MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8)

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  MURDER

  IN

  PEMBROKESHIRE

  An absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists

  GRETTA MULROONEY

  Tyrone Swift Book 8

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2021

  © Gretta Mulrooney

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Gretta Mulrooney to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-738-1

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  For Eve

  Prologue

  He’d never liked secrets. There had been too many when he was a child — adults murmuring over his head, fragments of sentences, conversations that stopped when he entered a room. Childhood had been a puzzle, an insoluble riddle, and he had never worked out the meaning.

  The matron at his boarding school had been keen on riddles. But they hadn’t been fun. She’d used them to tease and bully, choosing her victims at random, belittling her target in front of the others when he couldn’t come up with the answer. He could still remember the one she’d set him the night he’d arrived. He’d been wearing his new pyjamas, their stiff label scratching his neck. He’d stood, lost, in the huge, chilly dormitory with its rows of beds like an army barracks.

  Only one colour, but not one size,

  Stuck at the bottom, but easily flies.

  Present in sun, but not in rain,

  Doing no harm and feeling no pain.

  What is it?

  He’d been ten, homesick and bewildered. He had been aware of dozens of eyes focused on him and had felt like the fox must when the hounds are circling. They were waiting for him to fail. When he did, he’d heard some sniggers. Matron had told him he was as much use as a fart in a jam-jar. The others had laughed, glad that they weren’t in the spotlight. He’d never discovered the answer. Many years later, in his twenties, he’d recalled that riddle one sleepless night and had googled it. The answer was shadow.

  Secrets were heavy. If you could touch them, they’d burn you. They could imprison you. He’d thought up a riddle with secret as the answer:

  If you have it, you want to share it,

  But when you share it, you no longer have it.

  He didn’t like secrets, yet he had one of his own. He could still hear those terrible screams. They had shattered a sunlit day. The blood had stained the fissures in the rocks, darkening as it dried. When he’d realised what had happened, he’d begun to shiver, as in deep winter. For months afterwards he’d been unable to get warm. Even on this benign day, the recollection gave him goose pimples.

  He’d managed to keep the lid on that chapter in his history. Just. Secrets seemed to follow at his heels like the Labrador that sometimes tracked him up and down the beach. Now someone had breathed yet another unwelcome confidence in his ear. His heart had sunk. He hadn’t wanted to listen but of course, he was a soft touch. Always had been. His defences had never been strong. He was a quiet man, shy and slow to give his opinion. People misread his reserve as wisdom and interpreted his silence as an invitation to speak. And this person had wanted to share the secret so badly, whispering through warm, close breath, setting out their stall, drawing him in. How could he refuse to listen and to help?

  Life had been simpler once. Not entirely free of worries, but with room to breathe. He’d done some good, lent a helping hand when it was needed. It was important to heal wounds, try to make things whole when they’d splintered. You had to do your best to put things right. He’d been doing his best since the day that blood was spilled, because he could never make that broken body whole again.

  He walked on, contemplating the burden of what he knew. He didn’t want to intervene, although in the end he’d probably have to. But there was a chance that this meeting might bring resolution. He would speak calmly, measure his words, and present the only honourable course of action. Maybe the person waiting for him wanted a way out.

  He was almost there.

  He put out his hand and brushed the cow parsley that fringed the path, bringing his palm to his nose to sniff its sweetness.

  And strode on to meet his death.

  Chapter 1

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  Tyrone Swift went into the café, slung down his backpack, threw himself into a chair and heaved a sigh of relief. He loosened his tie. Halfway through the court hearing, he’d noticed a crust of dried chocolate on it and knew that Branna, his sticky-fingered daughter, had been rifling through his wardrobe again. She was going through a phase of wanting to try on his clothes, which was fine by him, except for the mess it caused. He kept finding his shirts inside out, his jeans crumpled and his jackets on the floor. He was no clothes horse — his cousin Mary kindly said that his frayed look was shabby chic — and he could never fathom where buttons vanished to, but he tried to achieve a reasonably tidy appearance for clients and when needed, judges. Branna’s mother, an educational psychologist, had explained to him that their daughter understood that she was a girl, but she wanted to experiment. ‘She’s trying out being male, it’s part of her development,’ Ruth had told him. He wondered if that was reading too deeply into it. He reckoned it was pure mischief and wished that his daughter would try it out instead on Marcel, Ruth’s partner. Marcel was always so bloody tidy and ironed.

  A waiter hovered, smiling, iPad in hand, for his order.

  ‘I’m waiting for a friend, but in the meantime, a large glass of merlot would be great,’ Swift said. ‘The sooner the wine arrives, the better I’ll feel.’

