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

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  Mark pulled a face. ‘Ouch! Sounds like you were the filling in the sandwich. Rather you than me, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. It wasn’t working with Nora, but I let it drift on, so only myself to blame in the end.’ The truth was that since he’d been on his own again, his thoughts had turned frequently to Ruth, wandering down the dangerous path of what might have been. Maybe he’d been using the relationship with Nora as a distraction all along. He forked up his last portion of moussaka. ‘How’s your love life these days?’

  ‘Non-existent at the moment. All the women I come across are married or just about to be divorced and burdened by anger and regret. Then there are all the bewildered kids in tow and as you’ve discovered, that can be a minefield.’

  ‘I’ve gathered that it’s the same for women in our age group who are in search of a likely partner.’

  ‘No doubt. I read that the average age for a first divorce is thirty. A woman I met and liked a lot told me that she was grieving for the future she’d lost, and the children she might have had. Took me a while to work that out. Maybe I don’t really want to make room for anyone in my life. It’s a big adjustment when you’ve been on your own for a while.’

  Swift often had similar thoughts himself and said so. ‘Maybe we’ll be meeting like this in ten years’ time, two middle-aged singletons, exchanging pulp fiction magazines.’

  Mark grinned. ‘That’s supposed to sound sad, but actually, I find it quite appealing. Although I saw an article recently that said that people who live alone stand twice the risk of getting dementia as those with partners, who also have better physical health. Apparently, single households are also a wasteful use of resources.’

  ‘We’re pretty damned then on all fronts, from the sound of it. Might as well enjoy the wine while we can.’

  Mark raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Mark had to dash once he’d eaten, but Swift stayed on to have coffee and read his magazine, settling into pleasurable escapism. The villain lurked in the shadows, furious at being jilted by his fiancée and plotting his revenge. He was called Galway Barth, a striking if improbable name.

  When he’d finished his coffee, Swift paid his bill and stood outside the café. The wine, food and the close, humid air combined to make him woolly and inert. The suit he’d worn for court clung to him like a suffocating blanket. He shook himself. He’d take his boat out on the river, catch whatever breeze there was, and loosen his leaden muscles.

  He caught a bus to Hammersmith, sitting on the top deck by an open window. The plane trees were dull and parched, their leaves dusty. There’d been no rain for weeks, just a smoky-coloured, sullen sky. Surely it would rain in Wales, with its oceanic climate, where they got precipitation even in the driest months. Once, when they were enduring a downpour in Lyon, Afan had told him that the Welsh had numerous descriptions for rain, much as it was said the Inuit had dozens to describe snow. He’d gone through them: Spotting. Big spaced drops. Short sharp showers. Pouring very quickly. Throwing it down. Fierce rain. Sheets of rain. Fountain rain. Beating rain. Bucketing rain. Maximum intensity rain. He’d added that the Welsh equivalent of ‘It’s raining cats and dogs’ was, mystifyingly, ‘It’s raining old women and sticks.’

  They’d met soon after Swift joined Interpol. Afan had been a slow-speaking, private man and a highly effective criminal intelligence analyst. He and Swift had liaised on a couple of cases and had worked well together. Afan had been precise and thorough, but with a light touch. They’d become friends, enjoying an occasional meal and walking by the Rhône. Swift had learned that Afan was a fanatical walker and rambled for miles around the region. He had a great love of his country and a passion for male voice choirs, although he’d maintained that he couldn’t sing a note, which was shameful for a Welshman. He’d also been a huge fan of Motown. Sounds of the Temptations, Diana Ross and the Four Tops had drifted from his office.

  He’d owned an apartment in a nineteenth-century, stone-built mansion in a prestigious neighbourhood. It had a wide balcony overlooking the river Rhône, where he’d grown fruit and vegetables in tubs. In summer, it had been a riot of bright, hot colours and greenery, with peppers and broad beans trained up the railings. He’d spoken now and again of having had enough of the pace and demands of Interpol and his yearning for a simpler, less stressful life. Swift had formed the opinion that although Afan was skilled at his job, he was too sensitive to last in a pressured work environment. He’d referred to losing his parents when he was young and being at a boarding school that he’d hated, and Swift had suspected that he carried deep scars from that time.

