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Most of us hold that some things only happen to other people. Many of us hold that one such thing is death.
Their conversation had been focused at first (Jackson Lamb is a bastard), then becoming speculative (what makes Jackson Lamb such a bastard?) before drifting into the sentimental (wouldn’t it be sweet if Jackson Lamb fell under a threshing machine?).
This was technically a criminal act, but River was pissed off. There are always moments in a young man’s life when that seems reason enough.
“How much research did you do on Hobden?” Her eyes changed. “Not much.” “But enough to find out where he has breakfast.” “That’s not tricky, River.” “You don’t usually call me River.” “I don’t usually call anyone River. It’s not an everyday name.” “Blame my mother. She had a hippy phase. Did Lamb tell you to keep the job quiet?” “No, he told me to blog it. It’s on bloody stupid questions, dot gov, dot UK. My go. How much do you know about Hobden?”
“Did you really read Ashenden?” he asked. “As in, the whole thing?” “That answers that.” “I do pub quizzes. I know the titles of a lot of books I’ve never read.”
“Do you usually spend your lunchtimes in the pub?” she asked. “Only when I want privacy.” She shook her head. “Pub stands for public. Clue’s in the name.”
“You don’t think Hobden’s got the nous to put this together?” “Nous, yes. But why would he want to?
Ho didn’t do well with people, on account of not liking them,
If Moscow rules meant watch your back, London rules meant cover your arse. Moscow rules had been written on the streets, but London rules were devised in the corridors of Westminster, and the short version read: someone always pays. Make sure it isn’t you.
My name is Catherine and I am an alcoholic. There was this to say for the AA mantra: you were in no immediate danger of forgetting who or what you were.
“Sid’s hurt?” “And Moody’s dead.” “How badly hurt?” “Not as badly hurt as he’s dead. Did you hear that bit?” “Jed Moody was always going to end badly. But I like Sid.”
Webb was under thirty, and married to the notion that anyone twenty years older was lucky to have made it through the flood.
His voice sounded strange, as if he were being played by an actor. Someone who’d never actually heard Hassan speak, but had worked out what he might sound like from a faded photograph.
