The Runner

by Stephen Leather

Genres: Spy Thrillers; Suspense; Crime Fiction; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers

Synopsis

The explosive new stand-alone thriller from the author of the Spider Shepherd series

Sally Page is an MI5 'footie', a junior Secret Service Agent who maintains 'legends': fake identities or footprints used by real spies. Her day consists of maintaining flats and houses where the legends allegedly live, doing online shopping, using payment, loyalty and travel cards and going on social media in their names — anything to give the impression to hostile surveillance that the legends are living, breathing individuals.

One day she goes out for a coffee run from the safe house from which she and her fellow footies operate. When she comes back they have all been murdered and she barely escapes with her own life. She is on the run: but from whom she has no idea. Worse, her bosses at MI5 seem powerless to help her. To live, she will have to use all the lies and false identities she has so carefully created while discovering the truth . . .

Release date: January 23, 2020

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Carlos Martinez let the crowbar in his hand swing to and fro. Blood dripped onto the concrete floor and several drops splattered onto his gleaming loafers. ‘Now look what you have made me do,’ he growled in Spanish. He glared at the man in front of him. ‘Do you have any idea how much these fucking shoes cost?’

The man mumbled incoherently. His name was Jesus Rodriguez and he was as close to death as a man could be while still breathing. He was naked, tied to a metal chair, his head slumped on his chest.

‘Chinga tu madre,’ said Martinez. ‘You steal from me and this is what happens.’

One of Martinez’s men was filming everything on his phone. Rodriguez wasn’t being killed just for revenge or out of anger – he was being killed as a warning to others. No one stole from Martinez. No one. The video would be proof of that.

Martinez swung the crowbar again, this time against the right knee, which cracked with the sound of a snapping twig. Rodriguez grunted. His eyes were closed now. Martinez nodded at one of his men standing by the sink. The man walked over with a bucket of water and dumped it over Rodriguez. It cascaded over him and splattered over the tiled floor then ran in bloody rivulets towards a drain.

The room they were in had been designed for torture. It was windowless and soundproofed and could only be reached through a secret door in Martinez’s huge wood-panelled wine cellar. The wine cellar was in the basement of his sprawling mansion on the outskirts of Mexico City, set in grounds patrolled by men with automatic weapons and surrounded by high walls topped with razor wire and covered by CCTV cameras. Not that Martinez was expecting unwanted visitors. He had dozens of judges and hundreds of cops on his payroll and he knew well in advance when any sort of operation was being mounted against him.

There were fluorescent lights in the ceiling, a large sink with taps and a hose attachment, and several drains in the white tiled floor. The walls were tiled like the floors and dotted with hooks and there were half a dozen chain pulley systems hanging from a heavy girder that ran across the ceiling. A sound system had been placed on a table against one wall. Sometimes Martinez liked to work with music blaring from massive Wharfedale speakers.

He had been beating Rodriguez for almost an hour. He’d used his bare hands at first, punching him left and right. Then he’d used a cut-throat razor to remove an ear and bolt-cutters to take off a couple of toes. Initially Rodriguez had begged for mercy but there was no mercy to be begged for. It was only ever going to end one way and nothing Rodriguez could say or do would change that. Martinez didn’t care about the drugs that Rodriguez had stolen. The theft was less than one thousandth of one per cent of his monthly turnover. It was nothing. It wasn’t the amount that mattered, it was the principle, and the principle was that anyone who was caught stealing from Carlos Martinez would die and die horribly. It wasn’t the first time that Martinez had beaten a man to death, and it wouldn’t be the last. Despite the warnings, there was always someone who thought it was worthwhile to take the risk.

Martinez walked over to a table next to the sound system. On it was a bottle of Domaine Leroy Clos de Vougeot Grand Cru, one of his favourite wines. He had half a dozen cases and each bottle cost more than two thousand dollars. He had already drunk half the bottle and he sloshed more wine into his glass. As he raised the glass to his lips, a mobile phone rang and Martinez looked around, annoyed at the interruption. The phone was in the pocket of Arturo Garcia’s jacket and he grimaced apologetically. ‘Sorry, Patrón,’ he mumbled as he hurried out of the room.

