The Good Liar Read online

  THE GOOD LIAR

  NICHOLAS SEARLE

  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?

  What has he had to do to survive a life of lies?

  And who has had to pay the price?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nicholas Searle grew up in Cornwall and studied

  languages at the universities of Bath and Göttingen.

  He is not allowed to say more about his career than

  that he was a Senior Civil Servant for many years before

  deciding to leave in 2011 and begin writing fiction.

  The Good Liar is his first novel. He lives in Yorkshire.

  This uncorrected advance proof is made available on a confidential basis and may not be sold or otherwise circulated.

  The appearance and contents of this proof may not resemble the finished book and under no circumstances may it or any of its contents be reproduced before publication of the finished book without the publisher’s consent.

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  The Good Liar

  Nicholas Searle

  VIKING

  an imprint of

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  VIKING

  UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia

  India | New Zealand |South Africa

  Viking is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies

  whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  First published 2016

  001

  Copyright © Nicholas Searle, 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Set in 12/14.75 pt Dante MT Std

  Typeset by Jouve (UK), Milton Keynes

  Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library hardback isbn : 978– 0– 241– 20693– 5

  trade paperback isbn: 978– 0– 241– 20694– 2

  www.greenpenguin.co.uk

  Penguin Random House is committed to a

  sustainable future for our business, our readers

  and our planet

  book is made from Forest

  Stewardship Council® certified paper.

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  For C, always

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  Chapter One

  Nom de guerre

  1

  It is, Roy thinks, perfect. Kismet, serendipity, destiny, happenstance; call it what you will. All of these things rolled into one. He is not sure he believes in fate, or whether he believes in anything but the very present. Then again, life has treated him well generally.

  He stands and does the walk of his flat, checking that the win-

  dows are secure and the appliances are switched off correctly. He

  pats the chest of his blazer, which hangs on the back of the door: yes, his wallet is there. His keys lie ready on the console table in the hall.

  This lady at any rate seems heaven- sent, at least from the résumé he has called up on the screen. At long last. He knows to anticipate the minor alterations, those moments when a slight imperfection is

  turned by a clever choice of words or a simple ever- so- small fi b into a positively positive attribute. This is human nature. He doubts, for example, that her name is truly Estelle, any more than his is Brian.

  In his view such inconsequential tweaks are to be expected and

  accepted. They oil the cogs. When they are revealed, he will be suitably tolerant and amused at these minor embellishments. Unlike

  the rather larger lies you often confront, he thinks as he places the tea bag in the recycling bin, rinses his cup and saucer and places

  them, upturned, on the draining board.

  He takes a breath and powers the computer down, pushing the

  chair neatly under the desk. He has been here before, hopes held high.

  With this transitory reflection comes a momentary weariness. Those

  dreadful meetings in Beefeaters and Tobys around the Home Coun-

  ties with frumpy old women in whom the bitterness of their long

  unfulfilled marriages with underachieving and uninspiring husbands

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  has in widowhood seemingly become the seed of a sense of licence to lie at will. For them there is no legacy of happy memories or the

  material benefit of platinum pensions in leafy Surrey mansions. They reside in poky terraces that no doubt smell of fried food, eking out an existence on state handouts, cursing Bert, or Alf, or whoever it may be, and contemplating a stolen life. They are out for what they can get now, by whatever means. And who can blame them really?

  Quick inspection. Immaculate white shirt: yes. Creases of grey

  flannels: perfect. Spit- shined shoes: gleaming. Regimental stripe tie: well knotted. Hair: combed neatly. Blue blazer off hanger, and on.

  Fits like a glove. Glance in the mirror: he’d pass for seventy, sixty at a pinch. He looks at the time. The cab should be here shortly. The

  train journey from Paddington will take only thirty minutes or so.

  For those desperate women, this is an escape. An adventure. For

  Roy, this dating lark is something different: a professional enter-

  prise. He does not allow himself to become light entertainment or

  to let them down gently. He fixes them with his blue eyes before

  dismantling them forensically. He skewers them. He has done his

  homework and lets them know.

  ‘I thought you said you were five foot six and slim,’ he may say

  with incredulity, but is delicate enough not to add: rather than a clini-cally obese dwarf. ‘Not much like your photo, are you? Was it taken a few years back, dear?’ (He doesn’t add the postscript: perhaps of your better- looking sister.) ‘You live near Tunbridge Wells, you say. More Dartford really, isn’t it?’ Or, ‘So what you mean by holidaying in Europe is a package trip once a year with your sister to Benidorm?’

