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

by Tanya Farrelly

  A sudden ring at the bell jolted him from his thoughts. Jesus, was it them? Had they found out already? He could pretend he wasn’t in, but then the TV was on; they might have seen its glare through the window. Maybe it was better to answer – could be they just wanted to inform him that a body had been found. It was too soon for them to have discovered the identity. Reluctantly he rose and made his way to the door.

  FORTY-SIX

  Joanna took out the statement and looked at it. ‘Spar, Charlestown Plc’. She opened up her laptop and typed in the address. Immediately her suspicion was confirmed – the shop was in Belfast. She checked the calendar – tenth of March, the Friday they had gone to Belfast. How long had he been missing that day: two hours? Long enough to have met his wife, to have had lunch and a long conversation, but why would he have invited her along? It didn’t make sense.

  She looked at the name on the statement. Mercedes Hernandez. She typed it into Google and clicked. Several websites came up bearing the name. She clicked on a LinkedIn profile, and found herself looking at someone who bore a strong resemblance to the woman she had seen at Oliver’s house that night. But was it her? Her hair was different; she couldn’t be sure. It could be an old shot. Find Mercedes Hernandez on Facebook. Joanna scrolled through the list – looked carefully at each thumbnail, eliminating the ones that were definitely not her, clicking on those that might be. She opened up a profile that was definitely the same woman who was on LinkedIn. She clicked on an album and found the answer to her question.

  Mercedes and Carmen Hernandez were strikingly alike. Joanna stared at a picture of the two sisters, arms round each other, standing on the deck of a boat. Both wore large fashionable sunglasses – their hair was the same. In size and stature, you couldn’t tell them apart. They could have been twins. Joanna guessed that the picture was several years old. The girls – she couldn’t separate them by name – looked much younger in the shot than Carmen Hernandez had when she’d burst into the house that night. Joanna clicked through the album – in more recent years it was easier to tell the sisters apart. Mercedes had changed her hair: rather than the mad waves of Carmen it hung sleek in a V-shape, and she’d had a side fringe cut that hung over her left eye. Mercedes was not the woman she had seen that night – she was not the one that Joanna had seen at all. It had been Carmen coming out of the house that first time she had called by Oliver’s house; Carmen who she had seen undressing before the fire that night. She continued to click through Mercedes’s album. There were shots of her and Oliver, both of them dressed up – at a wedding, maybe. One of him carrying her on his back, arms round his neck, him laughing. Joanna stared; her fears confirmed. She had never seen Mercedes Hernandez. Her card had been used in Belfast that Friday – and to book a Eurolines ticket. Had he gone there to see her off – to try to persuade her not to go? And if not, if not. There was only one thing she could do – confront him.

  The house was in darkness when she arrived. She stopped the car, relieved, almost, that he might not be home. It occurred to her that she should have told someone where she was going. She had no idea what she was walking into. No idea how he might react when she challenged him. Hastily, she took out her phone and texted her mother his address. She didn’t say anything, didn’t indicate why. If she was in danger, if something happened, her mother would know why she had sent it – she could inform the police, telling them that the last text she’d had from her daughter was to give her this address.

  She got out of the car, chiding herself for allowing her imagination to run wild. She walked up the path and rang the bell; the sound of it echoed inside the house. She waited, shivering. Her heart leapt when she heard movement inside. She was tempted to turn and bolt, but she forced herself to wait. A light came on in the hall.

  ‘Joanna, hey.’

  She must have woken him. His hair was tousled, his feet bare.

  ‘Come on in.’

  She followed him to the door of the living room, waited for him to turn on the light.

  ‘I was watching a film; I think I dozed off. What time is it?’

  ‘About eight.’

  He looked at her, curious. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you so soon. Is everything all right?’

  ‘I saw her statement earlier on the table: Mercedes’s I mean; the last two payments made on her card were in Belfast.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So they were made on the same date that we were there. What’s going on, Oliver?’

  ‘What do you mean what’s going on? What is it you’re getting at, Joanna?’ His expression had changed to fury.

  She persevered, despite the fear. ‘Why did you take me up there? Had you arranged to meet her, is that it? Is that where you disappeared to – not a business meeting at all, but a meeting with your wife?’

  He didn’t answer. ‘I don’t like all this cross-questioning, Joanna. It’s none of your concern what I was doing. I’m not even sure what it is you want me to say.’

  ‘Simple – if you didn’t meet her, then what were you doing using her card?’

  Fury changed to incredulity. ‘I don’t believe this. Are you saying …?’ He shook his head. ‘You think I’ve done something to her, is that it? Christ, Joanna, you have some cheek coming into my house accusing me … you know what, I’d like you to leave. I’m not even going to have this conversation. Will you just go?’

  He walked back out to the hall, stood with his hand on the lock.

  She could do it – just leave, forget about him, remove herself from danger. ‘No,’ she said.

  He opened the door. ‘Get out.’

  She didn’t like the look in his eyes. If she were wise, she’d take his advice and leave, but she stood her ground. ‘Not until you’ve told me what’s going on. Where is she, Oliver?’

  ‘Belfast, I assume. Isn’t that what it said on the statement?’