The man who had poured water over Rodriguez started slapping his face, back and forth. When Rodriguez remained unconscious, the man turned to Martinez and shrugged. ‘El esta muerto, Patrón.’

Martinez nodded, checked that the camera was still filming, put down his glass and then brought the crowbar down on the unconscious man’s head with all his might. The skull split open like a ripe melon and brain matter splattered across the floor. He raised the crowbar again and the second blow obliterated what was left of the top of the skull. Martinez stood staring at the carnage he had caused, breathing heavily. He wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. ‘Fuck you, and fuck your family,’ he said. He spat at the corpse.

Garcia reappeared. ‘Patrón,’ he said, holding up the phone.

‘What?’ shouted Martinez, and Garcia flinched.

‘Patrón, it is Javier,’ said Garcia. ‘There is a problem in London.’

Martinez growled, tossed the bloody crowbar onto the floor and snatched the phone from Garcia’s shaking hand. ‘Do I have to do everything myself?’ he snarled.

Sally Page took a quick look at her Apple Watch as her feet pounded on the pavement. It was eight thirty, on the dot. There were two women ahead of her pushing toddlers in strollers, so she looked over her shoulder to check that the road behind was clear and then dropped into the gutter for four steps to overtake them. She was breathing slowly and evenly. It was just four miles from her flat in Fulham to her office in Wimbledon and she always ran, rain or shine. It was partly for the exercise, but truth be told she was pretty much addicted to running. She loved the feel of moving at speed under her own power, totally in control of her every movement.

She ran over Putney Bridge, enjoying the cool breeze that blew along the Thames. There were two bridges connecting Fulham to Putney: a road bridge with pavements either side, and a rail bridge with a pedestrian and cycle bridge that ran alongside it. The problem with the rail bridge was that cyclists seemed to regard it as their own personal bridge, seeing runners as an alien species that needed to be put in their place. They always waited until the last second to change direction if they were heading towards her, often deliberately brushing her and throwing in a volley of verbal abuse for good measure. It was just easier to run on Putney Bridge, even though it was cluttered with pedestrians first thing in the morning.

Sally always ran towards the traffic and had done ever since 22 March 2017, when a Muslim fanatic by the name of Khalid Masood had driven his car into pedestrians on the south side of Westminster Bridge, killing four people and injuring fifty more. He’d then gone on a knife rampage, murdering a policeman before being shot dead by an armed officer. From that day on Sally had taken extra care when running across Putney Bridge. The pavement was almost a foot above the road so she figured it was unlikely that a car would be able to mount the curb, but she knew that she would stand a better chance of surviving if the attack came from the front rather than the back.

She ran off the bridge and headed up Putney High Street with its trendy mix of coffee shops, restaurants and hairdressers. She passed the Odeon cinema on her left. The road became Putney Hill as it climbed south.

Even in this sedate part of the city, running wasn’t without its dangers and she had to be constantly alert, especially when she was near shops. The pavements were usually fairly empty at that time of the morning but what pedestrians there were regarded runners with contempt if not outright hostility. As for motorists, they even hated each other, let alone those who travelled under their own steam. And even other runners seemed to regard her with disdain. Perhaps one in five would acknowledge her with a nod or a tight smile, but most either avoided eye contact or sneered judgementally at her baggy tracksuit bottoms and University of Reading sweatshirt.

Sally dressed for comfort while she ran, and her trainers were the only expensive item she was wearing. She had learned from experience that scrimping on running shoes was a big mistake. The ones on her feet that day were Reebok Floatride Run Fast Pro shoes. They had cost more than £150 but were worth every penny. She had two pairs – pink and green – and she alternated them. Today she was wearing green. Each shoe weighed three and a half ounces – less than her iPhone – but the underfoot platform offered plenty of support. She had her hair held back with a green scrunchie – she hadn’t deliberately tried to colour-coordinate with her trainers, it was just the luck of the draw – and her face was free of make-up. It was a cool March morning and she had stopped wearing her beanie hat and fingerless gloves the previous month. By the time May came she would probably switch her tracksuit bottoms for shorts and swap the sweatshirt for a T-shirt, maybe even a vest. But everything she wore was functional rather than decorative. Running wasn’t about fashion, it was about running, period. Sally had been a runner for pretty much all of her twenty-four years. Even as a toddler she had hurried everywhere, and she had started running for fun while still at primary school. At secondary school the head of physical education had tried to encourage her to run for the county but she had never been interested in running competitively. She ran for herself, and that was all there was to it.

