First Response Read online

  Also by Stephen Leather

  Pay Off

  The Fireman

  Hungry Ghost

  The Chinaman

  The Vets

  The Long Shot

  The Birthday Girl

  The Double Tap

  The Solitary Man

  The Tunnel Rats

  The Bombmaker

  The Stretch

  Tango One

  The Eyewitness

  Spider Shepherd thrillers

  Hard Landing

  Soft Target

  Cold Kill

  Hot Blood

  Dead Men

  Live Fire

  Rough Justice

  Fair Game

  False Friends

  True Colours

  White Lies

  Black Ops

  Jack Nightingale supernatural thrillers

  Nightfall

  Midnight

  Nightmare

  Nightshade

  Lastnight

  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.

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Stephen Leather 2016

  The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 473 60456 8

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Stephen Leather

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Brixton (10 a.m.)

  Wandsworth (10.20 a.m.)

  Brixton (10.25 a.m.)

  Fulham (10.45 a.m.)

  Brixton (10.47 a.m.)

  Scotland Yard, Victoria Embankment (10.50 a.m.)

  Kensington (11.10 a.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (11.15 a.m.)

  Marble Arch (11.40 a.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (11.45 a.m.)

  Marylebone High Street (11.52 a.m.)

  Marylebone (11.55 a.m.)

  Wellington Barracks (12.02 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.05 p.m.)

  Marylebone (12.08 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.10 p.m.)

  Tavistock Square (12.13 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.15 p.m.)

  Wandsworth (12.16 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.18 p.m.)

  Fulham (12.20 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.25 p.m.)

  Brixton (12.28 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.30 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (12.33 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.34 p.m.)

  Camberwell (12.35 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.40 p.m.)

  Southwark (12.50 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.51 p.m.)

  Fulham (12.52 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (12.53 p.m.)

  Camberwell (12.54 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (12.56 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (1.05 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (1.30 p.m.)

  Tavistock Square (1.35 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (2.00 p.m.)

  Kensington (2.02 p.m.)

  Brixton (2.05 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (2.10 p.m.)

  Tavistock Square (2.15 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (2.20 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (2.30 p.m.)

  Wandsworth (2.45 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3 p.m.)

  Tavistock Square (3.02 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.04 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (3.07 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.10 p.m.)

  Wandsworth (3.15 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.20 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (3.35 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.40 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (3.45 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.50 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (3.51 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.52 p.m.)

  Wandsworth (3.53 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.54 p.m.)

  Wandsworth (3.55 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (3.56 p.m.)

  Marylebone (4.06 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (4.10 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (4.20 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (4.30 p.m.)

  Tavistock Square (4.33 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (4.40 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (4.43 p.m.)

  Tavistock Square (4.44 p.m.)

  Euston (4.45 p.m.)

  Brixton (5.00 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (5.05 p.m.)

  Wandsworth (5.10 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (5.12 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (5.20 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (5.23 p.m.)

  Fulham (5.25 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (5.27 p.m.)

  Marylebone (5.32 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (5.34 p.m.)

  Kensington (5.35 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (5.45 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (5.50 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (5.55 p.m.)

  Marylebone (6.02 p.m.)

  Marble Arch (6.05 p.m.)

  Tavistock Square (6.15 p.m.)

  South London (ten hours earlier)

  Camberwell (6.30 p.m.)

  South London (ten hours earlier)

  Sout
hwark (6.45 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (6.47 p.m.)

  Near Bromley (6.54 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (7.07 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (7.09 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (7.10 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (7.12 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (7.13 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (7.14 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (7.16 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (7.18 p.m.)

  Raf Biggin Hill (7.22 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (7.25 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (7.26 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (7.27 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (7.30 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (7.32 p.m.)

  Biggin Hill Airport (7.40 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (8.30 p.m.)

  Interview With Rabeel Bhashir (8.40 p.m.)

  Interview With Ali Pasha (8.50 p.m.)

  Interview With Zach Ahmed (9.00 p.m.)

  Interview With Ismail Hussain (9.15 p.m.)

  Interview With Mohammed Sami Malik (9.30 p.m.)

  Interview With Faisal Chaudhry (9.45 p.m.)

  Interview With Tariq Masood (10.00 p.m.)

  Interview With Mohamed Osman (10.20 p.m.)

  Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre (10.45 p.m.)

  Bayswater (11.35 p.m.)

  Scotland Yard, Victoria Embankment (the next day)

  Bayswater

  Scotland Yard, Victoria Embankment

  Tower Hamlets

  King’s Cross (7 July 2005, 8.40 a.m.)

  Piccadilly Line (7 July 2005, 8.50 a.m.)

  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 towar
ds 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.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Father Morrison. ‘What’s this about?’

  The man didn’t reply, just walked back to the door, yanking the chain so that the priest was forced to follow him. The man unbuttoned his coat with his right hand, then reached into his pocket. As he and the priest reached the door he turned and held up his hands. His coat fell open, revealing a jacket containing more than a dozen pockets, each filled with a block of grey material. Red and black wires ran from block to block, and as the priest stared in horror, he saw that the man had some sort of trigger in his right hand, held in place by a strip of black Velcro.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’ shouted the man at the top of his voice. ‘Everybody must do exactly as I say if they don’t want to die!’

  WANDSWORTH (10.20 a.m.)

  ‘Do you have this in a ten?’ asked the girl, holding up a black and white dress. She was in her twenties, with dyed blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun that only served to emphasise the crop of old acne scars across both cheeks. She had a twin buggy with identical toddlers, who were eating Mars bars and smearing chocolate over their little fat faces.

  Zoe flashed the girl her most professional smile. If she was a size ten, then Zoe was a Dutchman, a flying one at that. Zoe was an eight and the girl with chocolate-smeared twins was at least twice her size. ‘I can have a look in the back,’ she said. ‘What size is that one?’

  The girl squinted at the label. ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Why don’t you try that on and see how you go?’

  The girl’s eyes hardened. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ she said. ‘You saying I’m fat?’

  ‘Of course not. I just mean that you’d get a better idea of what it looks like if you try it on first. They can be a little tight. That’s all.’ She widened her smile and nodded enthusiastically, always the professional. In fact, she thought the girl was more than fat: she was bordering on clinically obese. To be honest, a high percentage of the customers who came into the shop could do with losing a few pounds. There were four other women browsing and Zoe doubted that any of them would be able to fit into a size ten. She worked hard to keep her figure – she was careful with what she ate and three times a week she worked out at the Virgin Active gym upstairs in the Southside shopping centre.