London Rules (Slough House, #5)

by Mick Herron

In some parts of the world dawn arrives with rosy fingers, to smoothe away the creases left by night. But on Aldersgate Street, in the London borough of Finsbury, it comes wearing safecracker’s gloves, so as not to leave prints on windowsills and doorknobs;

But that was London Rules for you: force others to take you on your own terms. And if they didn’t like it, stay in their face until they did.

If I really thought you were going to speak, I’d leave the room first.”

London Rules were written down nowhere, but everyone knew rule one. “Cover your arse.”

“He’s left for the evening,” Catherine said. “I know. I felt the average IQ rise.”

“My body is a temple,” said Lamb. “Interesting viewpoint,” Catherine said. “So what does that make your lifestyle choices? The Taliban?”

But one of the advantages of being built like a football is, you learn to take a kicking.”

Because these were also rules: sound like you know more than you can say; act like you’ll do more than you intend. And when campaigning, lie your head off—the referendum’s other great legacy.

“Ethical behaviour’s like a vajazzle on a nun. Pretty to picture, but who really benefits?”

London Rules meant build your walls high, and the order in which you chucked your people over them was in inverse proportion to their usefulness.

You were all in this together until you weren’t. That was also London Rules.

enough dust bunnies to dehydrate Watership Down.

hate crime pollutes the soul, but only the souls of those who commit it.