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Nicholas Searle

The Good Liar

Chapter One. Nom de guerre

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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.

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