She reached a set of traffic lights, jogging on the spot as she waited for the little green man to appear. She took another quick look at her watch. Eight thirty-six. Bang on time. The green man flicked on and she was just about to cross when a bike courier wearing black Lycra flashed by. ‘Arsehole!’ he shouted at the top of his voice – a bit unfair considering he was clearly running a red light.

She continued to run up Putney Hill. The road sloped up gradually but it was still the toughest part of the run and her calves began to burn. On the opposite side of the road groups of neatly dressed schoolgirls in purple uniforms gathered in groups before heading into Putney High School, while others were being dropped off, mainly by glossy women driving SUVs.

She reached the top of the hill and picked up speed. Putney Heath was to her right, bordered by the Green Man pub. There had been a pub on the site since 1700, and back in the day duellists would fortify themselves with a drink or two before heading off to the heath to fight to the death. Now that most duels were fought on social media, the pub was more commonly frequented by middle-class trendies and tourists, taking advantage of the pretty beer garden and better-than-average food. The area outside the pub was the terminus for the buses that served Putney and there were always passengers waiting at the covered bus stop.

She slowed as she crossed the road and then sped up as she headed south. Some days she ran across Putney Heath and then through Wimbledon Common, but she had hit the snooze button on her alarm clock and spent an extra ten minutes in bed that morning so she stuck to the road. She much preferred running across the common but the trails were uneven and littered with twigs and stones so it slowed her pace.

She felt the familiar burn in her calf muscles again, but she actually relished the discomfort, knowing that it was only by pushing her limits that she would improve. Her arms were powering up and down and she felt the sweat beading on her neck and back but her breathing stayed relaxed and even. She wasn’t even close to being tired. Four miles was nothing; on Saturdays and Sundays she ran at least twelve and she had run the London Marathon route many times. She had never completed the marathon itself – she never wanted to run in a herd – but her solo times would always place her in the top one hundred if she had taken part.

She reached a set of traffic lights and jogged on the spot until she got the signal to cross. She ran over the A3 and now it was Wimbledon Common on her right. She raised her Apple Watch to her mouth as she ran. ‘What’s my heart rate?’ she asked. The heart rate app kicked in and after a few seconds it gave her a reading of 125. She smiled. Not bad at all.

She skirted the common, then followed the road to the right and ran past King’s College School on her left, and the stone-built Crooked Billet pub on the right. The pub was close enough to her place of work that she sometimes had lunch there, and it was where they went to celebrate promotions and birthdays.

She looked both ways, waited for an SUV with three children in the back to roar by, then jogged across the road and headed down a side street. The house was a hundred yards ahead of her and she kept the pace up until she reached the front gate, jogging on the spot as she opened it. It was a Victorian detached house with bay windows and a single garage to the right. The small front lawn had been paved over years earlier and was now used to store plastic rubbish bins. She went around to the rear of the house. The front door was only used for deliveries – everyone else used the kitchen door. A CCTV camera looked down from the roof, one of four covering the approaches to the house. Another camera was fixed to the roof of the garage, aimed at the kitchen door. There was a metal keypad to the right of the door and she tapped in the six-digit code. The door mechanism clicked and she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Tony Watson was staring into the fridge. She said hello but he didn’t turn to look at her. ‘The fridge isn’t working again,’ he muttered. ‘It’s the bloody thermostat. We’ll be lucky if we don’t all go down with food poisoning.’ Watson was in his late twenties, tall and gangly with old acne scars peppering his cheeks. Sally figured he was probably gay but he was a private person, par for the course in their line of work, so she knew next to nothing about him. He closed the fridge door, a can of Coke in his hand. ‘The bloody coffee maker’s died, too.’

