The Good Liar

by Nicholas Searle

  been lessons to learn, however. He had left himself far too much at the mercy of Weber’s honesty in completing his side of the deal.

  There should have been checks and balances to make sure he deliv-

  ered on his commitments. He had emerged wiser.

  And of course his mother. Most unfortunate. At this distance it is

  the only formulation that feels appropriate. Perhaps devoid of the

  emotion that he should have lavished on the woman who had given

  him life, but honest nonetheless. In truth he had been an inconvenience to her, shrugged absently out of her womb in the middle of

  her theorizing and agitating. She had tried to educate him politic-

  ally at an early age, without success. Konrad had been the more

  romantic and traditional of the two. He had held the reluctant

  Renate to him while she looked impatient; and he had cared for

  little Hansi most of the time.

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  in the hospital and he had fully expected to be consigned to some

  institution. In Betty’s shoes he would have shunted her off before

  you could say Jack Robinson. Full marks to her, though. Even in

  recovery his hands shake and he continues to fail to tease the pointed end of the cufflink through the eyelet that seems smaller today than it has ever been. He is becoming irritated.

  He sighs: oh, what he has lived through, certainly in comparison

  with the likes of Betty. His father had later discovered that Renate was arrested the day after they left Germany. Weber had adhered

  strictly to the letter of their agreement. The rest was predictable: the show trial, the reports in the Völkischer Beobachter and the con-viction. Perhaps less obvious was the hardening of attitudes inside Germany in the period between her arrest and her sentencing. In

  May 1939 she was executed by firing squad at the Spandau barracks.

  What more was there to be said, or thought? It had been unfortu-

  nate, but precipitated by his parents’ wilful stupidity. Now he has little trace memory of his mother.

  He pulls off the shirt in frustration and throws it on to the bed.

  By good planning he has another crisply ironed shirt on a hanger in the wardrobe, this one with buttons instead of the pesky double

  cuffs. He stands for a moment in front of the mirror in his vest. Oh dear. The sagging dugs. The grey flesh of his biceps hanging like

  flags from his arms. The redness of his face. The milk- yellow of his irises. The corn- like texture of the white hair. It is happening.

  They had been taken to Scotland to a country house, where,

  while his father was debriefed by Birch, the former second secre-

  tary at the British Embassy in Berlin and now a middle- ranking

  functionary in British intelligence, he was looked after by a kindly housekeeper. Eventually Birch had worked out what to do with

  them and he was sent to boarding school in Herefordshire for

  the beginning of the spring term. His father went to London to

  write propaganda at the BBC and to swim in the sea of German

  political and intellectual émigrés, looking among them for Nazi

  spies. In the school holidays Hans stayed with his father in his small Putney flat.

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  Albert Schröder’s arrest and trial also attracted press attention. It was announced that he had been found guilty and executed. Word

  came through the émigré networks that his family had been taken

  into protective custody, a well- understood euphemism. The next

  events would have followed with cold inevitability. No one spoke

  again of the Schröders, the favoured family with all the advantages who had somehow fallen foul of the regime.

  He brings himself up again and puffs out his chest. He ties his tie carefully and brushes his hair. It may be near but he is still here, full of life and power. It is almost time to take the stage.

  Following the outbreak of war Konrad Taub was classed as a cat-

  egory C German, posing no security risk, and he remained in his job.

  In 1940 the situation changed dramatically as Germany approached

  the English coast and the Blitz began. All German nationals were

  interned and Taub was no exception. Birch managed to ensure that

  Hans remained at his school, and worked to overcome the bureau-

  cracy and have Konrad released into his custody. Too slowly, however: Konrad committed suicide in October 1940, in despair and grief, it is to be presumed. The funeral was a difficult affair, attended by sundry émigrés and the solitary figure of Birch, who tried to avoid

  talking to the other mourners. It was with Birch that he exchanged

  those awkward condolences – it seemed that Birch was more

  affected than he, who thought that his father’s suicide was a sign of weakness – and it was Birch who continued to pay the bills at his

  school and later found him gainful employment as an interpreter.

  He had then taken care to distance himself from the gaunt, sad old

  bachelor with his drooping moustache.

  The life he has led, he reflects as he makes his last preparations, splashing a little cologne over his cheeks. He is ready, spruce and alert, to face the moment.

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  2

  ‘Sunday best, Roy?’ says Stephen, a smart- alec grin on his face.

  ‘Come now, Stephen,’ says Betty. ‘Best behaviour. We ancient

  people always dress up when something important’s happening.

  Can’t you see I’ve made an effort too?’

  She is too indulgent towards the boy. ‘Some of us have certain

  standards,’ he says caustically. He notices that Stephen is in his customary jeans and T- shirt, hair all over the place.

  ‘What time is Vincent due?’ asks Betty.

  ‘Should be here shortly,’ replies Stephen.