  If, as planned, he is second to the venue, he will usually conduct

  a discreet first reconnaissance pass to size things up. When con-

  fronted with the familiarly depressing he could simply leave without introducing himself. It is all so predictable. But he never does. He regards it as his duty to shatter their hopeless delusions. They will be the better for it, eventually. Beginning with his usual winning

  smile and gallant greeting, he will segue rapidly into what has

  become something of a core script.

  ‘One of the things I dislike intensely,’ he says, ‘is dishonesty.’

  Generally they smile and nod meekly.

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  ‘So, with apologies and with the odd unpleasant experience

  behind me’ – another smile, and this is as gentle as it gets – ‘let’s cut to the chase, shall we?’

  Generally another nod, probably no smile, and a shift in the seat

  that he notices but perhaps others wouldn’t.

  He is punctilious in splitting the bill when it is over and unam-

  biguous about the fut
ure. No insincere pleasantries. ‘Not what I

  was expecting at all,’ he will say with a weary shake of the head. ‘Oh no. What a shame. If only you’d been clearer. If only you’d described yourself more . . . accurately, shall we say? We could have both

  avoided wasting our energy. Which at our time of life’ – here a brief twinkle of the eye and the hint of a smile to show what they will be missing – ‘we can ill afford to do. If only . . .’

  He hopes today he will not have to deploy these measures. But if

  so he will have discharged his duty to himself, to the unfortunate

  other and to the system that mismatches the hopeless with the delu-

  sional and, he believes, is in severe danger of bringing itself into disrepute. All those misspent hours drinking Britvic, all that effort put into stilted conversation over glistening mixed grills and

  mass- produced microwaved beef and ale pies or vegetable bakes or

  tikka masalas, all those awkward goodbyes with false promises of

  future contact. Not for him. Still less, all those doomed couplings in the search for a final day in the sun.

  Roy is not a pessimist, though. Brace up, be positive. Each time

  he starts afresh, hopeful. This time will be different, he tells himself, glossing over the fact that he has said this to himself several times before. But his sense is that it won’t be the same.

  The taxi is here. He straightens his back, smiles to himself and

  locks the door before striding to the waiting car.

  2

  Betty makes her final preparations, careful to keep her excitement

  in check. Stephen will run her to the pub and wait outside, so she

  has no practical concerns. No flush of heat as the train runs

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  dangerously late. No undue ache in the hips as she rushes inele-

  gantly up the high street. No risk of a post- meeting sense of

  discomposure affecting her ability to find her way home again. And

  Stephen will be there should she feel an unexpected need to termin-

  ate the meeting early.

  They will have to set off in a few minutes, Stephen has told her as a result of his researches of his Google and his satnav gizmo. She

  can manage the internet but there are so many things about it that

  bamboozle her. What, for example, is a tweet? How on earth did we

  survive without all these devices? Or, more the point, why do young people so depend on them?

  She can hear Stephen padding around the lounge. He seems

  more nervous than she is; how sweet. While she applies her lipstick she looks at herself in the mirror. There will be no last- minute anxieties. The blue floral dress she has selected will serve perfectly well and sets off her fair hair, which is cut in a bob as fashionable as can be carried off at her age. She will not exchange the delicate silver necklace or its partner brooch for something more obvious like

  pearls. She will not opt for more – or less – sensible shoes. She will not require a final emboldening cup of coffee.

  Betty does not consider herself to be a flutterer. She is calm; real-istic too, she likes to think. Once justifiably described as beautiful, she accepts with, she hopes, good grace the effects of time. She

  prefers to think of them as mere effects, not ravages. Though she

  retains a certain radiance, she is no longer beautiful. She cannot pretend to be despite the glossies’ determined attempts to create and

  capture a new silver market. Perhaps she is something different,

  nameless and ageless.

  She clicks the top back on the tube of lipstick, rolls her lips

  together to ensure the correct coverage, fingers the necklace, gently touches her hair and gives herself one final look. She is ready.

  She glances at her watch: five minutes ahead of time. Stephen greets her with a delicate and decorous embrace when she enters the

  lounge.

  ‘You look fabulous,’ he says, and she thinks he means it.

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  3

  Stephen drives more sedately in the rain than he might other-

  wise. Even more sedately, that is, since at the best of times he is not a confident driver. He drives slowly for himself, to steady his nerves, and not for her benefit. She is a resilient person, clearly much more resilient than he is despite their respective ages. She

  has lived a life rather than simply studying how others have lived

  theirs. A feisty old bird, some might say, but not he. He could

  not imagine anything less fitting. He would not use such lan-

  guage and anyway it would be inaccurate. She is fragile, though

  not sparrow- like, with features of porcelain and proportions of

  fine slenderness. It is her constitution that is strong. Unbreakable, he’d say.