  Afan had been transferred to Brussels to head up a new unit and although they’d been in touch now and again, the friendship had waned. Swift had left Interpol after being stabbed in the thigh during a raid on sex traffickers and had returned to London. He’d lost contact with Afan, although he’d heard from a mutual colleague that his friend had also given up the job after time off with stress.

  He pictured Afan now — tall and gangly, cropped dark hair, small sharp nose with a reddish tip, as if he had a permanent cold, and jug ears — my only resemblance to Prince Charles. Since Afan had been in touch, odd memories had come back to him, in the way that they do when the pool of the past has been stirred. He recalled sitting on Afan’s balcony in the hot dusk of a summer’s evening, drinking aromatic Munica Brune beer while his friend sipped absinthe: the sharp scent of ripe beef tomatoes, the sweetness of honeysuckle, the rippling silver river below and on Afan’s sound system, the Neath choir singing ‘Myfanwy’. He’d been happy that night, looking forward to seeing Ruth when he returned to London for a visit. That was just before she’d told him that she’d fallen in love with a man called Emlyn and their engagement was over.

  Appropriately enough, ‘Myfanwy’ was a melancholy tale of unrequited love. ‘What was it that I did, oh Myfanwy / To deserve the frown of your beautiful cheeks?’ Yet for Swift, it summoned pleasant memories of tranquil, trouble-free times.

  Chapter 2

  The air freshened as Swift drove west, past Swansea and into deep green countryside. The fields were dotted with sheep, some with dark coats. He lowered his window and breathed in the aromatic scent of the hedges. When he stopped the car to stretch his legs, he leaned against a gate and contemplated a flock of Badger Face sheep, so called because of their distinctive black markings. They were comical. He took a photo to send to Branna. He missed her. His clothes were far too tidy and lacking food smears. A few of the sheep halted long enough to return his gaze, and then skittered away among mossy clumps of white saxifrage. The air was cool, the watery blue sky busy with pale grey clouds, and now and again, there were spits of rain. He recalled Afan once saying, ‘good summer weather in Wales is as rare as a hen’s teeth.’

  He drove on, reflecting on the Tir Melys website. It was in Welsh and English, well designed and informative, albeit a tad smug and with a flavour of virtue-signalling:

  Tir Melys translates into English as Sweet Land.

  We are a thriving community of smallholdings on a fifty-acre site, with a central communal hub, the Bivium. Our aim is to be part of the ecosystem and work the land with respect. We see ourselves as stewards of the earth, not owners of it. We manage our sweet land innovatively and collectively, always with the aim of being self-sufficient.

  Our popularity is such that we have no more space at present for new stewards, but we welcome volunteers and visitors. Be warned — if you’re a digital addict this probably isn’t the place for you! We have no broadband and no phone signal. (In fact, none of us has a TV). There is one landline in the community house. We find that we’re far too busy and content here to notice the lack of these things.

  When he was six miles from Holybridge, travelling a narrow back road, he saw the sign to Tir Melys. It was a carved, oval piece of oak fixed to two robust posts in the ground. The name was in green, nestling among painted rosy apples, pointing to a gated lane with a cattle grid inside a bla
ck five-bar gate. Swift opened the gate and drove through, closed it after him and carried on slowly along the rutted surface. On his left, he saw a small, single-storey stone building, with worn steps up to a wooden door. It was neglected, with cracked glass in the tiny, high windows, and surrounded by brambles and tall nettles.

  He’d had an email reply from Afan on Saturday.

  See you on Monday. I live in Croeso Adref (Welcome Home) so once you’ve parked, take the main path. You’ll see the Bivium straight ahead. Go left and you’ll find me just off the path, on the right. Door’s always open. I’ll probably be out working, but I’ll be back by sixish, so make yourself comfy.

  After driving along the track for a couple of minutes, Swift saw a sign to the car park: Please Park Here. We prefer to keep cars away from our peaceful homes. He parked in the small, gravelled space, near the only other vehicle, a red Land Rover, took the rucksack he’d packed from the car boot and followed the path marked by another wooden signpost saying Bivium.

