‘Of course, and I used to work in the Met.’ He’d revealed the information deliberately and noted the sharp glance that Bryn gave him.
‘Interpol, the Met — you do have an interesting background.’ Jasmine tucked some strands of hair under her hat. ‘This is terrible news, hard to believe. Poor, poor Afan. He loved that walk on the coast path.’
‘How long has he been dead?’ Bryn asked Swift.
‘The pathologist will determine that.’
Kat gulped back a sob. ‘We should have searched the path last night. I’ll never, ever forgive myself for not looking there. He was out there all night, all alone in the dark and cold and rain.’
Swift wondered how she could know that, but supposed that it was a natural assumption, given that Afan had gone missing the day before.
Peter said, ‘We couldn’t have gone up there in the dark, Kat. It would have been far too dangerous, and we had no reason to believe that we needed to search for Afan earlier in the evening. You can’t blame yourself. This is all very puzzling, given the email you received, Ty.’
‘It is, yes,’ Swift agreed. He didn’t want to be drawn into too much discussion for now.
Kat pointed at Guy. ‘He said the most awful thing, that Afan might have killed himself!’
Guy stared at her. ‘It’s a possibility. No point in ignoring it.’
Jasmine said, ‘I really don’t believe that Afan would do that. Please, let’s not speculate about what’s happened until the police can tell us something definite. It’s not helpful and it’s distressing.’
Elinor had tears in her eyes. ‘Afan was such a good man. He was always kind to Fwankie and said hello to him.’
The dog heard its name and started yapping loudly and turning around in her lap. Guy Brinkworth tutted with irritation, picked him up and dropped him on the floor with a firm ‘Stay!’ His wife bit her lip but didn’t say anything.
Jasmine stood. ‘Well, we need tea and coffee while we wait for the police. This has been a terrible shock for us all. Peter, can you help me? And can someone give Kat some clean tissues. Kat, dear, try to calm yourself.’
There was a bustle of activity. Suki found a box of tissues and put them in front of Kat. She sat beside her and patted her arm, but Kat flinched away. Suki made a little helpless gesture to Swift.
They sat in silence for a while with their hot drinks. The only sounds were the chink of crockery and Kat’s shuddering breaths. Bryn was drinking gooseberry wine and had shoved a glass in front of Kat, muttering that she should drown her sorrows.
‘I wonder when the news will get out locally,’ Jasmine said.
‘Worried it will be bad for business?’ Bryn stared down into his glass.
‘Of course that’s not what I mean. It’s just that there might be reporters or other nosy people to deal with. It’s going to cause a stir, that’s for certain. Ty, what’s your view, from your police experience?’
‘Hard to say. The local police will decide when to make it public. It won’t be a priority, but they won’t sit on it either.’
Elinor held her mug to her chest, cradling it. ‘Afan was so happy here. He once said he’d found his own Garden of Eden.’
‘The snake’s arrived here now all right, and we’ll all be suspects as far as PC Plod’s concerned,’ Guy said. ‘We can say goodbye to the quiet life for a while. They’ll be traipsing all over the place and sticking their noses into our business.’
‘I’m sure that Afan would have been more considerate and gone further afield if he’d realised he was going to cause you inconvenience,’ Suki snapped.
Kat gasped and covered her face with her hands. Silence fell again and Bryn, who was on his second glass of wine, started to sing softly in a pleasing tenor:
‘I don’t ask for a luxurious life,
The world’s gold or its fine pearls,
I ask for a happy heart,
An honest heart, a pure heart.
A pure heart full of goodness
Is fairer than the pretty lily . . .’
The door banged open and DI Weber strode through, with DS Spencer and two constables in tow.
‘Great song, Calon Lân, and that’s a good voice you have there,’ she told Bryn.
She introduced her team and checked that everyone who lived at Tir Melys was present. DS Spencer wrote down all their names. He stood very close to his boss, glancing at her nervously with thick-lidded, sleepy eyes. He had full red lips, floppy fair hair and a face that still held traces of puppy fat. His suit was too tight, straining across his shoulders. DI Weber informed the group that Mr Griffith had died from a stab wound and his body had been left near the coast path. His wallet was in his pocket but there was no sign of his mobile phone.
‘I understand that you must all be very shocked, but we have to ask questions and make a nuisance of ourselves, and we have to work as quickly as we can. We’ll try not to be too intrusive, but a man’s life has been taken, so I’m sure you’ll all bear with us.’
