The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,14

afraid, Mister Greene.’

The line crackled, empty.

‘Then you’d better just tell me.’

‘Yes, of course. We traced you through the payment you made to the clinic earlier this year, Mister Greene, and since there are no direct living relatives, not any more, you were the only person we could contact.’

Clay’s throat tightened.

‘I’m very sorry to inform you that Eben Barstow died four days ago.’

Clay’s legs quivered. Eben, the best friend he’d ever had, wounded in action in Angola all those years ago, a bullet to the head. Clay had carried him to the helicopter and he had survived, if you could call it that, physically functioning but otherwise dead. How many times had he tried to convince Eben’s parents to let him die? Now it was done. Relief surged through him, a decade of regret. It took him a moment to catch his breath, to fully process this information. ‘Did you say no living relatives?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What about his parents?’

‘They died the same day.’

Jesus. ‘The same day?’

‘Yes. Tragic. But there is something you should know, Mister Greene. The circumstances of Mister Barstow’s death, were – how can I put this – unusual.’

Just say it, for Christ’s sake. So many times he had anticipated this moment, such had always seemed the inevitability of it, but now that it was here he couldn’t quite believe that Eben was gone, that the tiny shard of hope he had carried with him all those years – wrapped up in a teardrop, a pearl, hidden away somewhere so secure he’d almost forgotten it was ever there – had turned out to be the folly he always knew it was.

‘Mister Greene, are you there?’

‘Tell me.’

‘He was shot, Mister Greene.’

Clay thought he had misheard. He was hot. Died of fever.

‘Someone broke into the hospital at night, went to his room, and shot him three times. Twice in the chest, and once in the head.’

Clay’s blood stopped pumping. Jesus Christ.

‘And whoever it was, they also broke into our records department. It seems they were after information about Eben, about our accounts.’

‘What did they get?’

‘Everything, I’m afraid, Mister Greene. The police said it was a very professional job. The perpetrators were in and out without being seen by any of our staff, or waking any of the other patients.’

Jesus. ‘And Eben’s parents?’

‘They died in a car accident. As I said, a tragedy.’

Clay’s mind blanked, raced. All three of them, on the same day?

‘Mister Greene, are you there?’

‘Yes.’ No, not really.

Outside, the rain was coming down again, hammering against the thin steel of the supermarket’s 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