Mick Herron 3 Books Set Collection, Real Tigers, London Rules, Dead Lions by Herron Mick

Author:Herron, Mick [Herron, Mick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9789526542881
Amazon: 9526542886
Goodreads: 60509448
Publisher: John Murray
Published: 2018-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Lamb said, “Fuck me. So that happened.”

On the BBC website, video had been posted of a scaffolding-clad alleyway, where folk in white jumpsuits teamed about. Either ABBA had reformed in Slough, or a body had been discovered there.

Dennis Gimball, according to social media.

Catherine said, “There’s been no official confirmation, but . . .”

“But everyone’s favourite Europhobe just made a hard Brexit.” Lamb magicked a cigarette from thin air, then thinned the air further by lighting it. “And here’s me having gone to the bother of sending Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and the other one to stop that happening.” He shook his head wearily. “I sometimes wonder why I get out of bed in the morning.”

“Probably just to spread sweetness and light.” Catherine was texting; calling River and Louisa home. She didn’t call it “home,” obviously. When she’d finished she looked up to see Lamb glaring at her iPad: she’d put it on his desk to show him the breaking news. Aware of how brief Lamb’s relationships with technology could be, she plucked it from his ambit. “So. Gimball’s dead and the bad guys are winning. Not our finest hour.”

Lamb sniffed. “On the other hand, this proves our theory’s right. So, you know, swings and roundabouts.”

“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to the deceased.”

“He sleeps with the silverfishes,” said Lamb. “That’ll have to be comfort enough.”

Catherine left the room to boil the kettle. When she came back with two cups of tea, Lamb had his unshod feet on his desk. All five toes were showing through one sock; three through the other. It was as close as you could get to not wearing socks, she thought, without actually not doing so. She put a cup in front of him and resumed her seat. Lamb farted meditatively, then said, “So where does this leave us?”

“Well,” Catherine said. “You had working knowledge of the possibility of an assassination attempt on Dennis Gimball, but all you did was send a couple of unarmed desk operatives to stand around while it happened. And failed to inform the Park because you were worried they’d issue some scorched-earth protocol to cover up the fact that the potential assassins are following the Park’s own join-the-dots destabilisation playbook. Did I miss anything?”

Lamb stared for a while, then said, “That was hurtful. Tact’s just something that happens to carpets far as you drunks are concerned, isn’t it?”

“I did miss something,” Catherine said, unperturbed. “You had Emma Flyte locked to a chair while this happened.” She sipped tea. “That’s going to look good on the report.”

“Nah, that plays in our favour. If she’d called it in soon as we loosed her, we’d be neck-deep in Dogshit by now. We’re not, or no more than usual. Which means she kept it to herself, which means she took my point. Anyone who knows what’s going on needs to keep their head down. This one’s toxic.”

“They’re all toxic, Jackson.”

He looked at her sharply, but she was staring into her tea, as if expecting to find leaves there, as if expecting them to offer answers.

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