  ‘Did you see her there?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. She wanted some of her stuff. I took it to her. Satisfied?’

  Was he telling the truth? He didn’t look at her when he said it. Fury filled him, barely repressed, making his hands shake. He seemed like a different person from before.

  ‘What stuff?’

  He sort of guffawed and spread his hands. ‘What business is that of yours?’

  ‘None, I suppose. It might have been nice if you’d told me the truth at the time, but then I suppose the truth is not your strong point, is it, Oliver? Look what you did to Mercedes, to her sister …’

  ‘Ah, it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it, till you threw that at me? Look, it would never have worked. I don’t have to listen to this.’ This time he opened the door wide. ‘You’d want to sort out your issues, Joanna. All this daddy stuff seems to have messed up your head.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ she said, brushing her way past him and out the door.

  It took some time before she stopped shaking.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  He shouldn’t have lost it with her. He knew that. There was nothing to say that she wouldn’t go to the police as soon as she heard the news. And clearly, she hadn’t heard yet. When had it been announced? Was this evening’s broadcast the first? If so, she might not hear it until tomorrow, and that gave him time to find something on the Arnolds.

  He took his coat, put a hat on so that no one would recognize him – there was no point in sitting here waiting for the guards to arrive, one false alarm had been enough – he’d go down to the dock and see what he could find out about Arnold and the boat he had hired. That way he may have something to trade for Joanna’s silence.

  He drove out, parked down a side street and made his way towards the prominent red lights. There was a show on at the theatre, crowds milled around the foyer. He made his way towards the jetty and down towards the boats. Most of them were in darkness. He’d typed the location he’d been given into Google Maps and had zoomed in to take a look. If it was accurate, then what he was looking for was a low black and blue boat. He w
alked slowly, keeping an eye out for it. Dim light shone from a few of the cabins, and somewhere in the darkness he heard the faint sound of music playing.

  In all, about twenty boats were moored there. He found it quite easily – on either side of it two other barges, one red, the other green. At first he thought there was no one on board, but then he spotted a light through a chink in the curtains pulled across the small square windows. He crept closer, walking right to the edge of the jetty to try to gain a better view. Movement behind the curtain – definitely somebody there. He looked around for a better vantage point, a place from which he could spy without being noticed. He glanced at one of the boats next to Arnold’s, the one with a view of the window. It seemed to be deserted; certainly, there was an absence of light.

  Carefully, he stepped onto the deck and then walked round to the other side to cup his hands against one of the windows. Uninhabited. Inside, the cabin looked sterile, a houseboat for summer rental probably. He doubted they got much activity in wintertime, which made Arnold’s choice all the more strange. He tried the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He wondered what it would take for it to give; if he could break in without causing a racket, he could settle down to watch the neighbouring boat incognito. He stooped down to examine the lock. As he did so, he heard movement – the sound of men’s voices. He dropped to the deck without a sound, lay flattened against the cold wood. They were just two or three metres away; light spilled from the open cabin door. He listened – they were speaking in low voices – he recognized one of them immediately as Patrick Arnold, and he strained to hear the other man, but he couldn’t figure which of them it was that was speaking.

  Cautiously, he pushed himself up slightly on his hands to raise his head above the deck. What he saw was two men standing smoking in the night air. Patrick had his back to him. The other man was nearer the cabin door, his face partially lit by the cabin light. He was bearded, hair grey: he wasn’t as tall as Patrick; a few years older maybe. It was his voice that really caught Oliver’s attention. If he hadn’t been looking, hadn’t known there were two men, he’d have thought Patrick was answering himself. The tone, the timbre was identical. Vince Arnold – it had to be.

  ‘Maybe she shouldn’t come round so much. If anyone sees her … we can’t afford any slip-ups.’

  ‘Sure who’d see her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Joanna, maybe, and she’s become fairly friendly with Rachel from what I can see.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Bright. Resourceful. A lot like her mother.’

  ‘I meant Rachel.’

  ‘Ah. Hardly the time to develop a conscience now, is it? She’ll be all right. People keep going, don’t they? Not much choice.’

  Oliver was relieved when they stubbed out their cigarettes and went back inside. Cramped in position, he lowered himself prostrate back onto the deck, and then slowly, cautiously – when he heard the cabin door close – he rose, took a quick look round and hurried back down the jetty.

  Patrick Arnold. Oliver had known something dodgy was going on – all that concern about the insurance policy. No wonder Patrick was jumpy about it. Oliver walked briskly back towards the car. An insurance scam – but then, who was the dead man in the canal if it wasn’t Vince? Whose body was it that he had come across frozen beneath the ice? Clearly the Arnold brothers had committed more than straightforward fraud. His trip to the boat had given him more than he could’ve wished for. How would Joanna feel when she discovered the father she’d thought dead was hiding out on the boat? Furious, at first – but then … she’d want to protect – if not Vince – certainly her mother. There was no way she could tell the police about Belfast now, not when he had enough information to put both her parents in prison.

  He took out his phone and called up her number. Then he paused – if she saw his name, she wouldn’t answer, would she? Not after the words they’d exchanged. He changed his settings to withhold his caller ID and then rang.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice, weary.

