Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

hordes in London, at Paddington skipping swiftly, or as swiftly as a sprightly octogenarian can, into a taxi, then out into the pell- mell of King’s Cross and straight into the first- class lounge, where a kindly porter fetched her at the appointed time to guide her to her seat. No chance of meeting him by chance: he would be wherever he would

be, totting up his putative gains and certainly not meeting his

imaginary kitchen- designing son. She must accustom herself to not calling him Roy.

And here is Andrew now, grinning broadly, with the bearing of

his grandfather and the same bashful innocence. He fair sprints up

the platform and gathers her carefully in his arms.

‘Gran!’ he says. She cannot stop the tears. That Scottish brogue as strong and steady as ever. ‘It’s great to see you again.’

‘And you too, Andrew. How is everyone?’

‘Sound as a pound. Looking forward to seeing you. We thought

you’d maybe like a quiet night at home. Maybe Dad and Auntie

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Laura will drop by, but we’ve plans for a meal tomorrow night. I’m

so pleased to see you. I take it everything went well. How was the

journey?’

‘It was fine, thank you. It’s good to breathe the air again. The

thing is . . .’

2

‘Bugger!

‘Bugger!’ he says again, but it makes him feel no better.

He is standing in his vest and underpants by his bed in the hotel

suite. The indulgence is by way of a small, solitary celebration. Vincent, as he knew he would, has declined to join him. So here he is, on his own. He can afford such extravagances every so often, even

more so with Betty’s little nest egg nicely tucked away. Which brings him back to the point. Bugger: he thinks it this time, as uttering the word has had no effect.

The contents of the small overnight bag he took with him from

the mews house are laid out on the bed. Back there he has left some old clothing in his room, mainly for verisimilitude in case she strays inside. After all, this is supposed to be a brief weekend away to see his son. She does not know that the son does not exist and that she will never see him again.

He does not wonder about Betty. Now it is over and done with

she has ceased to be. There is no point speculating how long it will be before she discovers he is not returning and that she has no

money left. Some thought will need to be given to whether she or

that nerdy young grandson will attempt to track him or Vincent

down. Indeed, they may contact the police. Good luck to them. He

will have to consider whether the name Mannion should be resur-

rected. No need to decide just yet. Now is the time to bask in it.

That bloody keypad: if only he could lay his hands on it. Vincent

told him it would be prudent to transfer the money into his own

account at the earliest opportunity and this is that opportunity.

He looks again and scratches his head. Two sets of underwear

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and two shirts. A washbag that has been emptied on to the bed. One

razor, one tube of shaving cream, his shaving brush, one can of

antiperspirant, one tube of toothpaste, one tube of haemorrhoid

cream. Better not mix those two up, he chuckles to himself, and

returns to the task. The small tablet computer is there that all the time he has had secreted in the lining of that crappy old suitcase

together with its charger, so that he could email Vincent, keep track of things and monitor his bank balance. But he needs the keypad as

well. He feels inside the washbag and checks that the damned thing

has not become snagged up in his neatly folded shirts. Systemati-

cally he searches each pocket of his overnight bag. It is completely empty. He goes to his jacket, on its hanger in the wardrobe, and

takes it out. His wallet, some small change, his mobile phone, his

handkerchief and a half- consumed pack of extra strong mints have

already been removed and placed neatly on the bedside table. He

feels around each of the pockets again. Empty. Likewise his

trousers.

Bugger.

He is all too prone to these lapses now. Once an error like this

might have proved terminal. Many of his schemes had involved pre-

cision and exquisite timing. At least with this one he has a little latitude. Just as well this is the last of these little enterprises. For the moment, at least. He allows himself a small smile. It must still be in the suitcase, where he had stored it alongside the tablet. He can

distinctly picture slipping it into the overnight bag, though. Sent to try us, these little mysteries. Strange thing, the mind. Plays tricks.

Ah well. It may be irritating but is just an inconvenience. What

do they say? Don’t sweat the small stuff. He takes a sip of his Scotch and picks up his mobile phone. Vincent can sort it. He can do the

transfer.

He can’t get a signal. He marches around the suite looking

intently at the display, but to no avail. Wearily, he pulls on shirt and trousers, ties his shoelaces and takes the lift down to the ground

floor. He will not pay the extortionate rates they charge in these

hotels.

In the lobby there is still no signal. He steps out on to Park Lane.

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Hyde Park looks magnificent in the summer evening sunshine and

he inhales the end- of- day smell of the city, heated tarmac, diesel fumes and a whiff of fresh- cut grass from the park. Still no reception. Peculiar.

Back in his suite he has little option but to reach for the telephone on the desk. He dials Vincent’s number but there is no reply. He is prompted to leave a voicemail but for the moment declines to do so.

He switches on the tablet and, following the instructions on the

card on the desk, he fires up the internet. Eventually he finds Hayes and Paulsen Private Bank. He goes to the online banking page, but

without the keypad he cannot log in. He finds the customer service

number, in the British Virgin Islands. This is going to cost an arm and a leg.

He dials the number and a bright mid- Atlantic voice answers.

‘Hi, you’re through to Hayes and Paulsen Private Bank and this is

Shayla speaking. With whom am I speaking, please?’

‘My name’s Roy Courtnay.’

‘Well, hi, Roy. How may I help you today?’

‘I’m a customer of yours. I’m trying to transfer some money

from my account. I haven’t got my keypad thingy with me. The

thing that you put the codes in.’

‘Your H&PPad?’ she prompts.

‘That’s right.’

‘All righty. Let’s see what we can do here.’

‘Is there any way I can log in here without my H&PPad?’

‘ We- ell, not really. Where are you located, Roy?’

‘London.’

‘OK. London, England?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’ve lost your H&PPad.’

‘Not exactly. I forgot to bring it with me. I’ve left it at home. I’m staying in a hotel.’

‘All righty. We can courier another out to you. I just need to ask

you a couple security questions and then I can cancel the old

H&PPad and issue you a new one. We can courier it to you right

away. First I need to take your details and the account details too.’

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He gives her both, and she emits a small squeal of pleasure when

she finds him on her computer. He exists.

‘OK, then, Roy. All we need to do now is to cancel the old one

and get the new one on its way.’