worse places you could start a photography career I’m sure.’
‘Maybe. A change might be good. I don’t have to decide just yet anyway. Mum leaves in a month’s time. That’ll be strange.’
Oliver stopped walking to look into the water.
‘We should go back,’ she said, sensing a shift in things.
He turned towards her. ‘Joanna, I am sorry. I know I’ve said it already, and I should have told you everything from the start, but I thought you’d run as far as you could if I told you.’
‘You’d have been right there.’ She started walking back the way they’d come.
‘I know. I don’t expect anything, and I couldn’t blame you if you want nothing to do with me at all, but I do like you; we could be friends. That would be good enough for me.’
Friends. Could she do that? She was so attracted to him it would be hard. On the other hand, if she agreed she might have the opportunity to find out the truth – to discover finally if the woman she’d seen undressing at the house that night had been Merce
des. And what then? She didn’t know – but at least she could rid herself of any outrageous notion that something had happened to his wife.
‘I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know if I can. I want to – I’d like to. What we’ve had has been great – and I’m not ruling that out either – so yeah, I suppose what I’m saying is, let’s try. Let’s give the friends thing a go.’
She put out her hand and he laughed and shook it.
‘As long as you know, I am really sorry.’
They’d almost reached the car now. ‘Can I give you a lift back home?’ she asked.
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘No. Come on, sure it’s on the way anyway – friend.’
She laughed, and tried to fight down the nervous feeling she had when they got in the car. If she could spend enough time in the house just to locate a picture of Mercedes, then she could decide whether or not she ever wanted to see him again. As far as he was concerned she still believed that the woman she had seen was his wife. She would do nothing to make him suspect otherwise.
She pulled up in front of the house. He hesitated, hand on the door.
‘Will you come in for a cuppa?’
She pretended to consider. ‘Okay, but no funny business.’
He spread his hands. ‘You have my word. As long as you’re sure you can keep your hands off me?’
‘Ha! You’re not all that, mister,’ she said.
After they’d had tea, she excused herself on the pretence of going to the bathroom. When she’d listened on the landing for a few minutes for any sounds from downstairs, she crept into the bedroom and looked around. Where might Mercedes keep her photos? She opened the top drawer in the dressing table – there was nothing there but underwear. She closed the drawer and then quickly looked in the other two – again just clothes. Damn it.
She heard movement downstairs, quickly crept to the bathroom, flushed the toilet and ran the tap. He was on the phone when she went back downstairs.
‘Yeah, just give me one second, Colin, and I’ll check …’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Work,’ he said. ‘Give me two minutes.’ He left the room and went into his adjoining office.
Through the door, Joanna could see him booting up his desktop computer. A few papers lay on the kitchen table; she flicked through them. There was a bank statement addressed to Mercedes. Joanna glanced at the office door before turning it over to see when the last few payments had been made. There were two transactions for the tenth of March. One was for forty-seven pounds sterling made payable to Eurolines, while the other was a transaction for ninety-six pounds spent in a Spar shop – again the amount was in sterling. Joanna stared for a moment at the statement before taking it quickly and putting it in her bag. Oliver was still on the phone. Her mind raced. Two transactions made on Mercedes’s debit card – the very date that they had been in Belfast. There were two possible explanations – one unsavoury, the other unthinkable. She found herself hoping that rather than attending a business meeting in Belfast Oliver had in fact arranged to meet his wife. His coat hung on the back of a chair. She put her hand in one of the pockets and her fingers closed round his wallet. Quickly, she took it out and searched the contents, debit card, credit card – nothing to arouse suspicion – nothing but that statement in his wife’s name.
‘Yeah, okay – I’ll do that. That’s fine – okay, no worries, Colin …’
She put the wallet back in the coat, stood and placed her mug in the sink. She was putting on her jacket when he entered the room.
‘Sorry about that. Ah, you’re not going already, are you?’
‘Afraid so; I’ve stuff to do for tomorrow, and besides, it was just tea.’
‘It was good. Thanks – for the lift and the chat. I hope you have some luck finding out what or who’s behind that mystery number. If you need anything, you know where I am.’
She thanked him, forced a smile and managed to stop herself from running to the car.
FORTY-FIVE
Oliver hadn’t heard from Carmen since he’d been to the flat. He wondered if she was back in Spain and the reasons for her returning. The guards had phoned asking him to confirm the number he’d given them; said that they’d got through to a man who claimed he’d never heard of any Carmen Hernandez. Oliver repeated the number, correcting the one wrong digit he’d given them. A clerical error, that’s all, committed by the fresh-faced guard. He’d probably got a bollocking from Sweeney.
