The Good Liar (14 page)

queries that Betty may have. Roy reinforces the key messages and

the boundaries beyond which they must not stray. There are some

tricky areas that have to be gone over more than once, mainly con-

cerning how to manoeuvre Betty into entering into it all jointly

with Roy. Vincent and Roy could manage separate accounts, but

this would involve more technical wizardry than they would prefer

and expose the whole venture to greater risk than normally

acceptable.

Finally, they tackle the information technology issues. The

accounts are already set up and Roy has tested online access dis-

creetly on the slim tablet computer that he keeps concealed in his

bedroom at Betty’s. Roy explains that when it comes to the moment

he wants, for the sake of dramatic verisimilitude, them both to

transfer funds to a joint account in their names in an obscure off-

shore financial institution. Vincent feels that this may be problematic but realizes that Roy, as ever, wants to do things with a flourish. He emphasizes just how important it is for Roy to shift the funds on

from there at the earliest opportunity. The endgame will then be on them and he will need to have made his next plans in advance, ready to deploy immediately.

They may well not have a further opportunity to confer at length

before the wheels are in motion. After that their chances to talk may be snatched and unreliable, so it is important that both are entirely clear on the collective vision and contingencies should events take an unexpected turn. With Betty, Roy will want to maintain the

appearance of complete transparency and not to arouse even min-

imal doubt. This is well- trodden territory for the two of them, with far tougher adversaries, and they shake hands before Roy heads for

the return train. It will not be a problem. Oh no.

86

1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 86

05/05/15 5:32 PM

3

‘I think,’ he says, ‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Oh?’ says Betty. ‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ve been thinking. While I’ve been away. You’ve told me all

about your life and your family and I’ve been a little . . .’

‘Reticent?’

‘To put it mildly. Unlike you, there’s been little of interest. But you see, I can’t say I feel any pride in my life. And I don’t care for opening up, or whatever they call it. I was brought up to mind my

own business. But I owe it to you to tell you rather more about me

than I have. If, that is, we’re about to take the next step.’

‘Meaning?’

‘If, as you suggested, I’m to sell up and to move in with you

permanently.’

‘I rather thought you’d already moved in. And I didn’t know it

was my suggestion,’ she added pertly.

‘Yes, well. Selling my little flat will formalize it. As well as giving us the funds to secure a wonderful future together.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I want you to be clear on one thing. I’ve never told you any lies.

I’ve simply been, well . . .’

‘Economical with the truth?’

He scowls and says emphatically, ‘Oh no. I don’t like that expres-

sion. Perhaps I’ve not been as forthcoming as I might have been.’

‘I was joking, Roy. Only teasing you.’

‘Oh. Yes. Well. At any rate, this is me. It’s a short and humdrum

story. There’s nothing to alarm you. A good cure for insomnia. To

begin with, I come originally from Dorset. I have to tell you that I was something of the black sheep of my family. My father was a

country rector there, like his father. As the eldest son, I was expected to follow in their footsteps. I was put up for a private education and slated to study theology at Cambridge. But then the war intervened.

And besides, I was – I am indeed – something of an adventurer. I

signed up as soon as I was able but sadly never got to serve on the 87

1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 87

05/05/15 5:32 PM

front line in the push. It was a mixture of the training requirements, the chaos of the times and the fact that the war was in fact entering its final phase and fizzling out. Those who had fought the hard yards were generally permitted to apply the coup de grâce. We youngsters were held in reserve. It’s always been a regret of mine. I was in what they laughably call military intelligence. But I suppose I served my country as best I could. I was part of a small group sent to Europe to investigate incidents and try to locate fleeing war criminals.

We had some success. It taught me a lot about life, though there are some experiences I’d not want to wish on anyone else.’

‘For example?’

‘Oh,’ he says, discomfited. ‘Things I don’t speak of to anyone.’

‘Even me?’

‘Especially you, my dear. Things of which you should not know.

Things that changed me as a man and made me what I am today.’

He regards her sadly, and she fancies she might see tears form

in the watery corners of his eyes. But then again, she may be

mistaken.

‘I moved on. I didn’t leave the army immediately, though I could

have returned to my studies and faded nicely into a rural curacy. I did have my chance to serve on the front line, in Korea. By then I

was a captain, promoted through the ranks. Those were tough

times too. They have bitter winters there. I’d all but lost contact with my family. My perspectives on life were rather different from

my parents’. Less timid, I have to say. But I regret bitterly not having made the effort. I’ve never found the courage to pick up the threads.’

‘You could do so now,’ she says. ‘I could help you.’

He shakes his head vehemently.

‘No. All gone now. They’re all dead now, no doubt. There are the

later generations, I suppose, but the last thing they will need is some distant long- forgotten relation landing on their doorstep.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

‘No,’ he says decisively. ‘No. Anyway, I left the army in 1953 and

was at a bit of a loose end for a while. I had a variety of jobs. Before I knew it I was pushing thirty and it was time to do something with my life. I was living in London then but decided I should be out in 88

1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 88

05/05/15 5:32 PM

the sticks. I moved to East Anglia, near Norwich, and that was

where I met Mary. She was an uncomplicated girl, from a modest

background, with simple needs. I’d long lost any desire for status or position. I was more interested in starting a family and striking out on my own. So with a small plot of land I began a market garden. I

taught myself everything. I’d read avidly into the early hours and

then spend the next day putting my learning into practice. And

shortly we had Robert. It would have been the most joyous day of

my life had the birth not been so difficult. From then on, there was little to report. I was building my business up and to be frank I spent most of my time on that. It does me no favours to say so, but I neglected Mary and Robert as the business became more successful.

