London Rules (Slough House, #5)

by Mick Herron

“He didn’t notice,” Shirley said. Lamb stared at her for a moment or two, then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I can see that happening.”

And Lamb had assumed what the slow horses called his hippo-at-rest position: apparently docile, but you wouldn’t want to get too close.

It was when a bomb stopped ticking that you should be nervous.

“There’s a Donald Trump Junior? Christ. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.”