He was waiting for me in his office. That’s how I remember it. I had known he’d be bitter and jaded, and would run Slough House as if it was his personal fiefdom – “I don’t think of you as a team, I think of you as collateral damage” – but I hadn’t known he’d be so brutal, so adept at probing people’s weaknesses. Or that his personal habits would be so unhygienic. Nor had I imagined he’d be frighteningly easy to channel, given how gross he is. But then I’m a London-bound commuter and an open-plan-office worker, and anyone who’s been either of these things knows that bile and venom are only ever a hair’s-breadth away. So maybe he hadn’t suddenly appeared fully formed, squatting in his attic room in the shadow of the Barbican; maybe Jackson Lamb had been lurking inside me all along. Read more: Guardian

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