Sally eased past him and opened the fridge. She kept her Evian water on the second shelf down and she took out a bottle, unscrewed the top and drank half before she went through to the hallway. There were two doors to the left. In a previous life the room nearest the kitchen had been for dining and the one at the front for sitting. They were both now used as offices, and were filled with filing cabinets, desks and computers, though the worn carpets and flock wallpaper were original. The stairs were to the right and Sally headed up them. The stair carpet was worn and frayed in places and she had to be careful where she placed her feet. One of the men who worked on the upper floor, David Hansard, had taken a tumble a few months earlier and had twisted his knee badly. David was due to leave the house in a few weeks and was being cagey about where he was going.

Sally worked in what had originally been the front bedroom of the house. There was a bay window overlooking the front garden and the street beyond. Drew Mountford was already at work, blinking through his thick-lensed glasses at two screens filled with images of children being abused. Mountford had taped plastic boards to the sides of his screens so that Sally couldn’t see what he was watching from her desk, and she always averted her eyes when she walked behind him. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Did they tell you the coffee maker’s buggered?’

‘Yeah, Tony said.’

‘Who do we talk to about getting a replacement?’

‘Angie in Supplies, I’ll call her.’

‘Cheers,’ said Mountford.

‘Hi Fiona,’ said Sally, heading over to her desk. Sally was the longest serving in the house so her desk was in the best position, facing the window.

Fiona Hyde was the newest recruit in the house, a tall brunette who had recently graduated with a first-class degree in Arabic Studies from the University of Manchester. Like Tony Watson she was fluent in Arabic and they always used the language to talk to each other, which Sally felt was both pretentious and annoying. Sally spoke reasonable French and passable German but Tony and Fiona’s language skills were at a whole different level.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ sighed Fiona. Her desk was facing the wall. She had moved soon after she had been assigned to the house, so that she didn’t have to look at Mountford’s screens.

Sally sat down and unzipped her backpack. ‘Saves me a fortune on bus fares,’ she said. She took out her fake Prada handbag and her genuine iPhone and put them next to her keyboard. Sally pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk, took out her washbag and towel and shoved her backpack in. Then she opened the pine wardrobe between her desk and Mountford’s. Most of it was filled with files but the original hanging rods were in place and she used the left-hand side to store several work outfits. There were no written rules about how they were supposed to dress in the house, but most of the staffers dressed as if they were in head office: suits, or blazers and trousers, though Fiona was a big fan of Ted Baker and Karen Millen dresses. Drew was an exception; he was close to retirement and so he had taken to turning up in a sweatshirt and cargo pants.

Sally had to make half a dozen Tube journeys that day so she chose a pair of black trousers, a dark blue shirt and a black linen jacket. There were three pairs of shoes and she took a pair of black pumps with low heels. She took her outfit, washbag and towel to the bathroom. It was small, a toilet against the far wall, a pink plastic bath with an electric shower to the right and a washbasin to the left. The grouting between the white tiles had gone grey with age and the ceiling was dotted with mould. There was a frosted window behind the sink but it wouldn’t open. The only ventilation came from a plastic fan set into the glass that hadn’t worked since Sally had moved into the house, two years earlier.

She closed the door, hung up her outfit and placed her washbag and towel on the lid of the toilet. She stripped off and stepped into the bath. The shower was a hit-and-miss affair; sometimes the pressure was just right and the water comfortably warm, but more often than not there was a problem, either a measly flow or the temperature ice cold or boiling hot. She took the shower head and pointed it at the tiled wall as she pressed the button to start the water. She let it run for a few seconds and then tested it. It was warm, so she fixed the head back into its holder and showered, using her own shampoo and body wash.

When she’d finished she towelled herself dry and put on her work outfit. Her hair was short enough that she never needed a dryer and a few minutes brushing was all it took to make herself presentable.

She hung her running gear in the wardrobe and put her trainers on the windowsill so that they would catch the sun. ‘Shall I do a coffee run if the machine’s broken?’ she asked. ‘I need my caffeine.’

‘I’d love a latte with an extra two shots,’ said Fiona. ‘And a chocolate muffin.’

‘You’re an angel,’ said Mountford, who was looking at a series of photographs of a middle-aged couple abusing what appeared to be a newborn baby. Page shuddered and averted her eyes. ‘I don’t know how you can look at that stuff without puking,’ she said.

