Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

Weber had been relatively easy to play; Wolff, despite his intellect and academic achievement, was no more than a fool. There had

been lessons to learn, however. He had left himself far too much at the mercy of Weber’s honesty in completing his side of the deal.

There should have been checks and balances to make sure he deliv-

ered on his commitments. He had emerged wiser.

And of course his mother. Most unfortunate. At this distance it is

the only formulation that feels appropriate. Perhaps devoid of the

emotion that he should have lavished on the woman who had given

him life, but honest nonetheless. In truth he had been an inconvenience to her, shrugged absently out of her womb in the middle of

her theorizing and agitating. She had tried to educate him politic-

ally at an early age, without success. Konrad had been the more

romantic and traditional of the two. He had held the reluctant

Renate to him while she looked impatient; and he had cared for

little Hansi most of the time.

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in the hospital and he had fully expected to be consigned to some

institution. In Betty’s shoes he would have shunted her off before

you could say Jack Robinson. Full marks to her, though. Even in

recovery his hands shake and he continues to fail to tease the pointed end of the cufflink through the eyelet that seems smaller today than it has ever been. He is becoming irritated.

He sighs: oh, what he has lived through, certainly in comparison

with the likes of Betty. His father had later discovered that Renate was arrested the day after they left Germany. Weber had adhered

strictly to the letter of their agreement. The rest was predictable: the show trial, the reports in the Völkischer Beobachter and the con-viction. Perhaps less obvious was the hardening of attitudes inside Germany in the period between her arrest and her sentencing. In

May 1939 she was executed by firing squad at the Spandau barracks.

What more was there to be said, or thought? It had been unfortu-

nate, but precipitated by his parents’ wilful stupidity. Now he has little trace memory of his mother.

He pulls off the shirt in frustration and throws it on to the bed.

By good planning he has another crisply ironed shirt on a hanger in the wardrobe, this one with buttons instead of the pesky double

cuffs. He stands for a moment in front of the mirror in his vest. Oh dear. The sagging dugs. The grey flesh of his biceps hanging like

flags from his arms. The redness of his face. The milk- yellow of his irises. The corn- like texture of the white hair. It is happening.

They had been taken to Scotland to a country house, where,

while his father was debriefed by Birch, the former second secre-

tary at the British Embassy in Berlin and now a middle- ranking

functionary in British intelligence, he was looked after by a kindly housekeeper. Eventually Birch had worked out what to do with

them and he was sent to boarding school in Herefordshire for

the beginning of the spring term. His father went to London to

write propaganda at the BBC and to swim in the sea of German

political and intellectual émigrés, looking among them for Nazi

spies. In the school holidays Hans stayed with his father in his small Putney flat.

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Albert Schröder’s arrest and trial also attracted press attention. It was announced that he had been found guilty and executed. Word

came through the émigré networks that his family had been taken

into protective custody, a well- understood euphemism. The next

events would have followed with cold inevitability. No one spoke

again of the Schröders, the favoured family with all the advantages who had somehow fallen foul of the regime.

He brings himself up again and puffs out his chest. He ties his tie carefully and brushes his hair. It may be near but he is still here, full of life and power. It is almost time to take the stage.

Following the outbreak of war Konrad Taub was classed as a cat-

egory C German, posing no security risk, and he remained in his job.

In 1940 the situation changed dramatically as Germany approached

the English coast and the Blitz began. All German nationals were

interned and Taub was no exception. Birch managed to ensure that

Hans remained at his school, and worked to overcome the bureau-

cracy and have Konrad released into his custody. Too slowly, however: Konrad committed suicide in October 1940, in despair and grief, it is to be presumed. The funeral was a difficult affair, attended by sundry émigrés and the solitary figure of Birch, who tried to avoid

talking to the other mourners. It was with Birch that he exchanged

those awkward condolences – it seemed that Birch was more

affected than he, who thought that his father’s suicide was a sign of weakness – and it was Birch who continued to pay the bills at his

school and later found him gainful employment as an interpreter.

He had then taken care to distance himself from the gaunt, sad old

bachelor with his drooping moustache.

The life he has led, he reflects as he makes his last preparations, splashing a little cologne over his cheeks. He is ready, spruce and alert, to face the moment.

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2

‘Sunday best, Roy?’ says Stephen, a smart- alec grin on his face.

‘Come now, Stephen,’ says Betty. ‘Best behaviour. We ancient

people always dress up when something important’s happening.

Can’t you see I’ve made an effort too?’

She is too indulgent towards the boy. ‘Some of us have certain

standards,’ he says caustically. He notices that Stephen is in his customary jeans and T- shirt, hair all over the place.

‘What time is Vincent due?’ asks Betty.

‘Should be here shortly,’ replies Stephen.

While Betty checks that the table is ready, with pens and teacups,

and that the tin is full of those expensive foil- wrapped biscuits, he stands, a little unsteady on his feet, and glares into Stephen’s eyes.

This takes the smile off his face.

The doorbell rings and Stephen lets Vincent in.

They seat themselves at the table, the two investors on one side

and Vincent and Stephen on the other, to commence their momen-

tous piece of business.

Vincent takes out a series of papers. He really is good at this theatre. The documents are professionally produced and have the right

language. Vincent walks them solemnly through the forms, care-

fully pointing out clauses and subclauses that may or may not be

relevant and explaining the legalese for Betty’s and, ostensibly, Roy’s benefit. They nod their heads periodically, though Roy is certain

that Betty has not followed matters at all. She is precisely where Roy and Vincent need her to be.

Stephen is a little more of a problem. Ineffectual he may be,

but Vincent has told him that the young man is bright and obser-

vant. He has followed the paperwork carefully and checked the

financial institutions. At one stage Roy and Vincent had con-

sidered creating a dummy account in a non- existent tax- haven bank so that Betty could happily deposit through a third party and Roy

could avoid the inconvenience of stake money – much less than

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Betty was being asked to stump up but a not insignificant sum

nevertheless. Owing to Stephen’s attentions they had judged this