  The rough path was lined with a rosemary hedge and behind it, apple and pear trees laden with ripening fruit. In the silence, he heard the insistent drone of bees. He recognised the Bivium from the photo on the website. It was a semi-circular timber building with a curving turfed roof, set on a grassy mound of land which was dotted with dandelions, daisies and herbs. Steps led to the outer glassed veranda. He’d expected the place to be busy, but it seemed quiet. He could smell the sea now and hear it too, a distant whisper, just a couple of miles away, over the headland.

  He walked on, his rucksack bumping against his back, past a round timber dwelling with a garden framed by tall sunflowers, then by a large, cultivated area full of ripe vegetables and a row of potatoes that had been dug up and left to dry.

  To his right, down a slight incline, he saw a single-storey, traditional cottage, with a rough exterior like wattle and daub, a central door and two windows either side, the left one slightly open. The cottage was painted sky blue, with a turfed, bright green roof, in the centre of which nestled a squat chimney. Scarlet geraniums tumbled from window boxes. The vivid colours called to mind a child’s crayoned drawing, perhaps the cottage in the woods where the woodcutter gave you refuge when you were lost. A plaque by the front door bore the greeting, Croeso Adref. To the left of the door were four large rainwater barrels and raised vegetable beds, planted with broad and runner beans, loganberry and raspberry bushes, tomatoes, potatoes and courgettes.

  Swift knocked on the wooden door. When he got no reply, he tried the iron handle and the door opened. He called hello and stepped inside, into a whitewashed room with a grey slate floor. He put his rucksack down and gazed around. A small round oak dining table with two chairs, a twin door, multi-fuel stove with an old-fashioned drying rack holding jeans and shirts suspended overhead, one armchair and a deep, wide Welsh dresser. A door to the left of the room stood open. Swift crossed to it and saw a bedroom with a double bed, bookshelves, a wardrobe and a small en-suite toilet and shower. He touched the stove. It was just faintly warm and the clothes hanging above it were bone dry.

  Swift went back outside. At the rear of the house was a large shed with an alloy frame touring bike propped against one side. The door wasn’t locked and when he went in, he saw that it was shelved, with a long central table made out of an old pine door. Gardening tools, a spade, hoe and a rake hung from hooks above a tall open cupboard containing packets of seeds, a tub of plant food, canes and twine. The shelves were stacked with plastic buckets, empty bottles and glass demijohns. Jars of pale gold honey were lined up on the table. He picked one up and read the orange and white label:

  Tir Melys Honey

  Our honey is foraged by our bees from wild blossoms and flowers, including Bramble, Hawthorn, Clover and Bluebells.

  We don’t heat-treat our honey, thus preserving its natural flavours.

  Also on the table were a dozen demijohns fitted with airlocks, with thick sediment in their bases and full of an acorn-coloured liquid. Beside them stood a row of filled bottles, as yet unlabelled, holding a deep amber drink. The labels were in a pile at the end of the table and Swift read the top one.

  Tir Melys Orange Blossom Mead

  Made by Afan Griffith

  Medium-dry mead with a smooth finish

  Made to an ancient Welsh recipe

  Best served slightly chilled

  A pale green jacket was on a hanger to one side of the door. It was elasticated at the waist and cuffs, and a hood with a veil was attached by loops. Grey sheepskin gauntlets dangled on a hook next to the jacket. Swift recognised protective wear for working with bees.

  He headed back to the cottage. The temperature had dropped suddenly, and thick cloud was moving in from the sea. It was just gone four, he’d had nothing to eat or drink since a coffee and ham croissant mid-morning, and he was running on empty. He stood in the centre of the room, puzzled. There was no proper kitchen in this cottage and no cooker. Just a small sink with a lidded enamel bucket full of water standing beside it with a note — presumably for his benefit — saying drinking water. A microwave, a mini fridge, a kettle and a breadbin stood on top of the deep middle ledge of the dresser. The kettle was half-full of water. He switched it on and found a carton of oat milk in the fridge, which also held cheese and a small tub of butter. There were teabags, mugs, and a tub of home-baked flapjacks in the bottom cupboard of the dresser, which he noticed was riddled with old woodworm scars.

