The Good Liar (7 page)

He was interrupted by the arrival of Vincent, with his recogniz-

able hesitant knock on the door. He could remember him as a young

man. That shyness, that diffidence, had not changed. But there had

been something else, a spark visible seemingly to Roy alone beneath the faltering exterior of the accountant. Roy unlocked the door and let him in.

‘You’ve been careful?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Drink?’

‘Uh, no. I won’t, thanks. I’m driving.’

Vincent did not look pleased, either with himself or with the suc-

cess of their caper. He looked mildly frayed, as if in a state of

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confused agitation. Roy was not concerned, for this seemed to be

Vincent’s stock expression. It was, in part, what made him success-

ful in this game. Few would credit that this cautious, conventional bean counter was capable of the necessary deceptions. Vincent

brought monochrome stability to the Technicolor of Roy’s grand

vistas.

‘Oh well,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s all done.’

Oh well indeed, thought Roy.

‘No problems?’

‘None that I know of. Barry rang me to say he’d finished up in

Sevenoaks and was on the train back.’

‘Nice touch that, you phoning Dave in the pub.’

‘Thought it might just add something to the mix,’ said Vincent

without smiling. ‘Been learning from you. Maybe some of the star-

dust is rubbing off on to me.’

Roy laughed. ‘All the finances sorted out?’

‘The transfer’s gone through,’ replied Vincent. ‘The money’s in

the account. I checked last thing this afternoon. Just need to wait until the dust has settled before moving it on.’

‘Fine.’

‘And then?’

‘Plan A, I reckon. Unless there’s any reason to change.’

‘Not that I can see. We wrap it all up as soon as possible.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And then?’

‘And then it seems I hang up my boots and ride off into the sun-

set, if that’s not mixing metaphors. You get on with a glittering

career.’

‘Can’t see it happening. Surely you’re not really jacking it in?’

‘Oh, I am. Believe me. I plan to enjoy life while I still can.’ Roy smiled.

‘Well,’ said Vincent, ‘I’ll believe that when I see it. But then again I won’t, will I? Maybe you just want to branch out on your own

again.’

‘No,’ said Roy with feeling. ‘If I did anything in the future it

would be with you. I’d need your help. No. I’m retiring. Really.’

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There was a finality in his voice that deterred Vincent from

continuing.

‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Until next time.’

They had a little more business to conduct, but each was aware

that the next times would be few.

Vincent left and Roy tidied up to fill in time before his own departure. Habit and prudence, a word coming into fashion, saw him take

the precaution of wiping surfaces of fingerprints. He handed the

key in at reception and quickly made his way back to his own hotel

room.

4

Plan A had been invoked. Vincent rang each of the other members

of the syndicate, indicating evenly that they needed to meet as

something had come up. Each in turn had reacted with alarm.

‘No, no need to worry,’ he said. ‘It’s not that. But I’d prefer not to use the phone.’

They had standing provisions for an emergency meeting. The

arrangement was that they would meet at a certain golf club, a neu-

tral, not to say anonymous venue just outside the M25, over a

morning coffee. Bernie and Martin had brought golf clubs and just

completed a rather dank round on a cool, misty September morn-

ing by the time the others arrived. Bryn had taken the precaution of hiring a car rather than using his own. Dave had booked the private meeting room that doubled as the club’s committee chamber.

Vincent was the last to arrive, entering the room in his account-

ant’s grey suit and black tie with a solemn expression that presaged bad news and evoked foreboding in the others. The bustle around

the coffee pot ceased. Teaspoons were held mid- air.

‘Where’s Roy?’ interrupted Bernie when Vincent sought to com-

mence proceedings.

‘I’ll come on to that in a moment,’ replied Vincent calmly. ‘But

first a situation report on the deal. I wanted to reassure you all that everything’s on track. There’ve been no hiccups and it’s simply a

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question of waiting out the agreed period before we access the

account and distribute the profits.’

There was a palpable easing of tension in the room. Shoulders

relaxed and the darting glances between the principals ceased.

Bernie took a sip of his coffee.

‘So?’ said Bryn.

‘So,’ said Vincent, taking his time and looking down at the green

blotter on the table in front of him. ‘So, there is a reason nonetheless for gathering you all together for this meeting. I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding Roy.’

He paused for effect.

‘I’ve pieced most of this together speaking to his wife recently.’

‘His wife?’ asked Dave.

‘Yes. I received a call from her recently. Apparently she found my

mobile number among Roy’s things. I’ve had a few conversations

with her over the past few days. It seems Roy hadn’t been feeling

too well in recent weeks. She said she’d been trying to get him to go to the doctor’s but he hated anything to do with the medical profession. Besides, he said he was too busy. It must have been the period when we were finalizing the deal.’

They knew what was coming.

‘It seems that Roy had a prostate scare in his fifties. He was eventually given the all clear but warned that it required monitoring.

Which is why his wife was so insistent on his seeing a doctor when

it flared up again. But anyway. One evening – I think it must have been the day we finished the deal – he simply didn’t come home.’

‘He was complaining about his prostate,’ said Dave.

‘Was he really?’ said Vincent. ‘Anyway, she rang round all the Lon-

don hospitals and apparently he had been admitted to St Thomas’.

She didn’t get to see him before he died.’

‘You sure he’s not just done a runner?’ asked Bryn.

‘Well,’ said Vincent drily, ‘there is the small matter of the body.

His wife identified him. He couldn’t have done a flit from the Grim Reaper. And what would be the point anyway? The way we’re positioned now, he’d have a lot more to lose than gain.’