  They set off early to avoid any risk of lateness. He noses achingly slowly out of junctions, keeps studiously ten miles an hour below

  the speed limit and observes the strictures of traffic signs with an exaggerated obeisance. This is an important day, for her, for him.

  ‘You’re not at all nervous?’ he asks.

  ‘A little,’ she replies. ‘Not really, though. But it’s easier for me, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’m doing it. Not waiting. Watching. I’ll be there. You’ll be outside in the car. Helpless.’

  ‘But you’ll be in there. With him. Who knows what he’ll be like?

  What it’ll be like for you?’ He smiles.

  ‘That’s precisely it. It makes things easier. Truly. You don’t see, do you? How could you? I’m past the age when anything really matters, least of all what I say or do. I can be as outrageous as I want with impunity. I’m a dangerous quantity. I’m beyond embarrassment. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. I’ll live to fight another day.’

  ‘You’re remarkable,’ he says. ‘Brave.’

  ‘Not really. What can happen? A drink and a bite with no doubt

  the perfect gentleman in a busy country pub. With my knight in

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  shining armour waiting outside gripping his mobile phone. What

  can possibly happen?’

  He smiles and turns off the motorway on to the slip road.

  4

  ‘Estelle,’ she says, extending her hand, and her eyes twinkle as she smiles.

  ‘Brian,’ he replies. ‘Delighted.’

  She has found him. An appropriate ten minutes after the

  appointed time, owing to some judicious circling of the neighbour-

  hood by Stephen, accompanied by glances at the building, newly

  constructed to look old, lit brightly in the March midday gloom.

  To Roy, she is instantly recognizable. Of medium height, slight,

  young for her age, something of the gamine about her, an amused,

  delighted expression and those engaging eyes. Lovely hair. A stun-

  ning dress that shows off her figure. A real head- turner in her time no doubt. The photograph on the website did not lie. His slight

  annoyance that she was not there before him evaporates. He

  approves. Oh yes. Very much so.

  ‘Now, what can I get you to drink?’ he asks.

  ‘I’d love a . . . vodka martini,’ she says.

  She does not know why; the notion has just slipped into her head.

  Such impetuousness will not do for the next hour or two. Control

  and discipline.

  ‘Shaken or stirred?’ he says with a smile and a raise of the eye-

  brow. Rather different from the customary sad small sherry, he
/>   thinks.

  ‘Ha ha,’ she says.

  He orders her drink, suggests they sit and carries their glasses to table number 16.

  ‘How did you recognize me?’ he asks.

  ‘I came in, looked around and there you were, standing at the

  bar. Tall, distinguished, smart, just as you described. Your photo-

  graph is very much like you.’

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  This is not so very far from the truth, she reasons. In fact in a sea of – seemingly – sixteen- year- old thrusting sales executives he was not difficult to pick out.

  ‘Wizzywig,’ he says.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What you see is what you get. I do exactly what it says on the tin.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘how very disappointing.’ She smiles as if to

  reassure him that she is flirting.

  ‘Ho ho ho,’ he booms after a short pause, his shoulders heaving.

  ‘Very good. I can see you’re trouble. We’re going to get on fam-

  ously.’ He appraises her frankly. ‘Oh yes.’

  They order their food, she a vegetarian pasta, he steak, egg and

  chips. Between mouthfuls of plastic conchigliette smeared with

  processed baby- food vegetables and a stringy cheese sauce she considers him more fully. He is indeed tall and broad- shouldered, with a shock of white hair swept back from a florid face on which the

  tributaries of blood vessels map a complex topography. The hair is

  tamed with hair cream and plastered down neatly behind the ears.

  His eyes are striking, alarming almost, the light blue of the irises set in their ovoid milky frames against the sea of reddening skin, watch-ful, darting even as they focus on her face. Were it not for the watery, diluted quality of age she might be afraid of him; indeed she is a

  little afraid.

  At one point he was a commanding presence, she thinks: tall and

  authoritative. He still holds himself that way, but at the same time there is an undisguisable physical slump. The shoulders are rounded and the eyes contain a recognition that he cannot, after all, deny

  mortality. The evidence is now all too compelling and carries

  disappointment as the decay of physical and mental function accel-

  erates. She knows something of how he must feel, though she

  has never been imposing: vivacious perhaps, but not infused with