The Secret Hours

by Mick Herron

The owls hooted again. You could set your watch by them. If you were a mouse, it was probably wise to.

His chest ached and the taste of old coins filled his mouth.

Besides, when the situation was reduced to first principles, it became pointless to agonise over the details: the purpose of Monochrome was to fuck with Regent’s Park, and the one thing First Desk had made clear was, You do not fuck with Regent’s Park.

Nobody told you what a drag it was, getting older. Or at least, people did tell you, but you ignored them, because they were old.

But for the time being he was a Fox and Bucket local, which was as damning an indictment of his life and career as a long-service medal to a shit shoveller’s assistant.

These trousers had seen better days. So had the jacket. She formed the impression they’d been bought off the peg, by somebody else.

This was something she hadn’t got used to yet: that she was working among spooks, who thought around corners they’d built themselves.