Slow Horses by Mick Herron Page A

and his grandfather retreated to the study, the room where spirits were drunk. Protestations to the contrary notwithstanding, the O.B. clung to the pattern his wife had designed for their lives.
    Glenmorangie in hand, firelight dancing in the corners, River had asked, ‘Do you know Robert Hobden?’
    ‘That toad? What’s your interest?’
    He’d tried to sound bored, but a glint in his eye betrayed him.
    River said, ‘Casual. My interest in him’s casual.’
    ‘He’s a spent force.’
    ‘We specialize in them. At Slough House.’
    His grandfather studied him over the top of his spectacles. The ability to do this was a fine argument for wearing glasses. ‘They won’t keep you there forever, you know.’
    ‘I was given the impression they might,’ River said.
    ‘That’s the point. If you knew it was only for six months, it wouldn’t hurt.’
    It had already been more than six months, but they both knew that, so River said nothing.
    ‘You do your time. Whatever grunt work Jackson Lamb throws your way. Then you head back to Regent’s Park, sins forgiven. Fresh start.’
    ‘What was Lamb’s sin?’
    The O.B. pretended not to hear. ‘Hobden was a star in his day. His time on the Telegraph especially. He was their crime reporter, and did a series on the drug trade in Manchester which opened a lot of eyes. Up until then drugs were an American problem, most people thought. He was the real deal all right.’
    ‘I didn’t know he’d been a reporter. I thought he was a columnist.’
    ‘Eventually. Back then, most of them had been reporters. These days, all you need is a media studies degree and an uncle on staff. But don’t get me started on how degraded that profession’s become.’
    ‘Good idea,’ River said. ‘I’m only here for the evening.’
    ‘You’re welcome to stay.’
    ‘Better not. Wasn’t he a member of the Communist Party?’
    ‘Probably.’
    ‘That didn’t raise eyebrows?’
    ‘Things aren’t always black and white, River. A wise man once said he wouldn’t trust anyone who hadn’t been a radical in his youth, and Communism was the radicalism of choice back then. What’s wrong with your hand?’
    ‘Kitchen mishap.’
    ‘Playing with fire.’ His expression changed. ‘A hand up?’
    River helped him to his feet. ‘Are you okay?’
    ‘Damn waterworks,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever get old, River.’
    He shuffled out. A moment later, the door to the downstairs bathroom closed.
    River sat, his chair’s leather soft as a diary’s binding. The study ticked pleasantly as he swirled the liquid in his glass.
    The O.B. had spent his working life in the service of his country, at a time when the battle lines were drawn less crookedly than now, but the first time River had seen him he’d been on his knees at a flowerbed, and couldn’t have looked less like a fighter in secret wars. He wore an umpire’s hat not broad enough to keep the sweat from trickling down his brow, and his face shone like a cheese. At River’s approach, he rocked back on his haunches, trowel in hand, speechless. River, seven years old, had arrived a quarter of an hour earlier, deposited by his mother and the man currently keeping his mother company. They’d left him on the doorstep with careless kisses and a curt nod respectively. Until that morning, he hadn’t known he’d had grandparents.
    ‘They’ll be delighted to have you,’ his mother had told him, throwing random articles of his clothing into a suitcase.
    ‘Why? They don’t even know who I am!’
    ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve sent them photographs.’
    ‘When? When did you ever—?’
    ‘River. I’ve told you. Mummy has to go away. It’s important. You want Mummy to be happy, don’t you?’
    He didn’t answer. He didn’t want Mummy to be happy. He wanted Mummy to be there. That was important.
    ‘Well then. It won’t be for long. And when I come back—well.’ She dropped a badly folded shirt into the case and turned to him. ‘Maybe I’ll