Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

ledge of the world.

‘My employer is a wealthy man,’ said Roy, ‘a pillar of British society, a government minister and, I have to say, of unimpeachable

integrity. He will not fail to go to law if these scurrilous and baseless accusations are pursued.’ He gave the inspector the business card of the expensive lawyers in rue de l’Échelle whom he had already

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engaged on the matter. Then he suggested that he buy the inspector

a coffee, or indeed something stronger.

They stood at the bar, smoking the American cigarettes Roy had

thought to pack before leaving London, each with a café express and a small glass of marc. Roy drained his glass and the detective followed suit. Roy signalled for refills.

‘The difficulty is,’ he said, ‘that there are just so many people

looking for an angle. Any angle. It seems there’s been something of a moral collapse since the war in which our nations fought so val-iantly side by side. Honesty is no longer valued; it’s all about what you can get away with.’

The inspector nodded. He was not expected to speak.

‘Lord Stanbrook is – well, he wouldn’t want to be described as a

war hero – a courageous man who continues to serve his country. It would be most unfortunate if his reputation was dragged down by

some scoundrel. I’m sure it’s not something your country would

want either.’

He paused. He did not know whether he had spoken enough and

they could quickly conclude their business. He had a train to catch.

Both knew implicitly that the conversation was a formality. The deal had been done when the police officer accepted the offer of a drink. As ever, though, the lie had to be maintained. For a little longer, evidently.

‘I’m certain that no officer of the Paris police would wish to be

complicit in allowing extortion to take place. Least of all you,

Jacques. May I call you Jacques?’

The other man inclined his head slightly. Roy detected the hint of

a smile.

‘In that case I’m reassured. My work is done. I’ve no need to pro-

test my employer’s innocence any further. I have complete

confidence in your judgement. But should anything unexpected

happen, you know how to contact me.’

With that, he put his hat on, placed a large- denomination bill on the zinc for the barman, shook hands with the police officer and

walked out of the cafe, leaving behind, placed below the evening

newspaper he had bought on the way in, a rather plump envelope.

He made his train with ten minutes to spare.

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3

The rules when they were at the London residence or the country

house were different from when they were, as Lord Stanbrook put

it, on the razzle.

Informality was out of the question. Roy’s employer was His

Lordship rather than Charles and appropriate deference was de

rigueur. Nor would Roy have wanted it any differently. It was less

complicated. There were moments of awkwardness, particularly

when Stanbrook required Roy’s presence at dinner with guests at

Burnsford, but these occasions were relatively infrequent. The

guests concerned would generally be aware of the reasons for Roy’s

presence and his standing with his employer. There was, for Roy,

little more than a need for care with words and actions, part of his professional repertoire. He found it relatively easy to circulate

among these people.

This was one of those more relaxed weekends. No political

guests. They were to gather for an informal dinner on the Friday,

the guests arriving according to the time they had been able to

escape the rigours of London. Burnsford House was located in the

anonymous Midlands, south of Birmingham and east of the twee

Tudor affectations of Stratford, but well away from the grimy industrial cities of the East Midlands. Unprepossessing Northampton was

the nearest town, but visitors by train were more generally collected at Daventry.

Having delivered a rather irritable viscount and his wife to the

house, shown them to their room and left them to unpack, Roy sat

smoking in the study, undisturbed. The party this weekend would

be small. They would be ten at table tonight: Lord Stanbrook and

his long- suffering wife, Lady Dorothy; their daughter Francesca:

Viscount Wexford and his wife, Margaret: Joachim von Hessenthal,

a German count of Stanbrook’s long acquaintance; Oliver Wright,

the Foreign Secretary’s private secretary: Roy himself: and Sir

Thomas and Lady Sylvia Banks. Sylvia. He sighed quietly.

Roy was there to make up the party, as Lady Dorothy did not like

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to dine with odd numbers at her table. This at least was the fiction.

To be sure, if one of the guests failed to materialize he would drop out. But his presence at the table had little to do with the numbers.

They would dress for dinner only on the Saturday. He had some

time, therefore. Wexford and his wife were already here, von Hes-

senthal was being conveyed by his own driver, and Roy would avoid

at all costs being present to greet the Bankses. This left Mr Wright.

Roy checked his watch and saw that he had a few minutes to savour

his cigarette and cup of tea before setting off for the station in the Humber.

‘I understand you’ll be joining us for dinner,’ said Wright as the

windscreen wipers marked time on their journey back to the house.

‘That’s right, sir,’ replied Roy. ‘Informal dinner tonight. Formal

tomorrow.’

‘ Righty- ho.’

Oliver Wright was a pensive young man, angular and gaunt to

the point of apparent malnutrition. In government circles he was

known as a policy genius and quite the eligible young man going

places. Wright sat beside Roy in the front of the car, his bony white hands turning restlessly in his lap as if he was made nervous by

Roy’s deft handling of the vehicle at speed through the puddles and around country corners. He frowned.

‘Where exactly do you fit in in the house?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if

it’s not too presumptuous a question.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ said Roy. ‘My role is as Lord Stanbrook’s aide on business matters. A factotum, you might say.’

‘You run the estate for him?’

‘Oh no, sir. I’ve very little to do with the estate itself. Beyond me, all that stuff. Lord Stanbrook has diverse business interests. I manage his portfolio inasmuch as I ensure that all necessary matters are attended to and nothing is forgotten. I accompany him on business

trips.’

‘A fixer, you mean.’

‘If you care to put it that way, sir. Though doubtless Lord Stan-

brook might express it slightly differently.’

‘Quite. Have you met this von Hessenthal chap?’

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‘No, I haven’t. I understand Lord Stanbrook knows him from

before the war. Both were army officers of course and knew each

other professionally in the 1930s. I doubt whether the Graf von Hessenthal would regard it as a happy coincidence, though, that Lord

Stanbrook was the major to whom the general surrendered his

weapon in 1945.’

‘And who else will be there?’

‘Lady Francesca, the Viscount Wexford and his wife, and Sir

Thomas and Lady Sylvia Banks. I believe you know Sir Thomas and

Lady Sylvia?’

Wright looked at Roy as if significance attached to the question.