Nicholas Searle - The Good Liar

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This is a life told back to front.
This is a man who has lied all his life.
Roy is a conman living in a leafy English suburb, about to pull off the final coup of his career. He is going to meet and woo a beautiful woman and slip away with her life savings.
But who is the man behind the con and what has he had to do to survive this life of lies?
And why is this beautiful woman so willing to be his next victim?

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‘Vinny’s down in Sevenoaks tidying up.’ The office in Sevenoaks

had been their base for the last three months. ‘He’s the only one

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who didn’t meet the . . . clients.’ At this word the assembled party chuckled. ‘The chances of that bunch turning up down there are

minimal, but it behoves us to be careful.’ Sage nods all round.

It was in fact Vincent’s nephew, Barry, who had earned a sly

£200 to go down to Sevenoaks in his overalls, unscrew the brass

nameplate, wash down all the surfaces inside and clear out all traces of their existence. But that was part of another story, yet to reach its piquant denouement.

They drank to absent friends, by which they meant Vinny, and

discussed the latest model Range Rovers that they were thinking of

buying. They did not touch on their personal lives, their wives or

mistresses or children, or their homes. If questioned, they were just mates who met up for a drink and a laugh every so often. Roy presumed that each lived somewhere within the bounds of the M25 but

outside the mighty city itself, in that mangled no- man’ s- land of sub-urbanized villages and towns, industrial wasteland, clusters of

prefabricated metal DIY superstores and carpet warehouses. He

assumed the others had carved out a small slice of grand comfort in the orbital motorway’s ambit, a green and pleasant acre or three

topped off by a modest mansion and protected by fences, cameras

and on- call 24/7 security.

For Roy, things were somewhat different. He lived alone in a

modest flat in Beckenham. His earnings were stockpiled, awaiting

the next step. The next leap, indeed.

Roy felt the left side of his chest tingle pleasurably, just on the nipple. This was what he had been waiting for with quiet inner

anticipation. In this din others would not have noticed his mobile

phone, on silent, vibrating in the pocket of his shirt. He let it buzz and shortly it stopped. He took a calm swig of beer and said, ‘Off to the Gents, lads. Got to point Percy at the porcelain. Could be a

while. You know me and my bladder.’

He stood and affected a drunken shamble towards the lavatory.

Once inside he took a small bottle of mouthwash from his jacket

pocket and gargled, splashed a little eau de cologne on his face,

straightened his tie and combed back his distinguished white hair.

He looked in the mirror and saw a bold, forceful man. He felt a

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frisson of excitement. This is what it’s all about, he thought. He

smiled to himself and left the toilet by the other door, the one close by the exit. Outside, allowing his eyes no more than a moment to

adjust to the sunlight, he crossed the road briskly, straight and true, to the bank opposite. He had chosen his ground carefully.

Inside he was met by a smiling Vincent and shook hands with the

business manager. He was ushered into a private office. He looked

at his watch and explained apologetically that he had only a few

minutes before he needed to be on his way to his next meeting. Politicians, he said, with a self- deprecating, rueful smile and a raise of the eyebrows. Ministers! No problem, sir, no problem, purred the

manager; everything is ready for your signature.

Coffee was offered and politely declined. The documents were

laid before Roy and he read them carefully, double- checking the

numbers, though he knew well only a few hundred pounds would

be left in the account after this transaction. Any two of the compa-ny’s board could authorize payments, save the company secretary,

Vincent. An oddity and an inconvenience, but one on which Vin-

cent had insisted to ensure total propriety when they had all

established the company together.

Vincent signed carefully: Bryn Jones. Attaboy. He could do a rea-

sonable approximation that would pass muster against the facsimile

held by the bank’s City branch and couriered over that morning.

Roy signed and it was done. He shook the manager’s hand sol-

emnly, his mind apparently on his important meeting, and thanked

him profusely for the convenience of using the Westminster branch.

It was, again, not a problem. Roy said goodbye to Mr Jones in for-

mal but friendly tones, every bit the chairman to a board member

he did not know especially well. He walked confidently to the door, crossed the road and entered the toilet again to dishevel himself

suitably.

‘Fuck you been, Roy?’ asked Bernie, when he returned to the

table.

‘Fucking prostate,’ he said. ‘Bleeding murder.’

‘You been a long time.’

‘I know. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.’

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‘Funny,’ said Bryn in his insinuating lilt. ‘I just been to the khazi for a slash and didn’t see you there.’

‘Check all the cubicles, did you?’

‘I thought you was just having a piss.’

‘I was. Fucking try it, Bryn, standing there forever waiting for it to come. You get some funny looks. Besides, might as well take the

weight off your feet if you’re waiting that long. Feel the benefit.’

Dave was pushing a button on his mobile phone. ‘Just had a call

from Vinny,’ he said. ‘He’s finished down in Sevenoaks. All

tickety- boo and he says have a chaser for him.’

Seat of the pants. Marvellous.

2

It had taken a number of months to bring the project to this point.

It was on that pleasurable thought that he luxuriated silently, his smile verging on complacent, in the pub. If asked by one of the

others why he seemed so satisfied, he would have answered truth-

fully, within reason. A job well done, he would have said.

But he was not asked and at length rose to take his leave. The

usual male ritual of clamorous bawdy voices proposing one more

for the ditch followed, but he refused all blandishments with a modest grin. ‘He’s a dark horse, our Roy,’ Bernie would say once he had left. ‘Top man, though,’ Dave would add thoughtfully, ‘top man.’

Martin would drink to that. Bryn would look.

Each had played his role in the drama. Martin had smoothed the

way with his mellifluous, effortless interposings, the yin to the yang of Bernie’s booming bruiser ready at any moment for an argument.

The absent Vincent had been the bespectacled, blinking, i- dotting finance man. Dave and Bryn had, not out of character, been security for the deal. Roy, naturally, had been top dog, content in meetings to smile benignly and twinkle his eyes while Bernie and Martin did

the talking; though Roy had given them their scripts at each nightly wash- up so that the transaction could be appropriately nuanced and nudged the following day.

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At the same wash- ups Vincent had proffered advice on the legal-

ity of the property deal that approached so slowly but had suddenly been upon them. For those aspects where strict adherence to the

law was not feasible if this coup were to be pulled off, he had advised on likely detection, severity of penalties and sensible precautions.

He had repeatedly emphasized that their stake money gave at least

the hope of a defence of acting in good faith. The money in the

company account was therefore a kind of insurance policy. In truth

most dimensions of the transaction were unlawful in some respect,

though repeatedly Roy had reminded his companions that their

interlocutors were hardly likely to approach the authorities. Bryn

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