Catherine arched her eyebrows at River, and left. The others followed, with visible relief, leaving only Ho and River. Lamb said to Ho, “I might have guessed Cartwright would want to continue the discussion. But it beats me why you’re still here.”
“It’s my office,” Ho explained. Lamb waited. Ho sighed, and left.
River said, “You were always going to do that, weren’t you?”
“Do what?”
“All that crap about putting the kettle on, fetching your lunch. It was a wind-up. You need us. Somebody has to do your leg-work.”
“Speaking of legs,” said Jackson Lamb, and raised his so they stuck out horizontally, then farted. “I was always going to do that, too,” he pointed out. He put his feet back on the ground. “Doesn’t make it any less effective.” Whatever you thought of Lamb’s act, nobody ever accused his farts of lacking authenticity. “Anyway,” he went on, unperturbed by his toxic gift.
— Dead Lions (Mick Herron), Loc. 970–80