The Good Liar (21 page)

It was the following Tuesday, sooner than he had imagined, that

Roy’s path again crossed that of Ernst Maier.

He had returned to town with Lord Stanbrook the previous day.

Walking through St James’s Park, he spotted them, leaning casually

against the railings, looking at him and smiling. They raised their hats and he attempted to pretend he had not noticed them. In his

peripheral vision he saw them move quickly, as if to intercept him

at the next junction of paths. He turned around and marched back

the way he had come, to return to the club.

They caught up with him, slightly out of breath, still smiling.

Maier wore the same cheap shiny suit that hung from his shoulders.

Roy recognized the other man, though he had not seen him in over

ten years. Then, in Berlin, he had been one of the Russian liaison

officers, a captain, Roy recalled. Karovsky.

Roy had little choice but to stop.

‘Did you forget something?’ asked Maier.

‘Sorry?’ said Roy.

‘I asked whether you’d forgotten something. You turned around

as if something had just occurred to you.’

His companion grinned at him, as if he had just told a priceless joke.

‘No. I mean . . . Why are you following me?’

‘We’re not.’ Maier affected an expression of wounded innocence.

‘Yuri and I were taking the air in your beautiful park. You happened to pass by. You do remember Yuri Ivanovich, don’t you?’

The other man spoke before Roy had a chance to respond. ‘Cap-

tain Courtnay, is it not?’ He paused and gave a bright, tinkling laugh.

Something was greatly amusing him. ‘We were both in Berlin at the

same time. Don’t you recall?’

Roy adopted a pleasant expression. ‘Why yes, of course. Differ-

ent context. No uniform.’ He extended his hand and Karovsky

shook it warmly. ‘Do you live in London now?’

‘No, just visiting,’ said Karovsky. ‘I often think back to those days after the war. We were all caught up in history, were we not?’

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His English had improved. Or perhaps it had always been this

good. Roy could recall a truculent officer who had insisted on laborious translations by his interpreter.

‘I suppose so,’ said Roy. ‘Heady days. Though I didn’t think of

them like that then. Things happened so quickly. What brings you

to London?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ said Karovsky vaguely, smiling. ‘I often think of your German interpreter and what happened to him. Dreadful

story. What was his name?’

‘Yes. Hans Taub. Dreadful.’

‘Have I ever told you about it, Ernst?’ said Karovsky, turning to

Maier. Maier nodded but Karovsky clearly needed to stick to his

script. ‘An awful affair. Our friend here and his colleague were going to arrest some minor Nazi. In our zone. I sent a team to support

them but it all went wrong. Poor . . . Hans, you say? Hans ended up dead in the firefight that erupted. We all saw our share of deaths in the war. But the war was over. Tragic. Just some crazy fascist.’ He shook his head and looked directly at Roy. ‘You’ve changed, Captain Courtnay,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure exactly how, but you’ve changed. I believe Ernst had a quiet chat with you at the weekend. You were

unconvinced. I trust you’ve not told anyone else about it?’

Roy said nothing.

‘I thought not. Then perhaps we can discuss the idea further. We

can offer you whatever assurances you require . . .’

‘I’m not interested,’ said Roy. ‘I’ve told you once.’ He began to

walk away.

Karovsky spoke more loudly. ‘We can offer you all the necessary

reassurances about your safety, and I think you understand what I

mean. Whereas if you choose not to speak to us those assurances

are, what do you say, off the table.’

Roy turned and walked up to Karovsky, red in the face, clenching

his fists by his side. ‘Did you hear me? I don’t need your reassur-

ances. I shall be reporting this to the police.’

A smartly dressed woman in a red dress looked at them and hur-

ried on. Karovsky’s face as he rolled back on to his heels retained its equable smile but Roy could see unease in his eyes.

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‘Come now,’ said Maier, the peacemaker. He put his hand on

Roy’s arm. Roy looked at it for a moment before Maier pulled it

away. They must know that Roy could swat them like flies if he

wished.

Karovsky had regained some of his composure. ‘Be reasonable,

please, Captain Courtnay. We’re in the centre of civilization, in

St James’s Park. I’m a senior Russian diplomat and it would be

unfortunate if the police had to deal with an assault by a member of Lord Stanbrook’s staff on one such as me. Unfortunate for you, I

mean. All kinds of misunderstandings could arise.’

Roy calmed, realizing his arms were half raised, ready to grab the

Russian by the lapels.

‘That’s better,’ said Karovsky. ‘All I want to do is to chat. I have some pictures from Berlin that you might like to look at. Why don’t we meet for dinner one evening this week? Then we can sort it all

out over a glass of wine and a good feed. I can assure you it is very much in your interest, Captain Courtnay.’

‘I’m not interested, I keep telling you.’

‘I heard you. But I must insist that if you’re looking to what’s best for you, you should come along. Listen, rather than detaining you here, I have a table booked at Galbraith’s fish restaurant tomorrow evening.

You do especially like fish, don’t you? Or was that your friend Hans? I can’t remember. I always got you confused. It was all so long ago and memory fades. The table’s booked for seven. I’ll see you there.’

In unison, the two men began walking briskly towards the near-

est exit, turning their heads to smile at each other as if sharing a joke. Roy stood for a moment before striding off in the opposite

direction. He had completely forgotten where he had been going.

He turned and headed back towards the club.

7

He did not go to Galbraith’s. He heard no more from Maier or

Karovsky. The sky did not fall in. Not immediately, that is.

Two days after the confrontation, Roy was reading the news-

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paper in the breakfast room of the London residence when he saw

the figure of David Millward, Lord Stanbrook’s political private secretary, silhouetted in the door frame as he moved past. Millward

returned and reappeared at the door. He leaned against the frame

and fingered it thoughtfully.