  It was before him in seconds, ruby red and smelling of cloves and plums. He took a deep draught and held some in his mouth for a moment. Velvety, rich, heavenly. Here’s to us, Cedric, he murmured. He’d been in court all morning, attending a hearing about Cedric’s will, of which he was sole executor. Cedric Sheridan, his dear deceased friend and tenant, had left twenty thousand pounds to his son Oliver, a hundred and fifty thousand ea
ch to Swift and Milo, one of his oldest friends, and twenty thousand to various others. Oliver had challenged the will and then appealed a court decision upholding it. He alleged that Swift had pressurised Cedric, prevented him from seeing his son and blocked phone calls. He’d also claimed that Swift had influenced Cedric into changing his previous will, which named Oliver as the main beneficiary.

  The tedious and worrying business had been dragging on for months. Today the judge had ruled that there was no evidence that Cedric had been influenced or manipulated and had upheld the terms of the will. Oliver had been furious. He’d turned up to court in a khaki artist’s smock, daubed with dried plaster. When he’d sneezed, he’d shaken free a haze of dust. Presumably, he’d thought that the judge might respond sympathetically to the I’m an impoverished, hard-done-by sculptor guise, but she’d regarded him scathingly. Her decision was final, and Oliver would have to like it or lump it. Swift was just glad it was over, and hoped he’d never have to see the obnoxious man again or have anything to do with Camilla Finley, the journalist who’d been advising and helping Oliver.

  Swift stretched his long legs. His phone pinged with a text from his friend Mark Gill, saying he’d been delayed but should be there very soon. Swift scrolled to his emails. Now that Oliver Sheridan was out of his life, he could relax and attend to an invitation from his old friend Afan to visit him in West Wales. It was a good time to take a break. Branna was away in Guernsey with Ruth for the summer and when they returned, she was due to have an operation for cochlear implants. That would be a worrying time. He and Ruth had spent months weighing up the pros and cons of surgery. Branna’s hearing aids and use of sign language were helping her to work around her significant impairment. Implants might boost her hearing and confidence and open up her options to make decisions about speaking or signing. The downside was that she could lose any remaining hearing if they didn’t work well. Whatever happened, they would have a major impact on her life. They would change her.

  He had no work lined up for now and he was jaded after the lengthy tussle with Oliver. His on/off relationship with Nora Morrow, a DI in the Met, had ground to a halt, leaving him saddened but mainly relieved. She’d moved on to Fitz Blackmore, a detective who’d been a mutual friend. Swift missed her humour and quick wit but not her prickliness and unpredictable temper. When he’d told his cousin Mary that he and Nora were no longer together, she’d said, ‘I won’t pretend I’m not relieved. She has a good reputation in the Met, but she’s too volatile up close and personal. I’d decided to kidnap you if you ever indicated that you were going to move in with her.’ Mary believed he had bad judgement where women were concerned. She might be right. A period of solitude would be a sensible idea.

  A few days in Wales, far from personal baggage, solicitors, courts and London’s muggy August fumes was an attractive prospect. He found the email that Afan Griffith had sent in July. It had been unexpected — they’d worked together at Interpol in Lyon over ten years ago but hadn’t been in touch since. He’d been pleased at the contact.

  Hi there, Ty, long time no see or hear. I meant to keep in touch, but you know how it goes, which always sounds a feeble excuse. I have thought of you and wondered how you’re doing. I see from your website that you’re now working as a private investigator. I’d love to hear more about that.

  I’ve been living in this remote place for some time. I’m back in the land of my fathers, near Holybridge, in Pembrokeshire. I live and work in Tir Melys — it means Sweet Land — a community of smallholdings, and I love it here. It’s remote, peaceful and quiet. I feel that I’m doing some good. The frantic, workaday world seems wonderfully far away. It’s hard graft, growing my own food, but rewarding, and I’d never go back to the 9-to-5 daily grind. I’m also into beekeeping in a big way. Like the honey, life is mainly sweet. People here have their differences but that’s true of any community. There is a sour note that troubles me and plays on my mind. I’d like to run it by you, check out your perspective.

  Do you fancy a couple of days in Pembrokeshire? Plenty of room here and it would be great to catch up. There’s no Wi-Fi, I have to come into Holybridge for that, usually over the weekend. Although I have a phone, it’s turned off here as the signal’s non-existent, so just turn up if you can — or there’s always snail mail and the communal landline here — number below. I’m adding a link to the Tir Melys website, to whet your appetite.

  Hope to catch up soon, Afan.

  He’d replied, saying it was great to be back in touch and that the lack of contact was just as much his responsibility. He’d explained that he needed to get a court hearing out of the way, but then he’d be delighted to visit in August. He tried the landline number now, but it rang out with no voicemail, so he sent an email. Today was Thursday, so he assumed that Afan would pick it up in the next couple of days, in Holybridge.

