Stephen Leather
First Response
About the Author
Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers, an ebook and Sunday Times bestseller and author of the critically acclaimed Dan ‘Spider’ Shepherd series and the Jack Nightingale supernatural detective novels. Before becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers including The Times, the Daily Mirror, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. Stephen’s titles have topped the Amazon Kindle charts in the UK and the US and his bestsellers have been translated into fifteen languages. He has also written for television.
Visit Stephen’s website, www.stephenleather.com, find him on Facebook, and follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/stephenleather.
Stephen also has a website for his Spider Shepherd series, www.danspidershepherd.com, and for his Jack Nightingale series, www.jacknightingale.com.
cleanskin n.
an unbranded animal;
a terrorist with no obvious links to terrorist groups, and who therefore does not appear on any watch lists.
Sarah Khan sat down in the last free seat in the carriage and took a deep breath. She looked at her watch. She had plenty of time before her interview. She never enjoyed interviews, probably because she didn’t like being judged. They would look at her and ask probing questions and on the basis of that would decide whether or not she was suitable to work for them. If she said the wrong thing, if she made a joke that was taken the wrong way, her CPS career would be dead before it had even started.
Sarah knew she had a tendency to be flippant when she was nervous. It was a defence mechanism, an attempt to defuse a moment of tension. She was going to have to be careful, but not too careful because her interviewers might mistake hesitance for duplicity. She knew that she had to smile, but not smile too much. She had to maintain eye contact but not stare. She closed her eyes and tried to think calm thoughts.
She had spent the last week running through every possible question she might be asked. Why the CPS? Why not join one of the big law firms? Why criminal and not corporate? How would she cope with the long hours, the stress, the responsibility? She had all her answers prepared. She wanted to make a difference. She wanted to make her city a safer place to live. She wanted to protect its citizens. She wanted to be a superhero. She smiled to herself and opened her eyes. Maybe that was going too far. But she had never spent all those hours studying law to spend her time in a corporate environment helping to make rich people richer.
She sighed and looked around her, wondering how many of the people sitting in the carriage she might come across when the CPS hired her. How many were planning criminal acts? How many had already committed offences and had yet to face justice? The businessman with his metal briefcase perched on his lap: had he defrauded his employer? The teenage girl in an army-surplus jacket with the sleeves rolled up: had she killed her cheating boyfriend and buried him underneath the patio at the back of her house? The young Asian man standing by the door with a backpack slung over one shoulder: was he carrying cannabis in his bag? Or cocaine? On the way to a drugs deal?
She realised he was staring at her and looked away, feeling guilty and wondering if he’d read her mind. She gave it a few seconds, then looked back. He was still staring at her with his deep-set eyes. They reminded her of a bird of prey she’d once seen on a school trip. A peregrine falcon. She’d been only eight years old but she’d never forgotten the way the bird had seemed to stare at her with cold, unfeeling eyes, as if it had not the slightest interest in her. She smiled at him, but that seemed only to intensify his stare.
The train picked up speed. Sarah looked away from the man with the baleful stare and tried to concentrate on the interview ahead of her. She had to show all the qualities they would be looking for. Intelligence. Diligence. Honesty. And a desire to work long hours for a lot less money than she would earn in the private sector.
She found herself staring at the man again. He wasn’t looking at her any more: now he was staring at a woman with a young daughter. The girl was three or four years old, holding a small Paddington Bear. She smiled at Sarah and Sarah smiled back.
The man straightened and raised his right arm. He was holding something in his hand, something metallic. He took a deep breath, threw back his head and screamed at the top of his voice, ‘Allahu Akbar!’
There was a blinding flash, then everything went dark.
BRIXTON (10 a.m.)
Father Morrison was getting towards the end of the mass and had to consciously focus to stop his mind wandering. How many masses had he taken during his thirty-seven years as a priest? Thirteen thousand? Fourteen thousand? Was it any wonder that he had a tendency to switch onto autopilot and say the words without connecting with their meaning? He forced himself to concentrate, knowing that his congregation deserved his full attention.
There were two dozen worshippers, and Father Morrison knew them all by name. It was mid-week, when only the most devout of his parishioners came to mass. Sunday was a different matter. There were four Sunday masses at the Corpus Christi Church in Brixton Hill. Sunday was an easy day to go to church, but mid-week required more of an effort. Most of the men and women in the pews were old, and Father Morrison couldn’t help but think that in some cases it was loneliness rather than devotion that had brought them to the church. But there were some eager young faces, mainly recent immigrants from West Africa, who seemed to be hanging on every word of his homily.
The door to the church opened with a groan, and Father Morrison frowned as a latecomer stepped inside. He was an Asian, bearded with a hooked nose, and even from where he stood at the altar Father Morrison could see that he was in some distress. He was sweating and his eyes were darting from side to side. He was wearing a long coat buttoned up to the neck and he shuffled from side to side as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. Father Morrison continued to talk, but his attention was focused on the newcomer. The man turned and pushed the door closed, then reached up and slid the bolt across.
Father Morrison wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to interrupt the mass but there was no doubt that the man was behaving strangely. People with mental-health issues weren’t an unusual sight in Brixton, and the area had more than its fair share of dirty and unkempt citizens wandering around, muttering to themselves. Beggars weren’t unusual either, and many would drop by the church. Father Morrison never gave them money but he kept a cupboard full of biscuits and snacks that he would offer, along with a blessing. But the Asian man didn’t look as if he wanted a handout. He turned and started walking purposefully towards the altar. He was in his late forties, with skin the colour and texture of old leather.
One by one the heads of the parishioners turned to check out the new arrival but he ignored them as he strode down the nave, his boots squeaking on the stone flags. Father Morrison moved towards him, holding his hands out at his sides. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘We’re in the middle of mass. Please, take a seat.’
The man’s lips tightened as he continued to walk towards the priest. He held out his hand and Father Morrison extended his own as a reflex. The man took the priest’s hand, gripping it tightly, his nails digging into the flesh. The priest gasped and tried to pull free but the Asian was too strong. Then the man’s left hand lashed out and something fastened around the priest’s wrist. He released his grip and stepped back. Father Morrison stared in amazement at the steel handcuff locked around his wrist. As the man stepped away, the priest realised there was a matching handcuff on the man’s left wrist and they were joined by just over two feet of steel chain.