Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

moment before pulling himself together, standing and stretching

his arms and shoulders.

Nearly there. The first day of the rest of his life. How many times had he uttered those words privately? But this time it was for real.

He appreciated, if not openly, that his energies were waning: in

the very real physical sense that he was perceptibly less capable of accomplishing what no more than five years before had been

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simple, and in the less direct but equally obvious to him way that

mental concentration was difficult to sustain over extended periods.

No one else had yet noticed, or at least this was what he believed.

Now was the time to depart, at the top of his game, without ran-

cour. He was in his mid- seventies, for heaven’s sake. A good innings, more than good. He could now subside in relative comfort and let

his body and mind wind down and tick over to that inevitable day. It was only life, after all, and must be regarded dispassionately. He had always been impatient of those who railed indulgently against inevitabilities rather than examining their own shortcomings, and would not do so himself. When faced with his own mortality he did not

intend to become histrionic.

At least now, with this coup, he would be able to manage his

decline in some comfort. He would be able to rattle around in his

apartment. He would be able to embark on Caribbean cruises in

first class and dine with the captain. He would be taxied here and

ferried there, enjoy lavish medical care to offset the effects of ageing so far and long as this could be achieved. He could afford the services of visiting top- class, discreet young courtesans – that word had the right tone – at his home and they would be paid well enough to conceal their distaste for his crumbling being as they harvested his remaining virility. Eventually he would be able to lie back while the hired help wiped his arse, fed his quivering face and dabbed the dribble away. Bleak thoughts indeed.

He was interrupted by the arrival of Vincent, with his recogniz-

able hesitant knock on the door. He could remember him as a young

man. That shyness, that diffidence, had not changed. But there had

been something else, a spark visible seemingly to Roy alone beneath the faltering exterior of the accountant. Roy unlocked the door and let him in.

‘You’ve been careful?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Drink?’

‘Uh, no. I won’t, thanks. I’m driving.’

Vincent did not look pleased, either with himself or with the suc-

cess of their caper. He looked mildly frayed, as if in a state of

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confused agitation. Roy was not concerned, for this seemed to be

Vincent’s stock expression. It was, in part, what made him success-

ful in this game. Few would credit that this cautious, conventional bean counter was capable of the necessary deceptions. Vincent

brought monochrome stability to the Technicolor of Roy’s grand

vistas.

‘Oh well,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s all done.’

Oh well indeed, thought Roy.

‘No problems?’

‘None that I know of. Barry rang me to say he’d finished up in

Sevenoaks and was on the train back.’

‘Nice touch that, you phoning Dave in the pub.’

‘Thought it might just add something to the mix,’ said Vincent

without smiling. ‘Been learning from you. Maybe some of the star-

dust is rubbing off on to me.’

Roy laughed. ‘All the finances sorted out?’

‘The transfer’s gone through,’ replied Vincent. ‘The money’s in

the account. I checked last thing this afternoon. Just need to wait until the dust has settled before moving it on.’

‘Fine.’

‘And then?’

‘Plan A, I reckon. Unless there’s any reason to change.’

‘Not that I can see. We wrap it all up as soon as possible.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And then?’

‘And then it seems I hang up my boots and ride off into the sun-

set, if that’s not mixing metaphors. You get on with a glittering

career.’

‘Can’t see it happening. Surely you’re not really jacking it in?’

‘Oh, I am. Believe me. I plan to enjoy life while I still can.’ Roy smiled.

‘Well,’ said Vincent, ‘I’ll believe that when I see it. But then again I won’t, will I? Maybe you just want to branch out on your own

again.’

‘No,’ said Roy with feeling. ‘If I did anything in the future it

would be with you. I’d need your help. No. I’m retiring. Really.’

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There was a finality in his voice that deterred Vincent from

continuing.

‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Until next time.’

They had a little more business to conduct, but each was aware

that the next times would be few.

Vincent left and Roy tidied up to fill in time before his own departure. Habit and prudence, a word coming into fashion, saw him take

the precaution of wiping surfaces of fingerprints. He handed the

key in at reception and quickly made his way back to his own hotel

room.

4

Plan A had been invoked. Vincent rang each of the other members

of the syndicate, indicating evenly that they needed to meet as

something had come up. Each in turn had reacted with alarm.

‘No, no need to worry,’ he said. ‘It’s not that. But I’d prefer not to use the phone.’

They had standing provisions for an emergency meeting. The

arrangement was that they would meet at a certain golf club, a neu-

tral, not to say anonymous venue just outside the M25, over a

morning coffee. Bernie and Martin had brought golf clubs and just

completed a rather dank round on a cool, misty September morn-

ing by the time the others arrived. Bryn had taken the precaution of hiring a car rather than using his own. Dave had booked the private meeting room that doubled as the club’s committee chamber.

Vincent was the last to arrive, entering the room in his account-

ant’s grey suit and black tie with a solemn expression that presaged bad news and evoked foreboding in the others. The bustle around

the coffee pot ceased. Teaspoons were held mid- air.

‘Where’s Roy?’ interrupted Bernie when Vincent sought to com-

mence proceedings.

‘I’ll come on to that in a moment,’ replied Vincent calmly. ‘But

first a situation report on the deal. I wanted to reassure you all that everything’s on track. There’ve been no hiccups and it’s simply a

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question of waiting out the agreed period before we access the

account and distribute the profits.’

There was a palpable easing of tension in the room. Shoulders

relaxed and the darting glances between the principals ceased.

Bernie took a sip of his coffee.

‘So?’ said Bryn.

‘So,’ said Vincent, taking his time and looking down at the green

blotter on the table in front of him. ‘So, there is a reason nonetheless for gathering you all together for this meeting. I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding Roy.’

He paused for effect.

‘I’ve pieced most of this together speaking to his wife recently.’

‘His wife?’ asked Dave.

‘Yes. I received a call from her recently. Apparently she found my

mobile number among Roy’s things. I’ve had a few conversations

with her over the past few days. It seems Roy hadn’t been feeling

too well in recent weeks. She said she’d been trying to get him to go to the doctor’s but he hated anything to do with the medical profession. Besides, he said he was too busy. It must have been the period when we were finalizing the deal.’