‘Morning, Roy,’ he said.

‘Morning, David. How goes it?’

The two of them had little to do with each other but enjoyed the

amicable relationship of passing acquaintances. Roy had no interest in politics and David seemed generally appreciative of the man who

kept their principal’s nose clean away from the hurly- burly of

government.

Millward beamed. ‘Never better. Just dropped by to pick up some

papers for the boss. Debate on arms purchasing this afternoon.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Roy and returned his attention to the newspaper.

‘Actually,’ said Millward with unaccustomed diffidence, ‘I won-

dered whether you might have time for a quick chat.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, this and that.’

Roy folded his newspaper and laid it neatly on the table.

‘Perhaps better in the boss’s study,’ said Millward. ‘You know . . .’

They walked together up the flight of stairs.

‘Terrific weather we’ve been having.’

‘Yes,’ said Roy.

‘A touch too hot in London, though. One craves the countryside

on days like this.’

‘Indeed. We’re off to Burnsford at the weekend.’

‘Oh really?’ Millward seemed slightly put out.

They took their seats in the study, Roy spreading his large frame

on the leather chesterfield and Millward sitting primly in one of the club chairs.

‘Well then,’ said Millward, ‘this is somewhat awkward.’

‘Yes?’ said Roy, blinking very slowly.

‘The boss has been contacted by those people who are paid to do

these things. Those people in the shadows. You know . . .’

‘I’m not sure I do.’

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‘The spooks.’

‘Ah.’

‘Well, it appears they’ve been following around some Russian

character who’s visiting London. And the other day they spotted

him with one of his East German associates talking to you. In

St James’s Park, to be precise.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. The German fellow is some kind of member of staff of

Count von Hessenthal. He was at Burnsford last weekend.’

‘Indeed. Ernst Maier.’

‘Exactly. Care to tell me what the chat was all about?’

‘Not really. I didn’t take to Maier. Then he and his pal bumped

into me in the park.’

‘It seems you had an altercation.’

‘Yes. I knew the Russian from my military service, in Vienna. He

wanted to resume the relationship. I didn’t want to. That’s all there was to it.’

‘I see. Quite straightforward, as you describe it. But I’m afraid it’s not that simple. The thing is, the spooks seem to think that you may have been asked to provide certain services.’

‘Services? What services?’

‘Come on, Roy. It’s not difficult to imagine, is it? You occupy a,

shall we say, delicate position. They’d no doubt see great value in suborning you.’

‘Well, they didn’t suborn me. I terminated the conversation. Your

spies should be able to tell you that.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Millward soothingly. ‘Very glad. But, you see, they do rather insist on speaking to you.’

Fear ran through Roy’s veins. ‘I think I’d prefer . . .’

‘I’m sure we all would. The boss doesn’t want those beggars

crawling through his affairs either. But they are insistent. It’s all rather . . .’

‘Awkward. I know. You said.’

‘There is an alternative way, though. The boss has managed to

negotiate a possible different solution.’

‘Which entails?’

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Millward leaned forward.

‘Well, Roy, it’s not ideal. But His Lordship has managed to agree

with these people that they will take it no further provided you terminate your employment with him and withdraw with appropriate,

um, discretion.’ He smiled minutely with the gratification of having lighted on an apposite word.

‘I’d rather stay on and take my chances,’ said Roy gruffly.

‘Well . . .’ The word was long and drawn out, and repeated. ‘Well,

I’m afraid we don’t see that as an option. And nor do those people.

This may be a bit of a blow, but I’m afraid that we’ve reached a bit of an impasse so far as your future employment with Lord Stanbrook is concerned.’

‘You’re sacking me?’

‘I think Lord Stanbrook prefers to think of it as letting you go.

With considerable regret, of course. He believes it’s the only pos-

sible way, in everyone’s interests, not least your own. He doesn’t

want to put you through all that, if at the end of it you may be compelled to resign anyway. And of course he himself must remain

unimpeachable. I’m afraid he can have no proximity to anything

that whiffs of espionage. I’m sure you can see the logic. So sorry, but that’s that.’

‘Can I at least speak to him to state my case?’

‘Afraid not. He’s in the House at present and there is this Bill to nurse through.’ Millward adopted an apologetic expression.

‘And should I decide to brazen it out?’

‘You’ve every right to do whatever you choose, of course. I was

simply trying to offer a solution that might be more, um, elegant,

and in your interests too. You’re completely at liberty to ignore my advice. I can’t predict the consequences.’

‘Would Lord Stanbrook keep me on?’

Millward smiled briefly. ‘I think we’re beyond that point. I’m

rather afraid you have to accept that your employ with His Lordship is at an end. I think that in the court of public opinion a dismissal in these particular circumstances would seem perfectly justified, given your contact with these individuals. But I very much hope it won’t

come to that.’

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Roy thought, his face impassive.

‘Of course,’ said Millward, ‘His Lordship would be suitably gen-

erous in view of your sterling efforts for him. He has seen fit to set work in train to secure you alternative employment. One of his

father’s former gardeners runs a small nursery in a delightful little Norfolk village. I’ve been so bold as to arrange that you could start there next Monday.’

‘I don’t have a clue about gardening.’

‘The position’s more one of general duties. It won’t be onerous

and the wages will be more than sufficient. And there’s one other

thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Lord Stanbrook is extremely grateful for all your hard work.

He’s authorized me to offer you appropriate financial compensa-

tion in lieu of notice and in recognition of your loyalty. I’ve made out a cheque. The job offer and the remuneration are, so to speak,

a package. They go together.’

With his spindly fingers, he deftly drew out a piece of paper from

his inside pocket, placing it on the low table in front of the couch.

Without touching it, Roy leaned forward and looked at it,

expressionless.

‘And how long would I have? When would I need to clear out?’