Enough light fell on Taverner’s face for Lamb to see she meant every word. She was probably mad. It wouldn’t be the first time the job had done that, and being a woman couldn’t help. If she was thinking straight, she’d have noticed the flaw in her reasoning, which was that he, Jackson Lamb, couldn’t give a flying fart for whatever she was offering. Or maybe she had.
“Think a minute. About what it could mean.”
“I’m thinking there’s a body on my staircase.”
“He fell on the stairs. An empty bottle’s the only prop you’ll need.”
Her whispers were urgent now; they were talking of death, of other people’s death. They were also talking of career-ending moments, and maybe of something else.
“Redemption.”
“Excuse the fuck out of me?”
“Rehabilitation.”
“I don’t need rehab. I’m happy where I am.”
“Then you’re the only one. Christ, Jed Moody would have given his left bollock to be let back inside.”
“And look where that got him.”
“So he proved he was a slow horse. Are the others as bad?”
Lamb pretended to think about it. “Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
— Slow Horses (Mick Herron), Loc. 3587–99