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

can make out the address painted on the side. I needed a magnifying glass to read it.”

“The Suttons are well known around these parts,” MrBainbridge said. He pointed out the brand name on the one remaining custard cream. “They’re a local firm.”

“Exactly. A local firm.” Nyquist’s eye passed over each photograph. “So I did a bit of digging, and I put it all together.”

“I’m impressed.”

“It’s my job. How I make my living.”

Bainbridge looked at him in a new way. “You’re a police officer?”

“A private investigator.”

“I see. So, this a case you’re working on, for a client?”

Nyquist took a moment to answer. “This is for me. Entirely for me.”

Bainbridge turned his attention to another image, the one showing the tower in a field. He said, “I’ve never seen this building before. I don’t think it’s from around here.”

“It’s not very clear in the shot.”

“Still, I don’t recognize it.”

Nyquist turned one of the photographs over. “What about this? The photographer’s mark. It’s on all six pictures.” It was small pale blue-inked rectangle, somewhat faded, the stamp damaged. “But I can’t see the name properly. Nor the address.”

Bainbridge squinted. “No. It’s too faint.”

“There aren’t any photographers in the village, professional ones, I mean?”

“Oh, maybe, yes, but I don’t believe they live here anymore. I think they left the village a little while ago.”

“What were they called?”

“I really can’t remember. I don’t like having my photograph taken, neither does Hilda. We’re very private people.”

“But somebody took this picture of you and your wife.”

Bainbridge looked puzzled. “As you can see, it was taken without our knowledge. Why would anyone do that? It scares me, to think of it.”

“You’ve no idea?”

“Hilda and I, we lead ordinary lives. It sounds ridiculous to say it, but there is nothing to spy upon. Nothing at all.”

There was an awkward moment. Neither man spoke. Nyquist glanced at the clock on the mantel: ten past seven.

“What I don’t understand,” Bainbridge said, “is why you’ve come all this way? I mean to say, why is this so important to you?”

Nyquist gathered up the photographs until only one was left on the table, the portrait of the middle-aged man.

“Tell me, do you know this person?”

Bainbridge glanced at the image and shook his head. “No.”

“Take a closer look.”

“I’ve told you. I don’t know him.”

There was a noise from the corner of the room and Nyquist looked that way, hoping the woman was alert now, that she might have something to offer. But she was sitting there as before, gazing intently at the now silent radio set. Perhaps her eyes moved slightly, perhaps they flickered?

Bainbridge picked up the photograph. “I can see a family resemblance.”

“Yes. It’s my father.”

Nyquist could feel his heart being wound up tight, a fragile half-broken machine. “I haven’t seen him since I was a child. A boy. Twenty-four years have passed. I thought he was dead. And now…” He looked at the photograph. “And now this.”

Ian Bainbridge stared at his guest. This stranger, a wanderer, someone who didn’t know the rules, a lost soul. He said, “I swear. I swear on Saint Switten’s unmarked grave, in all my years I have never seen this man.”

Nyquist frowned. He gazed at his father’s face. Then he swallowed the last gulp of tea and said, “There’s something in my cup.”

“There is?”

“Christ. It’s moving about.”

Bainbridge was puzzled. “You know my mother used to read the shapes in tea leaves. She could view a person’s future through them.”

Nyquist was irritated. “What would she make of this?”

Bainbridge looked into the offered receptacle. “I cannot say.” But his eyes widened, as Nyquist reached into the cup and made to pull out the worm or insect or whatever it was. The creature’s squirming body stretched out, one end of it still clinging to the cup’s interior.

“What the hell are you feeding me?”

“I’m really sorry about this,” Bainbridge answered. “I don’t know what to say.”

The worm or whatever it was, was still clinging on, lengthening as Nyquist tried to pull it loose. He leaned forward to examine the foreign body.

“I don’t think it’s a worm. It’s the wrong color. Unless you have green worms around here?”

“No, of course not. Green? No. Nothing like that. Just normal worms, nothing special.”

“I think this is more like a plant.”

“A plant? Really?”

“It’s a tendril, or a piece of root.” Nyquist turned the teacup this way and that under the light. He said, “But the way it moves, it’s more like a living creature.”

Bainbridge looked worried, terrified almost. His voice rose in pitch. “We only bring the coronation tea set out when we have guests, which is very rarely these days. And anyway, I keep a clean house!”

Now the two men were both looking at the strange fibrous substance held between cup, and Nyquist’s forefinger and thumb. It had stretched to about a foot in length and was still clinging onto the china by its suckered end. Queen Elizabeth II continued to smile gracefully from the cup’s outer surface.

“I can feel it pulling back at me,” Nyquist said. He felt lightheaded. His eyes couldn’t quite stay in focus. His tongue was thick in his mouth.

“I don’t feel well.”

The dark green fiber was wet and sticky. Tiny burrs hooked at his skin. He gave it a sharp tug, but instead of the sucker coming loose from the cup, the tendril extended itself even further and wrapped itself around his fingers.

“It’s got you!”

“The thing’s digging in.” It was beginning to hurt. “It’s tightening.” Nyquist pulled with all his strength, watching in a kind of horrified fascination as the tendril stretched out, further and further.

“I think it likes you,” Bainbridge whispered. The fear had left him. Now he had a look of wonder in his eyes. “It doesn’t like me. And it doesn’t like Hilda. It likes you.”

“Hold the cup!”

Bainbridge did so, as Nyquist backed away from the table, until he reached the limits of the creature’s physical hold. There was a bureau in the corner of the room, and his free hand scrabbled around until it closed