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Shortlisted for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award
Slough House is a dumping ground for members of the intelligence service who've screwed up: left a service file on a train, say, blown a surveillance, or become drunkenly unreliable. They're the service's poor relations - the slow horses - and most bitter among them is River Cartwright, whose days are spent transcribing mobile phone conversations.
But when a young man is abducted, and his kidnappers threaten to behead him live on the internet, River sees an opportunity to redeem himself. But is the victim who he first appears to be? And what's the kidnappers' connection with a disgraced journalist? As the clock ticks on the execution, River finds that everyone involved has their own agenda . . .
336 pages, ebook
First published June 1, 2010





“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?)”
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”Lamb's been banished.
Where've they sent him? Somewhere awful?
Bad as it gets.
God, not Slough?
Might as well be.
Which, in a world of secrets and legends, was all it took to give a name to Jackson Lamb's new kingdom: a place of yellows and greys, where once all was black and white.”
“Nothing sounded odd to Lamb; except, perhaps, that people had friends.”
Half of the future is buried in the past.
Suits and joes was an age-old opposition, but the game had changed in the last ten years, and intelligence was a business like any other.
That was the true purpose of Slough House. It was a way of losing people without having to get rid of them, sidestepping legal hassle and tribunal threats.
They'd been thrown together by fate and poor judgements, and had never operated as a team before.
Lamb didn't look any different, was still a soft fat rude bastard, still dressed like he'd been thrown through a charity shop window, but ... Lamb was a joe.
If Moscow rules meant watch your back, London rules meant cover your arse. Moscow rules had been written in 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.
"he'd have been melted down for glue."