‘Somebody’s got to do it,’ said Mountford. ‘And it’s not as if I’ve got a sex life to fuck with. Americano with a splash of milk,’ he said.

‘I’ll just check my diary and then I’ll head out to Costa,’ said Sally. She dropped down onto her chair and logged on to her computer, keying in a password and pressing her right thumb on a small scanner. Once she had access to the system she called up her diary and sat back as she ran through the list of the tasks she had to carry out. She was responsible for two dozen apartments and houses and she was scheduled to visit three that day. One needed gas and electricity meter readings taken, which was a nuisance because the only way to get to the gas meter was to stand on a kitchen worktop. There were Amazon deliveries scheduled for the second of the three, and she had to give the third one a quick clean.

Her social media workload was much heavier. She had several dozen Twitter accounts, all of which had to be attended to, and as many Facebook and Instagram accounts too. Plus she had six Oyster cards and a dozen shop loyalty cards, credit cards and debit cards that needed to be used. It was boring, run-of-the-mill stuff but at least she didn’t have to watch child porn.

She leaned over and pressed her thumb against the reader on the front of the safe next to her desk. The locking mechanism clicked and she turned the handle to open it. Inside were dozens of padded envelopes, each with a barcode and a name and address. She flicked through the envelopes and found the three that corresponded to that day’s work. She closed the safe and put the envelopes on her desk. Each envelope contained a set of keys and a thumb drive with all the information about the property. She put the envelopes into her handbag.

The Oyster cards, shop loyalty cards and credit cards were in a filing cabinet, listed alphabetically under the name of the card owner. She took out all the cards she would be using that day, slotted them into a wallet and put that into her bag too.

‘Do you want a muffin or a croissant?’ she asked Mountford.

‘A banana chocolate muffin would go down a treat,’ said Mountford. He fumbled in his pocket but Sally told him he could pay her later.

‘Actually Sally, I’m going to work through lunch today,’ said Fiona. ‘Can you pick me up a salad or something?’

‘Sure,’ said Sally. A memo flashed up on her screen. One of the houses she maintained was marked as ‘out of bounds’, meaning she wasn’t to visit until the ban was lifted. It was the large house in Hampstead, the one she was due to clean. She was only expected to check that the house was spick and span and to make sure that all the lights and taps worked, but the cancellation meant a reduced workload and she was grateful for small mercies.

She picked up her handbag and phone. ‘Right, I won’t be long,’ she said.

Mountford waved but kept his eyes on his screens.

The smaller bedroom was being used by Mo Chowdhury and David Hansard. They always worked with their door closed and she knocked before opening. Both men were Sally’s age, pretty much. Chowdhury was an IT specialist who was forever moaning that his skills were being wasted, but Hansard’s degree had been in drama and he enjoyed playing different roles on Facebook and Twitter – so much so that sometimes his enthusiasm had to be reined in. ‘I’m doing a coffee run, guys,’ she said.

Chowdhury twisted around in his seat. He had loosened his tie and tossed it over one shoulder. His hair was unkempt as if he had just got out of bed, but Sally knew it was a look that took the best part of five minutes in front of the mirror to achieve. ‘An iced cappuccino would be great, thanks,’ he said.

‘Costa or Starbucks?’ asked Hansard, peering at one of his two screens.

‘Costa,’ said Sally.

‘I hate Starbucks,’ he said.

‘That’s good, because I’m going to Costa.’

‘Get me a latte with an extra shot.’

‘What’s the magic word?’

‘Now,’ he said. He turned around and grinned at her. ‘Sorry, I’m giving this Manchester United fan some grief. He knows fuck all about football.’ He pulled his wallet out and before Sally could say that she’d catch him later he had thrust a ten pound note at her. ‘I’ll buy Mo his coffee too.’

‘You’re a star, mate,’ said Chowdhury, who was looking at one of his screens. It was a Twitter page and Chowdhury had just tweeted a meme that featured a man in an orange jump suit having his head hacked off. Sally looked away and closed the door as she left.

She went quickly down the stairs and knocked on the door to the front roo. . .