The Good Liar by Nicholas Searle

physical sense that he was perceptibly less capable of accomplishing what no more than five years before had been
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    simple, and in the less direct but equally obvious to him way that
    mental concentration was difficult to sustain over extended periods.
    No one else had yet noticed, or at least this was what he believed.
    Now was the time to depart, at the top of his game, without ran-
    cour. He was in his mid- seventies, for heaven’s sake. A good innings, more than good. He could now subside in relative comfort and let
    his body and mind wind down and tick over to that inevitable day. It was only life, after all, and must be regarded dispassionately. He had always been impatient of those who railed indulgently against inevitabilities rather than examining their own shortcomings, and would not do so himself. When faced with his own mortality he did not
    intend to become histrionic.
    At least now, with this coup, he would be able to manage his
    decline in some comfort. He would be able to rattle around in his
    apartment. He would be able to embark on Caribbean cruises in
    first class and dine with the captain. He would be taxied here and
    ferried there, enjoy lavish medical care to offset the effects of ageing so far and long as this could be achieved. He could afford the services of visiting top- class, discreet young courtesans – that word had the right tone – at his home and they would be paid well enough to conceal their distaste for his crumbling being as they harvested his remaining virility. Eventually he would be able to lie back while the hired help wiped his arse, fed his quivering face and dabbed the dribble away. Bleak thoughts indeed.
    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.