Читать книгу The Girl Behind the Lens: A dark psychological thriller with a brilliant twist - Tanya Farrelly - Страница 18

Oliver’s meeting with Patrick Arnold, supposedly for old times’ sake, came to a sudden close when he said that he couldn’t take the job. Oliver excused himself on the pretence of a heavy workload that wouldn’t permit him to take on even the most insignificant case. And insurance companies, as Patrick knew, could be sticky. Arnold had brought a copy of the policy with him, and he insisted that Oliver take a quick look to ensure that the document itself was in order. There was one thing of note that Oliver observed, and which he continued to think about on his walk home. There were two beneficiaries to the policy; the first, as expected, was Rachel Arnold, but the second was the dead man’s daughter, Joanna, who was set to inherit fifty thousand euro. Oliver wondered if the girl knew about this. He suspected she didn’t, nor was she likely to find out until the result of the inquest came through – provided they found that Arnold had died a natural death. Would she welcome the money as some form of acknowledgement, albeit too late, or would she see it for what it surely was: an attempt on Vince Arnold’s part to assuage his guilt?

Oliver’s preoccupation with the Arnolds was cut short on arrival at his house. The garden gate was open, which in itself was not unusual, but halfway up the drive there was an object on the ground. He stooped to pick it up. It was a woman’s small, red knitted glove. He put it to his nose and inhaled the unmistakable woody scent of perfume that had been caught in the fibres. He tried to think if he’d ever seen Mercedes wearing such gloves, and then he told himself not to be ridiculous. They were the size of her hands, yes, but wasn’t she cold as he’d laid her in the ground, wasn’t her body, unquestioningly, lifeless? And a fragrance, a perfume, meant nothing. The same scent was worn by millions of women around the globe, and was very likely to be used by sisters. There was only one explanation, but it did nothing to comfort him, Carmen Hernandez had come looking for answers.

Oliver put the glove on the hall table. Carmen’s visit came as no surprise. He’d known, after all those unanswered phone calls, that eventually she’d turn up. And she wasn’t the kind of woman to be shrugged off, particularly when she was on the scent of something. He cursed his stupidity in ever having become involved with her. But, catastrophically, he had and now he had to deal with the consequences: a dead wife. And, if he didn’t tread carefully, an immediate police investigation.

He needed to think of a way to convince Carmen that Mercedes never wanted to see her again. If he knew what had been said between the two sisters, how Mercedes had reacted to Carmen’s betrayal, it would be easier, but unfortunately, Mercedes hadn’t revealed that. He imagined Carmen trying to convince Mercedes that she’d told her for her own good, even making out that she’d seduced him simply to show her that she couldn’t trust him. Mercedes was always too ready to protect her little sister, but would she have forgiven her for this? Or would she finally have seen Carmen for the manipulator she was?

When Oliver entered the living room he left the light off. He didn’t want to risk another visit from Carmen before he’d had a chance to think things through. He could still smell the perfume from the glove and was surprised by its potency. It was the Chanel he had bought for Mercedes’s birthday. Oliver took the glove and put it in a drawer. Then he washed his hands to rid himself of the scent that evoked a myriad of memories. He turned on the television, sat and watched the world news in an effort to distract himself, but it didn’t work. His mind kept returning to the imminent visit of Mercedes’s sister.

He thought of the first time he had met Carmen Hernandez. Mercedes had invited him to Spain for her parents’ silver wedding anniversary. They had been going out for almost six months and Mercedes had already moved into the house in Grove Road. Something which she’d kept from her devout Catholic family. She had forwarded them her new address, as her mother kept to the old habit of writing letters, but she’d said nothing to reveal the fact that she was living with Oliver. Such an admission would only have resulted in an apoplectic episode on the part of both her churchgoing parents. Knowing this, Carmen had, over the anniversary dinner, questioned Mercedes about her new lodgings – her dark eyes sparkling with mischief as Mercedes answered evasively while managing not to tell outright lies.

That night Mercedes had crept from the bedroom that she and Carmen shared, and had spent the night with Oliver in the guest room next door. He had been aware of the probability of Carmen hearing their lovemaking through the wall. He’d said as much to Mercedes, but she didn’t care. She said nothing would wake Carmen she was such a heavy sleeper, and he had to admit that the thought of Mercedes’s younger sister lying in the dark, listening, secretly excited him. Carmen had made a wry comment over breakfast the following day, asking if anyone had heard strange noises in the night. She was rewarded by a glare from Mercedes, which seemed to add to her amusement. She had turned her red-painted smile on Oliver and winked at him.

Oliver had ignored Carmen’s interest then, her blatant flirting. Mercedes had never paid attention, used as she was to her sister’s precociousness. Only three years separated them, but Mercedes had seemed much more mature than her sister. There was a wild, almost feral wantonness about Carmen, which had both fascinated Oliver and made him wary, but clearly not wary enough. Carmen had got her way in the end, and at a price far greater than any of them could have anticipated.