Kat started to cry again. Ignoring her, the inspector said that the police needed to search Mr Griffith’s home and speak to everyone. She asked them all to stay where they were for now and told Swift that she wanted to talk to him first.
‘You can use the Parley room if you wish,’ Jasmine informed her, on her dignity. ‘Ty can show you where it is.’
DI Weber spent a few minutes with her team. Then Swift led her through from the kitchen. She stared at the name on the room door.
‘Parley as in Native American parleys with fork-tongued white man?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hmm.’
Inside, she poked at a low stool with her stick. She was nearly six feet tall, rangy and slim with a spatter of freckles on her cheeks and a mane of caramel brown hair caught up in a clip. With her trousers tucked into DMs, the little satchel slung across her chest and her walking stick, she might be taken for a shepherd rather than a detective. She propped her stick against the wall and sat down gingerly, muttering verdammt! She stretched out her feet. Her boots were patterned with red and green flowers.
‘These stools are ridiculous. What’s the point of furniture you can’t get comfortable on?’
‘Perhaps they’re intended to stimulate discussion,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to get you a chair?’
‘No, it’s okay for now.’
‘How did you get injured?’
She frowned at him. She had mobile, expressive eyebrows. ‘None of your biz, but I fell a couple of weeks ago, broke my arm badly and sprained my ankle. The ankle’s still dodgy. The stick helps me to balance.’ She undid the elastic band and shrugged off her coat. She wore a baggy navy T-shirt over black jeans. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. Very hard on you to find him like that. Talk me through how you come to be here.’
Swift explained his background with Afan, how they’d met in Lyon and the invitation he’d followed up. He detailed events since he’d arrived.
She eyed him appraisingly. ‘So, you hadn’t been in touch for ten years?’
‘Yes, just over ten.’
‘You don’t have information about any family we can contact?’
‘No. Afan once mentioned that he’d been orphaned but he never talked about any other family members. He seemed . . . alone in the world.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Was it one of those typical male friendships, then? The kind where you do manly activities and never talk about anything personal?’
Her words rankled, partly because they’d touched a nerve, but he snapped back, ‘It was a friendship. Friendships are varied and different, they’re not all cut from the same cloth.’
She seemed to approve of his reply. ‘So, back to when you arrived here. What time was that?’
‘Just after three o’clock. Afan wasn’t around, but I assumed that he was working.’
‘So you went for a walk along the coastal path this morning because you thought that Mr Griffith might have contacted you?’
&n
bsp; ‘That’s right, and I needed a phone signal. I wanted the exercise as well. I hoped that Afan would have left me another message. It seemed out of character, the way he just took off when he was expecting me, and without trying to phone me or leaving a note.’
‘Can you send me the emails you had from him?’
‘I will, but there’s no Wi-Fi or phone signal here so it’ll have to wait.’
DI Weber shook her head, sounding testy. ‘This place would drive me bonkers, being so cut off.’
‘It’s part of the attraction for the people who live here.’
‘If you say so.’
‘It’s what they say. Any idea what was used to stab Afan?’
She shifted her injured arm and winced. ‘Not yet. But there was little bleeding and whoever did it zipped his cagoule up for him after stabbing him.’
‘The murder was planned. The blue bowl and mug by Afan’s head — that crockery is made by Suki Mehta, who lives here. It’s used in the kitchen and I believe she sells it.’
‘She does. I’ve got some at home. Gave me a bit of a shock to see the same bowl I have my soup from.’
‘I checked the communal kitchen cupboards when I got back here. Crockery sets usually come in even numbers and there are twenty-three mugs and bowls.’
‘Okay, thanks. Of course, I presume it’s also used in some of the homes here.’
‘Probably. Afan has a set in the dresser. There are four mugs, bowls and plates.’
‘Okay, thanks. DS Spencer tells me you’re ex-Met. Did he get that right?’
‘Yes. I’m a private investigator now.’
‘Hmm. In London?’
‘Mainly, but wherever the work takes me.’
‘And you’ve no idea what Mr Griffith wanted to discuss with you?’
‘No. I never got the chance to talk to him. There’s something else you need to be aware of. I’m sure that the paperback resting on Afan’s hands was on his kitchen table yesterday afternoon when I arrived. It’s a distinctive colour.’ He told her about returning to the cottage late the previous night and glimpsing a fleeting figure. ‘That could have been the killer, fetching the book.’
DI Weber said, ‘Risky.’
‘Risky and strange.’
‘So if this literary killer did take the book, they didn’t have to break in?’