  Hi, Afan. The court case is over now, and decks are cleared. I’ll head your way on Monday. It’ll be good to catch up after so many years and swap experiences. Tir Melys looks fascinating. Should be with you mid-afternoon.

  The door banged and Mark Gill crossed to the table. ‘Hi, so sorry I’m late — combination of a lengthy phone call and traffic.’ He pulled out a chair and wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. ‘This weather’s too much and I’m sure the heater was on in my cab.’

  ‘No worries. The rest of my day is blissfully free.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same.’ Mark gestured at the wine. ‘I hope that’s in celebration.’

  ‘It certainly is. Oliver lost and it’s over. Jubilation!’

  ‘What a relief! I shouldn’t, but I’ll have a glass to keep you company. Shall we order?’

  They examined the menu and gave their order. Mark rearranged the paper napkins and shoved the stand of olive oil and balsamic vinegar to one side. He was a jumpy, intense man, who spoke, moved and acted rapidly. Even when sitting, he shifted restlessly. He talked constantly in a stream of ideas that were often hard to follow. Swift, who could be still and silent, often watched him with fascination. He’d worked with Mark at the Met, sitting at a desk near him. He’d got used to him suddenly spinning on his chair, clockwise and then anticlockwise when he was on the phone. His nickname at work had been Twitcher.

  They clinked glasses. Swift reached into his backpack and handed over a magazine. ‘Here, a gift for you.’

  Mark laughed. ‘Snap! I’ve got one for you.’ He took a magazine from his pocket and placed it in front of Swift.

  Swift examined the copy of Detective Fiction Weekly from July 1928. It featured The Cult Murders by Alan Forsyth. The cover illustration showed a sinister man with brilliantined hair and a waxed moustache. ‘Thanks. I don’t have this Forsyth. How’s my choice for you?’

  ‘Terrific. I have some Front Page Detectives, but not a 1943.’ The major story in Mark’s magazine was Chinese Beauty and the Bloody Dagger, with a mysterious woman on the cover.

  They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, sipping wine and leafing through their magazines. They both enjoyed crime pulp fiction, although Mark was a more avid collector, and whenever they met, they always discussed their joint interest. They sourced vintage magazines from many sellers, including a shop in Soho that stocked an extensive selection. Swift had spent many enjoyable rainy afternoons in its musty basement. As well as the stories, he enjoyed the adverts: ‘Zippo, the gift that never fails.’ ‘Enjoy sundown with relaxing cocktails at Laguna Beach.’ ‘Inspire his passion when you wear Paris Nights.’

  Mark put his magazine down. ‘Did you say you’d heard from Afan Griffith?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s living in Wales now. I’m going to see him next week.’

  ‘Give him my best, he’s a sound man. Thoughtful, too — he sent me a copy of a 1937 Black Mask that one time I liaised with him. He did most of the work, really, so it was generous of him.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on. I’m not sure why he left Interpol and headed to rural Wales. Do you have any idea?�
�

  Mark was tucking into his mushroom risotto. ‘I heard it was something to do with bullying. Not Afan as the bully, obviously. I believe that he had problems with his section boss.’

  They talked on about work, while Mark fiddled with the table settings.

  ‘I heard you and Nora aren’t together now,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. She’s seeing someone else.’

  ‘You okay about it?’

  Swift said, ‘I’m not heartbroken and clearly, neither is she. I’ll miss going to the Parterre. I like it there, but it’s Nora’s favourite bar so . . . best to give it a miss for a while.’ He didn’t fancy wandering in and spotting Nora and Fitz together.

  Mark chased the last grains of rice around his plate and flicked a quick glance at him. ‘I never thought you went that well together, to be honest. Hope you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘That seems to have been the general opinion. When it was good it was great, but the cracks showed too often.’ He gestured at the magazine. ‘Nora objected to my pulp fiction, said all the stories were sexist and misogynistic. I argued that they’re of their time and you had to read them in context, but she suspected me of chauvinist tendencies.’ And yet she’d moved on to Fitz, who made no secret of being a serial womaniser. Maybe she hoped to change him. Swift wished her luck with that. He added, ‘Nora doesn’t have much time for kids either and makes no secret of it. She didn’t hit it off with Branna and was short-tempered with her at times, so that was another difficulty, and it gave Ruth ammunition to aim at me.’

  ‘Sounds messy and complicated.’

  ‘It was. Branna got anxious about Nora not liking her. I can understand that Ruth would react to that and be protective, but she got so high-handed about it, egged on by Marcel, her partner, who is always quoted as a fount of wisdom.’