  While Betty checks that the table is ready, with pens and teacups,

  and that the tin is full of those expensive foil- wrapped biscuits, he stands, a little unsteady on his feet, and glares into Stephen’s eyes.

  This takes the smile off his face.

  The doorbell rings and Stephen lets Vincent in.

  They seat themselves at the table, the two investors on one side

  and Vincent and Stephen on the other, to commence their momen-

  tous piece of business.

  Vincent takes out a series of papers. He really is good at this theatre. The documents are professionally produced and have the right

  language. Vincent walks them solemnly through the forms, care-

  fully pointing out clauses and subclauses that may or may not be

  relevant and explaining the legalese for Betty’s and, ostensibly, Roy’s benefit. They nod their heads periodically, though Roy is certain

  that Betty has not followed matters at all. She is precisely where Roy and Vincent need her to be.

  Stephen is a little more of a problem. Ineffectual he may be,

  but Vincent has told him that the young man is bright and obser-

  vant. He has followed the paperwork carefully and checked the

  financial institutions. At one stage Roy and Vincent had con-

  sidered creating a dummy account in a non- existent tax- haven bank so that Betty could happily deposit through a third party and Roy

  could avoid the inconvenience of stake money – much less than

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  Betty was being asked to stump up but a not insignificant sum

  nevertheless. Owing to Stephen’s attentions they had judged this

  too risky. Vincent regarded the traditional old go- to, the ubiquitous rubber cheque, as implausible in these connected times. There was

  nothing for it, then, but to shell out. Against Roy’s instincts, but needs must.

  ‘All right, then,’ says Vincent. ‘Are we ready to sign the forms?’

  He holds out his ballpoint pen. Roy shuns it, reaching into his

  inner pocket for his expensive fountain pen.

  ‘A touch of style, I think, is required,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Betty, a broad smile on her face. ‘We must do things in style. We need to become accustomed to it.’

  They each have their sheaf of papers to sign. Betty waits while he

  works his way through his, his hand shaking, his signature unsteady and spidery. He hands Betty his pen when he has finished and she

  signs with her neat hand. It is then Stephen’s turn, to sign as witness to the proceedings, and Vincent pores over the documents one

  more time to check that there are no errors.

  ‘Good,’ he says finally. ‘Shall we effect the transfers?’

  Vincent removes his laptop from his briefcase and switches it on.

  Stephen fetches Betty’s laptop.

  ‘Have you both set up the transfers with your banks?’ asks Vincent.

  ‘Yes,’ they both reply.

  ‘Then all there is to do is to confirm them. They will take place

  instantaneously.’

  ‘Shall I go first?’ says Roy, smiling. He knows that it will reinforce the genuine nature of the transaction if he puts his money in before her. ‘You know how to do it, Vincent?’

  ‘Of course. You’ll have to put in your passwords, but I’ll tell you which buttons to press.’

  ‘Hopeless, I am,’ he says. ‘You can’t teach an old dog.’

  Watched closely by Stephen, Vincent navigates to the home

  page of Roy’s bank. He carries his laptop to the other side of

  the table. Betty, Stephen and Vincent avert their eyes while Roy

  logs in and allows Vincent to navigate to the page they are looking for. Roy watches, grinning – he hopes sufficiently inanely – as 212

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  Vincent says, ‘Right then, Roy. All you have to do is to go through this little menu.’

  ‘Menu?’ he says. ‘Ridiculous word.’

  ‘All right. Now. “Do you wish to make this transaction?” If you

  do, put the cursor in the “yes” box and click.’

  He obeys dutifully, moving the cursor with the mouse painfully

  slowly and, he hopes, with evident lack of expertise.

  ‘Now. “Do you wish to confirm this payment?” Click “yes” again.

  Or of course “no” if you have any last- minute concerns. This is the point of no return.’

  Quickly, he clicks on “yes”.

  ‘All done,’ says Vincent, returning to his seat. ‘Now, Betty, would you like to do the same? Meanwhile, I’ll log on to the Hayes and

  Paulsen site.’

  ‘Hayes and Paulsen?’ asks Betty.

  ‘The British Virgin Islands bank,’ says Stephen patiently.

  ‘Of course. My memory.’

  She beckons Stephen over. Careful, thinks Roy. Mustn’t show too

  much interest. No chance of that. Years of experience.

  Betty points and clicks intently as she gains access to her own

  bank account, with Stephen guiding her over her shoulder, and

  eventually she has finished. She looks up expectantly.

  ‘Remember to log off,’ says Stephen.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says in her ditziest voice. ‘Silly me.’

  ‘All right, then,’ says Vincent, standing again and placing his laptop on the table between Betty and Roy. ‘I’ll log on to Hayes and

  Paulsen now.’ He plays with a little keypad, the size of a calculator, he has produced from his pocket. Betty looks at him quizzically but he ignores her.