  He felt bad doing this to her – she’d been through a lot, but he couldn’t afford to take a chance on her going to the police. If only she hadn’t been so damn inquisitive.

  ‘Don’t hang up – it’s important. It’s about your father.’ Silence at the other end. ‘Joanna?’

  ‘What do you want? I told you not—’

  ‘Listen to me for a minute. It’s about Vince; you need to hear this.’

  ‘What about him?’

  He hesitated. It would be better to tell her in person, wouldn’t it? And besides, if she was with him she wouldn’t get a chance to see the news. ‘Look, could you meet me somewhere?’

  ‘What’s this about, Oliver?’

  ‘Your father is alive. I’ve seen him.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re the one who found the body—’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to tell you over the phone. What I’m saying is true, I swear it.’

  She was hesitant; clearly she didn’t believe him. Probably thought it was some kind of trick. But why? To harm her? Jesus, if that was what she thought about him, then she’d certainly believe that he’d killed his wife.

  ‘There’s a bar next to the theatre. I’ll meet you there in about a half hour. And Oliver … this had better be true.’

  It had begun to rain, wind blowing it in sheets beneath the lights of the square. He crossed to the theatre – the crowd from earlier had disappeared – immersed by now in whatever was showing. He found himself wishing it were a normal night, that he were meeting, if not Joanna, then some other girl for a date at the theatre, and not to blackmail her with the fact that her father had faked his own death.

  The bar was quiet. It was a Tuesday night and he guessed most of their clientele was the pre-theatre crowd. Joanna arrived before she’d said. He guessed curiosity had quickened her pace. He wasn’t sure how to greet her after their earlier argument, and he felt the anger rise again when he thought of how she’d come round accusing him, but he swallowed it back; now wasn’t the time.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ She sat down opposite him without taking off her coat.

  If he’d had any thought of apologizing, which he hadn’t, she looked in no mood to hear it. He scanned the room, lowered his voice. ‘The boat, the address I gave you – your father is hiding out there.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I saw him – they’re there now, or at least they were thirty minutes ago: Patrick Arnold and his brother.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, what makes you think it was him? Did you talk to them?’

  ‘I heard them talking. I was on the next boat.’

  She stared at him, incredulous. ‘I don’t get it. What were you doing there?’

  ‘Maybe I wanted to protect you, see what it was you were getting yourself into.’

  ‘Ha! What, after the way you behaved? Don’t try to make me believe that.’

  He spread his hands, irked by her bad temper. What was the point now in trying to get her on side? He had the information he needed to prevent her from saying anything. ‘All right, so maybe I was curious – you’re not the only one capable of spying on people, Joanna.’

  She stood up, ready to leave. ‘Why should I believe anything you say?’ she said.

  He sipped his drink, looked at her calmly. ‘Because it would be in everybody’s best interests.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She sat again.

  He leaned in close to her. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone about our trip to Belfast because, if you do, I’ll tell the police about your little family plot. Your father is pretending to be dead in order to fake an insurance claim – both your mother and Patrick Arnold are party to this crime – and if you say one word to the guards about me, all three of them will wind up in jail. Fraud is taken very seriously, Joanna – particularly when there’s a body involved that turns out to be somebody else.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ she said, but she’d turned pale.

 
He’d as good as told her that he’d killed his wife, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  ‘Go there, and you’ll see for yourself,’ he said.

  Before she had a chance to answer, he drained his glass and left.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  It was five minutes or more before Joanna moved from the table. She watched Oliver, head ducked, striding through the driving rain across the square in the opposite direction of the marina. The boat – could what he said be true? She stared out the window to where the rows of barges were moored not one hundred metres away and wondered if it was a trap. What if all he had told her was a lie – a ruse to get her down to the jetty and onto one of the boats? Women disappeared all the time. Mercedes had disappeared. She, Joanna, knew too much – she had proof that he had used his wife’s card in Belfast. Maybe she ought not to go near the boat, but instead, go straight to the police, dismissing what he’d told her. It was, after all, Oliver who’d given her the location in the first place when she’d asked him to ping the number. There was every chance he’d made the whole thing up.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  Joanna looked up to find the waitress looking at her, curious. ‘No … thanks.’ She took her bag and stood. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  She stepped outside, stood in the semi-shelter of the doorway and stared out at the deluge. She’d seen him walking in the opposite direction, but could he have doubled back around and made it to the barge, where he now lay in wait for her? Christ – what to do! Her head told her to go straight to the nearest police station, but his words paralyzed her. If what he’d said was true, she’d throw all their lives into chaos. The thought of her mother in prison, no matter what lies she’d told, was unthinkable.

  Her father. Rachel had said he owed money. It would be the perfect way out – escape the debtors and receive the one hundred thousand – although that wouldn’t be the case, would it? It was she and Rachel who would receive the money, unless … unless Rachel was a party to it – but then why give Joanna anything at all? It was a lot of money to sacrifice for a guilty conscience. No, she didn’t believe that Rachel was involved; her grief was too genuine – her sadness too real.