Evolution of Fear by Paul E. Hardisty Read Free Book Online

cantilevered roof. He pushed the receiver onto his ear.
    ‘There is a sizeable credit on Mister Barstow’s account,’ came the voice, faint against the din, ‘which you paid in advance, if you recall. What would you have us do with it, Mister Greene?’
    Clay stood staring out at the cars and the rain coming in trembling panes. ‘Are there any others?’
    ‘Pardon me, Mister Greene? Others?’
    ‘Any others like Eben.’
    ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’
    ‘Vets.’ Fucked up unfortunates. The half-digested shit of a forgotten war, a failed system. Him.
    ‘Yes, of course. There are three others.’
    ‘Give it to whoever needs it most.’
    Silence there, so far away, in a place he used to call home. And then: ‘That is very generous, Mister Greene.’
    Clay said nothing, waited a moment, was about to hang up, when the director’s voice came again, urgent: ‘Mister Greene, before you go. There is something else.’
    ‘I’m listening.’
    ‘You must understand. We are all very shocked here.’
    Clay waited for the director to continue.
    ‘When we found him…’ The director paused, cleared his throat. ‘You can imagine. It was a horrible sight.’
    Yes, he could imagine. All too well. Did so on a nightly basis.
    ‘The killer, or killers, left a message. We have no idea who it was intended for, or what it means.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    The director paused, then continued, his voice wavering. ‘It was written on the wall, in Mister Barstow’s blood. It said: “She’s next” .’
    Clay stared down at the wet concrete, the implications of this moving through him now like a slow dose of poison. ‘Are you sure, Doctor? Absolutely sure that’s what it said?’
    ‘No question at all, Mister Greene. The words were very clear, well spelled out, as if they had taken their time. They used a brush.’
    ‘Did you say brush ?’
    ‘A paint brush, yes. They left it in the room.’

6
Three-Day Head Start
    It was an hour short of dawn when he reached the outskirts of Falmouth on Cornwall’s south coast. The first morning commuters painted the roads with sleepy headlights. Clay knew that with each minute his chances of being detected grew. He needed to get rid of the car, quit this cold, damp place. He left the motorway, turned towards the sea and worked his way along the coast road, scanning the warehouses and shops that cluttered both sides of the road, grey brick walls, fenced yards choked with machinery, chandleries, glimpses of the broad estuary opening up on his left as the sky lightened. After a few miles, the first boatyard, full of gleaming white fibreglass craft bobbing in ordered ranks within a dockwork lattice, the freshly paved parking area dotted with expensive German cars, and then, a few minutes later, another marina, well-tended and prosperous.
    Clay drove on.
    After a while, the buildings began to age noticeably, brickwork faded and crumbled, the first bruised Fords and rusty Hillmans appeared. Twenty minutes later he slowed and followed a narrow laneway down towards the water. At the end of the cul-de-sac was a stretch of clapboard fence about fifty metres long. The boards sagged between listing posts. Grass and weeds choked the verge. A few corroded aluminium masts poked above the fence. To the right, beyond a tangle of bare trees draped with bramble and ivy, a chainlinked equipment yard, rusty machinery, stacks of wooden shipping pallets. To the left, an old brick warehouse building, windowless, empty-looking. Clay slowed the car and approached what looked tobe the entranceway to the place. The sign, hanging from a bar over the gate, looked decades old, grey, peeling lettering on a once-blue background. It read simply: Pearson & Son. Vessels bought and sold . It was worth a try.
    Clay turned the car around and tucked it tight beside the brambles at the far end of the fence. The dashboard clock showed five fifty-eight. He turned off the engine, opened the door, stood and stretched. The air was heavy