Читать книгу The Girl Behind the Lens: A dark psychological thriller with a brilliant twist - Tanya Farrelly - Страница 11

‘Where are you off to?’ her mother asked, as Joanna sat on the stairs pulling on her boots. Joanna had barely spoken to her in the two days that had passed since Rachel Arnold’s visit. Angela had been at pains to restore normality, Joanna knew that, but she wasn’t about to concede. The fact that they’d always been close – more like sisters – made her mother’s lie impossible to accept.

She looked up, knowing that her mother wouldn’t like her answer. ‘My father’s funeral,’ she said.

‘You’re not … surely, you’re not thinking of going?’ There was a warning tone in Angela’s voice that Joanna was only too familiar with.

‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s my last chance to see him … to know what he was like.’

‘But you won’t see him. The coffin, it’ll be closed.’

‘How do you know?’ Joanna stood up, and took her heavy winter coat from the banister. She wrapped a red scarf round her neck.

‘It’s not possible in these circumstances. The water, it’ll have bloated the body. Made him … unrecognizable. He’d been in the canal for days.’

Ignoring her mother, Joanna took her car keys from the hall table. ‘Well, it’s my decision and I’ve decided to go,’ she said.

‘Don’t.’

A low warning that caused Joanna to stop and look closely at her mother.

‘Why not? Is there something else you’re worried I’ll find out about?’

‘No. It just won’t do you any good, that’s all. Look, can’t we talk? It’s getting us nowhere, you behaving like this …’

‘Me behaving like this? What about you? You’re the one who brought about this mess – you and your lies. Did you think I’d just forgive you, Mum? And anyway, I don’t see what’s so strange about going to my own father’s funeral, do you?’

Angela stood blocking the door. ‘I’m asking you not to do this, Joanna, for my sake. Don’t go bringing that woman into our lives.’

‘This isn’t about you.’ Joanna strode past, forcing her mother to step back from the door.

‘Well you needn’t expect them to welcome you,’ Angela shouted after her.

Joanna ignored her. She slammed the car door and reversed dangerously fast out of the driveway.

Joanna was still seething when she arrived at the churchyard. How dare her mother attempt to stop her from going. She pulled into the car park, which was already filling up, and attempted to calm down before going inside. As Joanna sat there, she watched, from the anonymity of her car, the groups of people gathered near the church doors. Yellow light spilled from inside and illuminated the faces of men in heavy winter coats congregated at the entrance. They moved from foot to foot in an attempt to thwart the icy chill as their wives clutched at each other’s arms. These, she thought, were the people who had shared her father’s life.

In the street, the cavalcade of rush hour traffic passed the church gates – a procession as slow as that which would bring the dead man to his mourners. She watched them pass and felt strangely detached. Heads turned and the crowd dispersed to make way for the long black hearse as it drove slowly through the gates. It was followed by a single mourning car. The doors opened and a tall man dressed in black got out. The driver opened the door at the other side and Rachel Arnold stepped out, head held erect as she stood by and watched the pallbearers slide her husband’s coffin from the back of the hearse and then wheel it into the church. Several people touched her arm, and she exchanged words with them as she passed.

Joanna waited until the crowd outside the church had entered. And, with a glance in the rear-view mirror, she stepped from the car and crossed quickly to the entrance. A man reached the door just as she did. He nodded and beckoned for her to enter first.

There was quite a crowd in the church. Rachel Arnold sat in the first pew and next to her sat the man from the mourning car. The previous night, Joanna had read Vince Arnold’s obituary online. She knew that he had a brother – Patrick – and she figured that must be him. The Arnolds had no children. None, that is, except for her.

Joanna stared at the coffin and reminded herself that the man inside was her father, but she felt detached. Her feelings amounted to nothing more than a macabre curiosity about the dead man. She scanned the room, eyes moving over the rows of people that filled the church as they had once filled her father’s life. As the priest droned on, she became aware of someone watching her. She turned to find the same man she’d met at the entrance staring at her. Embarrassed, she looked away, but when she turned again a moment later he was still looking. He smiled slightly and nodded. She returned his gaze, but not his smile. And suddenly the Mass had ended.