Had they talked to Carmen then, before she’d left? Probably. He was glad he’d got to her first, let her know that he hadn’t dropped her in it. Who knows what she might have told them if it had been sprung on her – if she thought he’d told them about her having claimed to have seen Mercedes, about the twelve thousand euro. What had she done with that – taken it back to Spain with her? Carmen. He’d been thinking about her a lot recently. He told himself it was her similarities to Mercedes that had him thinking about her, but it was more than that. Somehow, she’d managed to get under his skin. The Arnold girl, she was sweet, a bit too curious for his liking though. He’d keep her on side for the moment, then cut her loose when it was safe to do so, if it were ever safe to do so.
Since he’d reported Mercedes missing, he’d been on edge. They weren’t taking it seriously at the moment, but he knew that, once they’d failed to locate her, they’d be crawling all over him. The husband – victim, suspect, always suspect. He comforted himself with thoughts of all those missing women, of the thousands reported every week who were never found, of all the bogland, waste ground, and forested areas across both the Dublin and Wicklow mountains that failed to yield their grizzly secrets.
Oliver switched on the television. He’d enjoy the peace until the circus began. Tired from sleepless nights, he was dozing in front of the screen when he heard it: ‘A woman’s body has been found in a shallow grave in a forested area near Glencree. A man came across the partly decomposed body when out walking his dogs.’ Christ. He’d opened his eyes as soon as he’d heard the word ‘body’. Glencree. His heart hammering – was that what the area was called, he wasn’t sure. He grabbed the remote control and turned up the volume. Gardaí; yellow tape cordoning an area of woodland. Was that it, was that the place? Maybe not; he couldn’t be sure. It had been dark – he’d not seen his surroundings, wouldn’t have noticed much if he had. It could be someone else. One of the thousands missing. He prayed to God it was.
‘The partly decomposed body.’ How long did it take for a body to decompose? He didn’t know, but clearly this one had not been in the ground long. What state would Mercedes’s be in by now? Would she be recognizable? How long would it take for them to identify the remains? Questions whirled round his head – but what if it wasn’t? If it wasn’t her and he was in the clear … what if? It was still possible. If the body was decomposed, he assumed they would try to identify it through dental records. They wouldn’t find any for Mercedes, not here. She always went home to Spain for any dental or medical check-ups. As for DNA, there was no database in Ireland; of course, they’d come round asking him for her personal belongings to get a match: comb, toothbrush. If only he hadn’t reported her missing – if he’d waited. The first thing they would do, of course, was run a check on missing persons. It was a wonder they hadn’t called by now. He checked his phone – nothing. Maybe he should call them – the distraught husband, having seen the news report, demanding information. No – that would be walking right into it.
A man appeared on the screen, fifty-odd, weather-beaten, wellington boots over his jeans. He explained how his Jack Russell terrier had gone missing. He’d been shouting and shouting for the dog, had followed its barking into the woodland. The dog had been pulling at the corner of something – ‘blue fabric’. Christ, it was her all right. The blanket – why the hell had he left the blanket? His own DNA, his prints all over it. He’d been quick-thinking enough to remove her wedding ring, but he couldn’t bear to lay her in the ground without some protection, couldn’t bear t
o shovel the earth on top of her. His DNA would be on the blanket anyway; sure wasn’t it from their house, but then why the hell would Mercedes have been wrapped in something from the house if she’d been killed elsewhere? Why would she have been buried in the Dublin mountains if someone had killed her in Belfast? It would take some defence lawyer to get him out of this. He began to think – okay, there was the blanket, damning enough to probably send him down. What else was there? Joanna – if she testified that they’d been in Belfast, he was finished. He had to ensure that that wasn’t about to happen – had to keep her on side, now more than ever: give her a reason not to talk. The man was still talking. The camera panned round him, zoomed in on the dog, a small white terrier with a brown patch.
What about Carmen? The lies she’d told about seeing Mercedes in Belfast – but that was just his word against hers. There was the twelve thousand euro, but that could have been for anything – could have been a pay-off for her to keep quiet. Joanna was the one who put him in the most danger. What would keep her from talking? Stupid, bringing her to Belfast like that. At the time he thought it’d be a nice little cover-up. But no, it put him right in the frame. Idiot. Unless, unless … he started to think, what was it that mattered most to Joanna? There was the whole Arnold thing – shame he’d already given her the location of the boat. He could have withheld it – offered it quid pro quo. He thought about what she’d told him about the mother emigrating to Italy, about Patrick Arnold setting the whole thing up. Arnold – he had no conscience, had no qualms about breaking the law. There were some who studied law to just that end. Why the boat? Arnold was staying with the sister-in-law, Rachel, wasn’t he? There was no need for him to have hired a barge – not unless they were hiding something. He’d been concerned about the policy – why? Because he was afraid his brother’s death may have looked like a suicide? Natural enough under the circumstances. But the boat?
Oliver took out his phone. He checked his emails – looked up the location that his friend from the telecoms company had sent him. Grand Canal Dock. What if he was to go down there, do a bit of investigating of his own?
The Girl Behind the Lens: A dark psychological thriller with a brilliant twist Page 20
