Composite Creatures by Caroline Hardaker (best story books to read .TXT) 📗

the lamps, and he took an envelope from his suitcase. He drew out a set of photographs, and found one depicting the street. The edges of the image were faded and details were lost here and there, blurred over, but yes, it was the same location. In fact, the photograph had been taken from somewhere near this exact spot. And he was sure then, for the first time, that he had come to the right place: Hoxley-on-the-Hale.

He was nervous. What would he find here?

The rain had come and gone: a short but violent downpour, enough to soak him through and to drive people indoors. The street was deserted. He walked along, passing the shop and the pub, both closed, and the expanse of a village green with a circular pond and an oak tree that looked as old as the village itself. A maypole stood at the center of the green, its revelries long passed. The clock on the church tower crept towards six The cold set in deep and his breath silvered the air.

He crossed over a stone bridge. The waters of the river Hale passed beneath, and the church and its graveyard waited for him on the other side. He walked around the building, left to right. It was a small church. The tombstones were laid out without pattern, many of them cracked or fallen over, pushed up by the roots of trees. The newest addition seemed to be Gladys Coombes. She’d died in the spring of this year, aged 38. A fresh bunch of flowers lay at her graveside. The doors to the church were locked. Beyond the church the woods took up again; no more houses. He walked back over the bridge onto the high street. The pub was called The Swan With Two Necks. It would probably open up soon and he could see if they had a room available. And a drink. He sat down on a bench. He was tired and dirty, having traveled all day to get here. What could he do next? Perhaps one of the customers in the pub would help him? Yes, that was it, he’d ask everyone about the person he had to find. But then he thought again: would such a move be wise? Maybe it was best to play it tight.

Across the way a light came on in the downstairs room of a house.

Nyquist examined the photographs by the glow of the street lamp. Each was dark in places, or spotted with white dots, or blurred.

A village street.

A church.

A corner shop.

A field with a tower visible in the distance.

Two people standing outside a house. Male, female. Talking to each other, their faces turned from the camera.

Another man, older, mid-fifties. The face as subject matter: a portrait of sorts. But his features were slightly distorted in parts, smeared across the surface.

Six images, each one taken through the same damaged lens.

The church was the same church he had walked round, and the shop across the street was identical to the one in the photo. Featherstonehaugh’s Store. The letters were squashed and tiny, in order to fit on the board.

A pair of winter moths fluttered above his head: his thoughts taking flight.

Nyquist slid the photographs back into their envelope, all except for one, the image of the couple standing outside a house. Perhaps if he found this residence, it would give him a way forward. He stood up and walked from end of the high street to the other, checking each house in turn against the one in the image, but none of them matched.

He took the first of the side streets, nearest the school. It was called Hodgepodge Lane: just six houses and then open country, the meagre light of the village waning quickly into a gray landscape. None of the houses corresponded to the one in the photograph. He moved on, exploring each side street in turn. One of them, Pyke Road, was much longer than the others, allowing the village to continue up the gentle slopes of the valley. He walked up, looking into one tiny side street after another. He was about to give up and head back down to the village center, when at last he found the cottage he was looking for. He’d already passed it once. He held the photograph up to his eye line, to match each feature and decoration in turn. The house was called Yew Tree Cottage. Nyquist rapped the crow’s head knocker against the door.

It took a while. It took a long while. Until at last he heard someone moving around inside and a voice calling out, “Go away. No visitors today.”

Nyquist rapped again, louder this time. “Hello. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Minutes passed. He was tempted to knock a third time, but then the door opened and a man peered out at him through a gap. One eye was visible.

“Yes, what do you want?”

“I’m trying to find someone.”

“There’s no one here to find.”

“You might be able to help. I was given this address.” It wasn’t quite true, but Nyquist needed to act.

The visible eye blinked a few times. “Who are you?”

“Can I come in, please? It’s freezing out here, and I got caught in the rain.”

“Quickly then, before someone sees you!”

The door opened wider and the man grabbed Nyquist by the arm and pulled him inside, dragging him roughly into the hallway. The door closed immediately. The man’s face loomed close. “What were you doing out there? You shouldn’t be outside, not today.” He gestured to an inner doorway. “Well then, make yourself at home. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The householder walked off towards the kitchen at the back of the house, where the kettle was already whistling. Nyquist entered the living room. It was softly lit by a standard lamp, and it took him a few moments to realize he wasn’t alone. A woman was sitting in an armchair, facing the radio. He nodded to her. She remained as she was,