Jason ‘Squig’ Smith

Jason follows his quarry through the door into the flat. The main room’s bare and all but empty, with no curtains, not even a carpet on the floor: two cheap dining-chairs and a coffee-table from Argos stand in its centre. The walls, doors and window-frames have been painted a glossy white, very recently by the look of it. The door leading to the rest of the flat’s rooms is closed.

It’s a nice space though, clean and roomy, with big windows giving them a view out across a leafy garden. Jason supposes anywhere would feel like that, if you took out the furniture and gave it a proper hoover and a lick of paint.

‘Tea?’ the woman asks him. There’s a pot waiting hot on the table, with two matching mugs, a milk jug and a sugar bowl. He doesn’t think she’d have had time to boil the kettle since getting back. Again he feels like someone’s a few steps ahead of him.

Trojans, p176

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Smart, contemporary political thrillers. A new kind of urban fantasy,

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