Until, that is, she fell ill. It was a terrible few years, as she slowly became worse and worse. And then she was gone. I’ve never felt so

low in my life. That would have been the early 70s. Robert was

about fifteen. We grew apart – it must have been at least partly the grief we couldn’t express to one another – and eventually, when he was about nineteen, he left suddenly. That almost did me in, I can

tell you.’

He pauses.

‘What did you do then?’ she asks gently.

‘I sold up. I told myself I needed a new start. Moved back to Lon-

don. Got into property. And investment. It was the beginning of the boom years. That was a mistake. City folk. I got mixed up with the

wrong crowd. I was getting drunk every night and my so- called

partners were fleecing me left, right and centre. I was almost ruined.

Eventually I saw sense and in 1985 took what I had left and returned to Norfolk. I managed to buy a small nursery there from a chap I

used to know who was retiring, and that kept me going until I

retired myself. In fact it did quite well and I could live in some modest comfort. And that’s the whole story, more or less. Until you

came along.’

‘And Robert?’

‘He travelled the world and we had no contact until 1995. Then

out of the blue I had a letter from him from Australia. I don’t know how he found me again. Probably the internet. I’ve still not seen

89

1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 89

05/05/15 5:32 PM

him since we parted and we’re in touch only infrequently. He never

comes to England.’

‘Would you like to see him?’

‘Not really,’ says Roy. ‘We have so little in common. And I’m

afraid I’m unduly rigid when it comes to my moral standards. I

don’t approve of his lifestyle and I doubt I could reconcile myself to it. Best just to leave it as it is. Anyway, there you have it. I felt it only fair as we enter this new phase in our lives . . .’

‘The last movement, possibly,’ she says with a smile.

‘Yes. I felt you needed to know about me. I’m afraid my experi-

ences have made me rather taciturn. There’s little I can do about

that. I’ve simply learned not to trust people – not you, that goes without saying. I don’t like talking about myself, and that won’t

change. But if you have any questions . . .’

‘No,’ she says absently.

1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 90

05/05/15 5:32 PM

Flooding

1

A hard, hard frost. Like the whole of the last three months or so. So cold it became difficult to think. Especially on a Sunday morning

when you’d been dragged from your pit at no notice, from that

snug fastness into this. He shivered as he thought of it and yearned for his bed again.

Fog. Bitter blank freezing fog wafting across the Fens. There was

no wind. Snow remained thick on the ground, the snow of weeks

past, accumulated like memory. The roads had been cleared several

times but were coated in black ice yet again.

He leaned against the driver’s door of the lorry, his fingers numb

and shaking as he commanded them to light his cigarette. He was

on his own, waiting for Bob. Mr Cole had long ago left, taking the

lorry driver with him. This was something that required the deft

ministrations of Bob, and Mr Cole had not had the patience to wait.

‘You’ll be all right, won’t you, Roy?’ he’d said. ‘I’d better get the driver back to town. Took the poor bugger an hour to get to Old Ma

Forsyth’s and the phone.’ The poor bugger would probably be hun-

kering down by Mrs Cole’s stove and drinking her tea. More than

could be said for Roy at present.

It had taken them forty- five minutes to locate the vehicle down

the old King’s Lynn road, a solitary spot which on a day like today would hardly ever be passed. When he had broken down the driver

had simply struck out on foot for the nearest sign of habitation

without noting his location. The fog was almost impenetrable and

Mr Cole had inched the van along the road from Essenham village,

91

1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 91

05/05/15 5:32 PM

the driver sitting uncomfortably in the back and giving vague

instructions. He had little idea where the lorry was.

Eventually they had found it, straddling the main road. The driver

claimed he’d hit a patch of ice, braked and slid to an uncontrolled halt, stalling the engine in the process. He had been unable to restart it. Undoubtedly something as simple as a flooded carb; but Mr Cole

insisted that Roy wait for Bob. Presumably he could charge more

that way.

Bloody Norfolk, thought Roy. For the past five years he had been

a glorified odd job man in the village. The market garden in the

summer he enjoyed, but that was entirely seasonal. Mr Brown was

far too much of a mean sort to keep him on for the full year. So

when October came he was forced to search around for whatever

was available. More often than not Cole’s Garage was the only port

of call. Still, it kept him in beer and fags more or less. It was far from fulfilling a destiny, though. It was scratching a living.

A shudder ran up his spine and back down. Where was Bob,

effortlessly cheerful Bob, fifteen years younger than he, with optimism to burn and a wedding in the offing? Bob, the qualified

mechanic, who did have prospects, especially when Old King Cole

decided eventually to sell up and retire. Cole had a soft spot for Bob.

Roy he always regarded with curious suspicion, as if he had com-

mitted some infraction that Cole could not call precisely to mind. In fact Roy had been on his best behaviour since washing up here.

He tried again to light his cigarette and this time succeeded. He

sucked greedily at the paper tube and heard the crackle that was

little more than a rustle as it burned. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and observed it critically for a moment, teasing a stray fleck of tobacco from the unburning end with a numb finger and thumb.

The cigarette gave him at least the apparition of additional warmth.

Silence. That was the main thing about these parts at the best of

times. Stranded here in the middle of nowhere in a winter fog was

a world separated. A world of forlorn silence and isolation. It was as if he had died and his soul had been untethered. Not that he had

many ties, but now he felt unmoored entirely. He found this ener-

gizing rather than concerning: no safety nets but no constraints.

92

1ST_9780241206935_TheGoodLiar.indd 92

05/05/15 5:32 PM