Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

‘What? You having cold feet or something, Vincent? Betty flut-

tered her eyelashes or something? You a little bit besotted?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ says Vincent irascibly. ‘If you must know, I’m looking out for you.’

‘Thank you kindly. But no need to do that. I’ve coped well enough

over the years.’

‘This is madness, Roy. It’s suicide, or close to it, you doing her

over. You’ve got yourself neatly set up there. She looks after you

and surely that’s what you need now, not more money.’

Roy laughs. ‘You are having seconds, aren’t you? Not like you.

Think I’m going to pop my clogs in the middle of all this and leave a mess for you to clear up? More for you, I’d have thought. Betty’s not one for reneging on deals. You’d have my stake money in your

back pocket too. You’d be quids in and all you’d need to do is to fade neatly into the background.’

‘No, it’s not that, Roy. This is crazy. Why are you doing this?’

‘I’ve told you before. It’s what I do.’

‘Not good enough, Roy. You’ll destroy her and you’ll destroy

yourself.’

‘It’ll have to be,’ says Roy sharply. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. You get paid well enough to keep your trap shut and do

what I want. Or is that it? You think this is our last gig together and you can shake me down for some more? What is it you want? Sixty

per cent? Seventy?’

Vincent shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not that. I just don’t think you should be doing this.’

‘So does that mean you’re out? Because if so you could have had

the decency to tell me earlier. You leave me in a right mess, I can tell you.’

‘No, Roy. I’m in, still. If it’s what you definitely want. I was just saying you have time to pull out if you want. No hard feelings. No

payment necessary for what I’ve done so far. I’d be happier to let

it go.’

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Roy relaxes in his bed and adopts a calmer tone. ‘No, we’re hang-

ing on with this one. To the bitter end. Look, Vincent. This is my

life. Dodging and weaving. This is me. We both know that it’s you

too. I know what makes you tick, Vincent. No, when it comes to it

I’ll die in the saddle, talking some greedy mark into doing some-

thing stupid. Maybe this one, maybe the next. Now, can we get on

with it?’

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A Faraway Country

1

Snow had already arrived in Berlin, driven by the chill wind across the steppes. Konrad Taub and his son marched through the streets

in the teeth of the blizzard, unable to converse, simply covering the ground with grim resolve.

Taub rang the bell and pulled off his gloves, banging them against

the brickwork to shake away the residue of snow. Hans imitated

him and looked up at the grey sky, thick flakes floating down, then caught on the wind and hurled violently. It resembled chaos.

A servant opened the door and admitted them without speaking.

Carefully, they removed their coats and stamped their feet on the

doormat, which was as large as the rug in the main room of their

small apartment. Traces of snow and wet dribbled on to the mat.

Hans shivered as the warmth made him realize how cold it had

been outside.

They knew their way and the servant departed with a nod, carry-

ing their coats. Away from the turmoil of the wind and the snow

and the dark busyness of the city, it was quiet here, with a beguiling calm. All that could be heard was a distant murmur somewhere

deep in the house, the preparations for the Christmas ball in the

evening to which neither Hans nor his parents had been invited.

The meeting with Schröder would be short.

They climbed the stairs and walked to Schröder’s study.

‘Ah, welcome,’ he said. ‘How are you, Konrad? And Hans? It’s

cold outside. A coffee? Maybe a schnapps?’

‘A small glass, perhaps,’ said Taub.

Schröder found a bottle and glasses in a cupboard. ‘It’s chaos

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round here. The party this evening. Magda is frantic. She thrives on it. I’m sorry we didn’t invite you. I thought it best.’ He said it in a matter- of- fact voice.

‘No. I understand. I doubt it would be our kind of occasion.’

‘Nor mine,’ said Schröder with a smile. ‘But it’s expected of me.

Not, you understand, that we invite any of those awful Nazis. But

our relationship is, I think, best kept low- key. For both our sakes.

Renate is well?’

‘Yes. As busy as ever.’

‘So, young Hans. How old are you now?’

‘Fourteen, sir.’

‘I wonder whether you might wish to join us in a glass of

schnapps, Hans. If your father would permit it.’

‘No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Please, Hans, if you would like to,’ said his father.

‘No, Father. I don’t think I’d like the taste.’

‘A sensible young man,’ said Schröder with a smile. ‘It’s good to

avoid the demon drink as long as possible. I’ll order something from the kitchen for you. What would you like? I’m sure there must be

some chocolate cake somewhere in the house.’

‘It’s all right, sir. I’m not hungry or thirsty.’

The two men sat with their drinks on leather sofas that faced

each other in front of the blazing hearth. Hans remained standing,

his cap in his hand, his shoes continuing to drip melt into the

carpet.

‘Well then, Konrad. What’s the latest?’

Hans was fascinated by this room. The walls were lined in rich,

dark mahogany bookcases, floor to ceiling, and each shelf was full

of books. There was a small ladder that matched the bookcases so

that the top volumes could be reached. A large, heavy desk, the size of his bed, faced inwards from the window. Its surface was covered

almost entirely with papers, arranged carefully in neat piles, each, he imagined, covering a different aspect of Herr Schröder’s business empire. Despite his curiosity and boldness, he would not have had

the temerity to look at the papers even given the chance. The room

was lit in sections, a large lamp illuminating the desk’s surface,

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discreet lighting in the bookcases to aid navigation there and two

heavy iron floor lamps behind each of the sofas to supplement the

fierce bright light of the fire. This was the sort of room he wanted as his refuge.

The two men, keen to discuss their business, had evidently for-

gotten his presence.

‘War is definite,’ Schröder was saying.

‘That’s what everyone thinks,’ replied his father.

‘No. What I mean is that I know that it’s their firm intention to

have war once their preparations are complete.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Ravenstein. We supply to him. He’s not exactly a sympathizer,

but then again he’s not exactly out of sympathy. He’s a personal

friend of Speer. He’s been asked to increase production for the

next six months with the express purpose of being ready for con-

flict part- way through next year. Hitler will find some pretext to precipitate it. Probably Danzig. You may tell your confidential

contacts.’

‘And as for the diplomatic effort? Britain’s appeasement?’

‘Ravenstein says it suits Hitler. He thinks Chamberlain is a con-