‘Where does this leave us?’ asked Martin.

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‘Nothing changes,’ said Vincent. ‘Apart, that is, from what to do

with Roy’s share of the proceeds. His wife, of course . . .’

They considered for a moment.

‘It’s our choice entirely,’ added Vincent. ‘The money still belongs legally to the company and hasn’t been paid over to individuals.

There’s nothing in the contracts to indicate an obligation to pay

over to the estate in the event of a death. But we may feel some

moral obligation . . .’

There was a pause for reflection.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Martin. ‘It could complicate matters for her.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bryn. ‘How would we explain it all to her? Let alone

to the solicitors dealing with the estate?’

‘Way too complicated,’ added Bernie.

‘Knowing Roy, he’ll have left her well provided for,’ said Dave.

It was settled.

‘Well then,’ said Vincent, ‘we just wait the prescribed time and

meet up again. In the City, I’d suggest, at the branch where the

account is held. Any two of you can authorize the transfer. As you’ll recall, I can’t be one of the two. If you’re happy I’ll tee it up with the bank in a couple of weeks’ time. I have the list of your nominated

accounts. Let me know if anything changes.’

They agreed the plan.

‘Fine man, Roy,’ said Martin. ‘He was good to do business with

and fun to be around. I owed him a lot. At least he went out on a

high.’

‘A diamond,’ agreed Dave. ‘Always brought his mates in on a

piece of business. We’ll miss him.’

‘Sound as a pound,’ murmured Bernie in approbation, his mind

apparently on other matters.

Bryn and Vincent did not contribute to the eulogy. Vincent was

drily businesslike.

‘The funeral is on Thursday apparently. Short service in Leyton-

stone, cremation at Wanstead and then drinks at his home. I haven’t got the details yet. His wife and her daughter are trying to piece it all together. She’s promised to ring me tonight. Give me a call

tomorrow or the day after if you’d like to show your respects.’

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They replied, almost in mumbling choral unison, in the affirma-

tive. Vincent knew none of them would call. Like to be there, each

would reason to himself, but it’d just confuse matters. Better to

leave Roy in peace and his family to grieve privately.

He knew that this would be the last time he saw these men.

5

One final conference was required between Vincent and Roy before

it was all wrapped up. They met in St Albans of all places, in the

lobby of an august old hotel.

Roy had rented a car from a limousine service to take him from

his flat. The driver waited outside in the car.

Roy was content with his new apartment but felt it was not yet

home. Accustomed since childhood to a peripatetic existence, he

did not crave a sense of belonging or even, particularly, connection.

But a feeling of familiarity short of contempt would, he hoped,

come, and be pleasant. After all, he had to accustom himself to a

different life.

‘Retirement seems to suit you,’ said Vincent once they had

greeted each other.

Vincent was not one normally given to compliments. Roy looked

back at him in initial bewilderment, but then smiled. They went to

the bar, which was dark and overdue a refurbishment and smelt of

the sour beer of several decades.

They took their coffees, which had the unusual distinction of

being at the same time bitter and insipid, to a corner booth. They

were brisk in their dealings. They would shortly attend the central London bank branch where their joint account was held. They

would authorize the transfer of the money to their respective per-

sonal accounts. The appointment had been confirmed. Roy would

book his car service once more for the dash into London, have his

driver wait outside for the five minutes or so it would take. Then it would be in the car and back to Surrey. Dear old London, he would

think. His London, which had sustained him for all those years,

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even when he was away, waiting for him like a faithful but still glamorous girl. Even before he first came here. Little had he known that his fate would be determined mainly in this great city with its glis-tering silver artery, the Thames.

In the meantime Vincent would sign the letters that they had

drafted carefully months ago and send them to their post office

boxes, those grenades that would explode on the breakfast tables of Bernie, Dave, Martin and Bryn.

I’m sorry to inform you, they began. Sadly our Russian clients

appear to have been not entirely what they claimed . . . Unfortunate that we failed to discover this earlier . . . Have been confidentially informed of an Interpol investigation into their activities . . . Bank accounts being monitored, according to my sources . . . None of us

would want any involvement with criminality or anything remotely

improper . . . Our bank will remain rock solid in respect of client confidentiality . . . However, I suggest it would be prudent at present to remain well clear of the joint trading account . . . Need to maintain a low profile for a short period while the dust settles . . .

Took the unusual step of writing rather than ringing as thought this was the safest option in the circumstances . . . Probably sensible also not to retain this letter . . . Will call in the next couple of days, however, to confirm receipt . . . Love and kisses, V. Or words to that effect.

Roy and Vincent knew what would happen. Vincent, for form,

would call each of their numbers, his script before him. Each of the mobile telephones would have been cut off, the instruments

dropped as if on fire, as quickly as the post office box accounts

would have been closed. Each would be sitting in his luxury

detached, contemplating proceedings and a potential jail sentence.

The imperative would be to cut losses, not maximize profits or seek revenge. None would give the others a second thought but would

seethe at the loss of his nest egg and his impotence to do anything about it. These were not organized criminals but a bunch of

second- rate chancers with hardly an idea between them and no

resort to investigative or retributive resources. Their collective

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competence had resided in Roy alone. They might suspect Roy was

not dead, but even if they did there was little they could do. They had no networks other than their pals at their golf clubs or at the Rotary Club and still less could they approach the authorities.

Chapter over, thought Roy as he climbed into his car. Book