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In the silence that followed, the radiator on the landing belched in an oddly familiar way, as if it were working up an impression.
But that’s going to happen sooner or later, so why not here at my desk?
The sudden events that blind us with their light had roots in the slowly-turning decades.
Lamb left a lot of crime scenes in his wake. Arriving at one after the event was something of a novelty.
sweet old lady who drank fresh blood for breakfast—had
a Cockapoo or Labradoodle or something, one of those breeds that didn’t exist one day and the next were everywhere:
Sometimes people behaved like they were supposed to. Quite a lot of the time, probably. But it was easy to start believing otherwise,
“You know me. When am I not full of joie de fucking vivre?”
“Because, bizarre as it sounds, he’s now a joe in the field. And you don’t blow a joe’s cover.” For a moment, it looked as if Lamb were about to say more, but he clamped his mouth shut instead. And then opened it again to repeat, more softly. “You don’t blow a joe’s cover.”
It was as if he had become part of a family whose existence he hadn’t been aware of.
one of his first acts on taking up Dame Ingrid Tearney’s mantle had been to neutralise—or at least, marginalise—a potential source of danger. He’d thought himself a pretty fine player of the game at the time. But it had been like trapping a mouse and releasing it miles away, then returning home to find a dragon in the kitchen.
“Paul Wayne,” she said. “And Adam Lockhead.”
The pattering on the car roof sounded like mice changing places.
Dying at his desk would look the softer option if anything happened to this one.
It’s like, you can fuck off and read Lord of the Rings, and when you come back she’s still talking. Anyway.