The church organ played as Rachel Arnold made her way slowly down the aisle accompanied by the man in the dark suit. The people in her pew stood, and she joined the procession of mourners who filed out of the church to pay their respects to the widow.

When she stepped outside, she saw the man who had smiled at her. He was unshaven and wore a long black coat. He was talking to the man by Rachel’s side – the one Joanna imagined was her uncle. She saw him introduce the man to Rachel, who took his hand. They talked while others idled waiting for their opportunity to pay their respects. Joanna wondered who the man was. He’d stared at her so intently in the church that she wondered if he knew her.

She waited until the crowd had thinned. Then suddenly she found herself standing before Rachel Arnold wondering what to say.

Rachel took her hand in hers and squeezed it. ‘You came,’ she said. ‘I wondered if you might.’

Joanna nodded. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said. The well-used expression sounded meaningless, but she couldn’t think of what else to say.

‘Is your mother here?’

‘No.’

Rachel looked relieved. ‘I take it she told you?’

‘That he was my father, yes.’

‘I’m sorry that you had to find out like this. I’d have liked it to be different.’ Rachel looked around. There were still some people waiting to speak to her. She kept her voice low. ‘I’d like to talk to you again, Joanna – when everything calms down. You must have so many questions about Vince.’

Joanna nodded, unsure of what to say.

Rachel fumbled in her bag. ‘I’ll give you my number,’ she said. She took out a small notebook, scribbled something, tore the page out and handed it to Joanna. The man in the black coat was standing a few feet away smoking a cigarette and talking to Patrick Arnold. Joanna looked past Rachel to where the man stood.

‘That man … the one in the black coat … who is he?’ she asked.

Rachel turned to look at him. ‘He’s the one that found Vince. It turns out he knew Patrick, Vince’s brother. I’ll introduce you if you like. You should meet him, Patrick …’

Joanna hesitated. ‘No. I mean – I’d like to, but another time. It’s all a bit too strange right now.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Rachel nodded her understanding.

Patrick Arnold had turned away from the man in the black coat. He glanced over, but Joanna took her leave before Rachel had a chance to beckon him. The other man stubbed out his cigarette and walked towards his car, which was parked near Joanna’s. He looked up as she approached.

‘I heard you’re the one who found him,’ she said.

The man looked at her, curious. ‘That’s right.’

She held out her hand. ‘I’m Joanna. The man … Vince … he was my father.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m Oliver. Oliver Molloy.’ His hand was cold as he shook hers. ‘I can imagine how distressing it must be …’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t know him,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

She felt suddenly stupid, unsure why she had said that to a total stranger. A morbid desire to know the details of her father’s death made her carry on. ‘They said he was trapped under the ice? How did you find him …? I mean was the body …?’

Oliver studied her for a moment before he answered. ‘He was close to the edge of the canal, just beyond the reeds. He’d probably floated down from somewhere else. His hand was above the ice, but apart from that I didn’t see him … like you said he was trapped …’

‘Do you think it was an accident?’

‘I suppose … don’t you?’ His grey eyes looked into hers with interest.

‘I wouldn’t know. I just … I wondered. The thing is I didn’t know he existed until last night.’

Oliver Molloy watched her, waiting for some kind of explanation. His silence forced her to speak. She was surprised at her own anger.

‘My mother never told me about him … and then last night she came …’ She looked over at Rachel who was talking to a small group of people standing by the mourning car. Patrick Arnold was looking in their direction.

‘I’m sorry … that must have been quite a shock.’

‘Yes.’ Her uncle was still looking over. She didn’t want to meet him; she wasn’t ready for that. ‘Look, I’d better go. Thanks … for talking to me … I’m sure you must think it strange. I hadn’t meant to tell you all that. I’m just … never mind.’

The man reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his wallet. ‘Here, take my card. If you ever want to call me … for advice or just to chat …’

She took the card from between his fingers: ‘Molloy and Byrne Solicitors’ in thick black print.

‘Not just legal advice … anything at all … sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.’

Joanna slipped the card into her pocket. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

He smiled and said goodnight.