Мик Херрон - Real Tigers

But still, inside Slough House, the snoring persists. And perhaps the line between worlds blurs for a moment, for a ghost would pass through this door unproblematically—a door presents no obstacle to any spook worthy the name—but instead there’s a gloved hand on a door handle, a quiet twist and push, and in these last moments of somebody’s life a sleek-haired presence becomes visible at last. It is Peter Judd’s man Seb—the ghost in PJ’s machine—come to claim what Jackson Lamb withheld; come to silence that barnyard rumble too. Lamb can torment his underlings to his heart’s content, but when you bother the mighty, there’s always a bill to pay.

The door swings open, surprisingly quietly. There is Jackson Lamb, slumped behind his desk, and the air is suddenly full of his odours: old and new farts, ancient and recent cigarettes, and clothes which have seen better days, or even weeks. His mighty, regular snores have not been disturbed in the slightest by Seb’s entrance, and the task that lies ahead would be painfully simple, no more than the washing of another bottle, were it not for the fact that Lamb’s eyes are open, and that in Lamb’s hand sits Lamb’s gun.

The last Seb learns of this world before his ghost departs it is that, if you open enough doors, you’ll eventually find a tiger.

Lamb ceases his snoring, puts his gun in his drawer, and fishes a cigarette from his pocket. Before lighting it, though, he reaches for his phone.

A bloody nuisance, getting rid of bodies.

Good job he’s got slow horses to do that for him.