  While he waited for the kettle to boil, he scanned the room again. All the furniture appeared home-made or upcycled and there was no sense of personality, no splashes of colour. On the table, he saw a radio and beside it, a photo with a note attached. He picked it up and read Afan’s comment. Remember this walk, Ty? We did about twelve miles along the river and back and stopped to have a drink at the Mistral. Afan had taken the selfie on a hot July evening in Lyon, by the Lafayette Bridge. He was elegant, wearing a navy linen shirt, Panama hat and designer sunglasses. As usual, Swift’s dark curls verged on the wild and his cotton T-shirt had faded in the wash. Ah yes, the days before he had a streak of silver at his temple. He replaced the photo and inspected the two stacks of books on the table. They were nearly all about beekeeping, with a few of mead recipes and a couple about the Pembrokeshire coast. One was a textbook with the title Brwsiwch eich Cymraeg — ‘Brush up your Welsh’.

  He made a mug of tea, added oat milk and took it outside with a flapjack. He decided that oat milk would be an acquired taste, but the flapjack was delicious. He wandered around the vegetable patch, fingering runner beans and picking and eating a couple of juicy tomatoes. The air was breezy and moist. A blackbird sang sweetly nearby. His muscles relaxed. He liked being a long way from everything, and especially Oliver Sheridan.

  He glanced back at the cottage. Where was he supposed to sleep, let alone eat, he wondered. He’d worked out that Afan had chosen a simpler life, but this place was basic in the extreme, and the bedroom resembled a monk’s cell. He couldn’t help wondering about the friend he was going to meet again. Would they have anything in common now? Perhaps the friendship had belonged to a certain time and place, and this would prove to be an awkward couple of days with both of them searching for things to say.

  The Afan he’d known in Lyon had been a cultivated, wealthy man with a taste for the finer things in life. He’d driven a BMW sports car, and had worn beautifully tailored Canali suits, teamed with Louis Vuitton shirts, to work. Swift rarely bought new clothes but he’d admired a jade, square-collared cotton shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. He’d searched for it online, had seen that it cost nearly £300 and had decided to stick to the more downmarket shops. Even Afan’s casual clothes had come from Balmain, and his grey leather walking boots had been pristine and unscuffed. His spacious apartment had been richly decorated with modern art, his treasured collection of antique inkwells, and the many curios he’d picked up in flea markets. A beautiful green Russian antique clock made with Siberian malachite and topped with a gilt Si
berian eagle owl had dominated the living room mantelpiece. Afan had also been excited by technology and had loved gadgets and innovation. He was one of the first people Swift had seen with a smartwatch, a Fitbit and a Kindle and he’d loved playing games on apps, particularly Spider Solitaire and Golfshot.

  At Tir Melys, Afan seemed to have shed everything from his previous life, with just a radio for entertainment. Maybe he had his possessions in storage. Or perhaps, like a man entering a religious order, he’d shed his worldly goods. Swift remembered Afan’s email, telling him to make himself comfy, and wondered if it was ironic.

  The sky darkened to a muddy grey. A thin drizzle started. Swift glanced around. In the bleak light, the cottage and garden had a forsaken air. He shivered. He wasn’t disposed to premonitions, but he was uneasy. He went back inside and was just removing a sweater from his rucksack, the first time he’d have worn one in months, when a slight man in brown dungarees and a fleece with the hood up appeared through the door.

  ‘Who are you?’ A Canadian accent, gruff and flat.

  ‘Hi, I’m Tyrone Swift, a friend of Afan’s. I arranged to visit, but he’s not here. I’ve been wondering where he’s got to.’

  The man stared at him with narrow, dark eyes. ‘So have I. I’ve been out looking for him.’

  ‘Is he not around, then?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Come on, we’d better see Jasmine.’

  * * *

  The man didn’t speak as he led the way back to the Bivium, breaking into a run as the wind whipped up and rain started to hammer down. Swift ran too — with his longer legs, he could have outpaced him, but he stayed just behind. They were both dripping by the time they entered the shelter of the veranda. Swift was aware of light and a smell like fresh sawdust. From somewhere came the plangent sound of harp music.

  ‘Wait here,’ the man said, and darted away through central folding doors.