  ‘Now then. You can see here the current balance at Hayes and

  Paulsen.’ He clicks another link. ‘And here is the list of transfers into the account. You can see that both of your transfers are there.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness for that,’ says Betty.

  Roy observes her wryly.

  ‘You can both log into the account,’ says Vincent. ‘All I have to do is to take you through how to set up your logins.’

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  He takes two envelopes from his briefcase and hands one to each

  of them. They contain a set of instructions and a keypad, which, he says, is central to the process. Roy has been taken through this several times already but acts suitably dumb as Vincent runs through it again, prompting him to think up and remember passwords as he

  creates his online access.

  ‘I don’t know why we’re doing this, Vincent,’ he says when they

  have finished. ‘I can’t use a computer for toffee and I’ll never remember all that. I don’t even own a computer.’

  ‘It’s important that you and Betty, as my clients, have twenty-

  four- hour access to the account. You need to be able to check the

  balance whenever you wish. Call it form if you wish, but it’s

  important.’

  Too right it’s important. But he simply looks at Betty and shrugs.

  ‘What did I say, Betty? He’s a stickler. A real stickler.’

  Betty too is taken through the process, slightly bewildered it

  appears to him.

  ‘Well then,’ says Vincent. ‘We’re all set up. With these little devices you can log into the account at any time. You have full access, but please don’t make any withdrawals without speaking to me because

  at any stage I may be moving money around on your behalf to make

  investments. I also have access as your broker. You can see how much remains in the joint account and every so often money will come

  back into it. I will provide you with periodic profit and loss statements so that you know exactly how your investments are doing.’

  ‘Profit and loss?’ says Stephen.

  ‘A figure of speech. Loss will not come into it, provided my judge-

  ments are correct. But I’ve explained the risk factors in depth.’

  Betty sighs. ‘Phew. I’m glad that’s all over. It’s given me a bit of a headache. Time to celebrate, I think.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Roy.

  Betty fetches glasses from the cabinet and chilled champagne

  from the fridge. She asks Stephen to uncork the champagne and

  pours four glasses.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says Roy.

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ says Vincent. ‘I’m driving.’

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  They toast each other and drink happily, while Vincent places the

  signed forms in clear plastic folders, puts his laptop into its protective case and slots his pens into their designated places in his briefcase.

  Finally, he offers a terse but civil goodbye.

  3

  They are alone. Stephen has departed after only one glass, leaving

  Roy and Betty to empty the bottle. Roy has had the majority of the

  champagne and in truth feels rather tipsy. He cannot hold his drink as he once could. It was a useful facility but it does not matter any more. Not with Betty.

  ‘Well now. The first day of the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Betty. ‘Vincent will look after our money, won’t he?’

  ‘As if it was his own, my dear. He
’ll do us proud.’

  ‘And we can expect some returns within six months?’

  ‘Indeed. Let’s start booking those cruises now.’ He smiles, quietly exultant.

  ‘It’s such a shame that you have to go up to London so soon. We

  should be together this weekend. Couldn’t you invite Robert here

  instead?’

  ‘Well no, not really. He’s only over here for a day or so. He’s off to a kitchen convention in Belgium. He’s just stopping off in London overnight. Besides, he’ll be on his way by now.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him.’

  ‘All in good time, I’m sure,’ says Roy. ‘We might even go over to

  Sydney to see him now we’re fixed for money.’

  ‘I’d like that very much. I suppose you’ve seen much more of the

  world than me.’

  ‘I’ve lived a bit. I’ve had my excitements. Alarms and excursions.

  Capers and scrapes. I’ve had a rich and full life.’ His head floats gently from the drink and he understands vaguely he must be

  cautious.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she says. ‘But you said you’d led a pretty humdrum

  life.’

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  ‘Oh, one doesn’t like to be too boastful. I’ve witnessed things you could barely imagine.’ He smiles and thinks: how true. She hasn’t a clue. ‘But anyway, I’d better pack my bag. Are you sure Stephen’s

  happy to take me to the station tomorrow?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ She smiles back at him.

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  Chapter Sixteen

  Lili Schröder

  1

  Though she did not fully understand it at the time, Lili Schröder’s life ended and a quite different one began with the assault in the

  Tiergarten villa.

  In Hans she had seen spite in all its purity for the first time. Before, she had sensed something of hatred in the way young men shouted

  with creased, enraged faces on the streets and jostled frightened old men with beards. But her parents had ushered her into fashionable

  coffee houses or luxurious cars or the KaDeWe department store as

  she craned her neck. Until that winter twilight with Hans, these

  were aspects of behaviour and character of which she was only dis-

  tantly aware. She knew the world contained unpleasantness and

  that she was insulated from it, but that was all. She did not imagine her privileges and protections could fall away.