‘No. They leave their doors open here.’
‘Of course they do. You’ve only been here about twenty-four hours, but have you picked up on any animosity towards Mr Griffith?’
‘Quite the opposite. He seems to have been well liked. He was a quiet man when I knew him in France. Kind, too. He hadn’t changed, from what I’ve gathered. He kept bees, made mead, loved walking and often used the coastal path.’
‘Sounds idyllic, but someone didn’t like him. What can you tell me about the set-up here? I live fifteen miles the other side of Holybridge. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve not been here before.’
‘The website is instructive, but it doesn’t tell the full story. There’s the farmhouse, where the Merchants live, and the smallholdings. When I read about it online, I assumed that the smallholders owned their houses and land. But the Merchants own the place and the stewards, as they’re called, are tenants on five-year leases. Jasmine seems to be top dog. Kat Glover had unrequited feelings for Afan.’
‘She’s the mannish woman with the Pippi Longstocking pigtails and the weepy eyes?’
‘That’s right.’ He’d decided not to mention the argument he’d overheard between the Merchants for now. DI Weber could do her own legwork. He added, ‘They sometimes have volunteers who work here. One of them, a Morgan Callender, went missing a while ago.’
‘Thanks, I’ll check that out. Right, I’ll leave it there for now.’ She lifted her right foot and rotated the ankle carefully, wincing slightly.
Swift shifted on the back-breaking stool. ‘I’ve been staying in Afan’s cottage. The bed is much more suitable than the guest accommodation here. Is it okay if I continue to stay there?’
‘I don’t see why not. You can’t go back there until later, when Spencer and forensics have finished the search. And to reiterate, you don’t tell anyone about the location of the body in the cairn, or the presence of the crockery and book.’
He didn’t like being patronised. ‘I do understand how a police investigation works.’
She reached for her stick and said, ‘Yes, but it’s a while since you were a proper cop.’
If she was setting out to annoy him, she was succeeding. ‘Being a private investigator doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my previous training. I rely on it. If you bother to check me out, you’ll see that I’ve racked up some successful investigations. Sometimes, I’ve solved crimes when the police have failed.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Don’t get uppity with me. You could be Holmes, Morse and Maigret combined for all I care. I’m running this investigation, so my rules apply. I could kill for a coffee. What’s it like here? Is it a proper job or something they make from acorns?’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘It’s ethically sourced from Colombia and a medium blend. I’ve had worse.’
‘Sounds okay. Just to make it clear — you might be ex-Met and, according to your own publicity, a gold-standard PI, but you’re a suspect until I rule you out. No special favours.’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t expect any favours,’ he said.
She levered herself up, using the stick. ‘I’ll speak to Jasmine Merchant next. Can you ask her to organise coffee and then to come through — oh, and ask her to get two chairs brought in, otherwise I’ll be carried out of here on a bloody stretcher.’
Chapter 6
It was late afternoon. The weather had settled into watery sunshine followed by sharp bursts of rain. Swift couldn’t go back to Afan’s yet, but he was restless and frayed. He walked up and down the veranda, gazing out at the saturated land. Suki was in her garden, ignoring the showers, picking runner beans and throwing them into a wicker basket on her arm. She moved slowly, halting now and again, staring into the mid-distance. As soon as the rain stopped, birds started calling and singing in a loud chorus. Wrens and robins darted to the ground for worms and insects. A vibrant rainbow shimmered to the west, lighting the sky. It was a peaceful, pastoral scene and at any other time, he’d delight in its loveliness. But today, he couldn’t take any pleasure in it. Sadness weighed on him and he was conscious of the years that had gone, years when he could have seen Afan. He’d let them pass, caught up in the workaday world.
Someone had planned and made a ritual of Afan’s murder, placing him in an ancient burial site with grave goods he’d need for his journey to another world. Was it done in mockery, or as a gesture of solace and respect, or maybe as a form of sacrifice? The fact that his cagoule had been zipped up over his wound indicated a kind of care, affection even.
He grew tired of pointlessly tramping the veranda, so he went inside and offered to help Bruno with preparing supper. The man must have known Afan as well as, if not better than, anyone here. Bruno had caught his hair into an elastic band. He’d just taken a bowl of pastry covered in clingfilm from the fridge and didn’t seem keen on help but accepted grumpily. Then he made a rueful face and pointed an imaginary gun at his temple.
‘Sorry. I’m being crabby. Talking to the police was exhausting and it put me on edge. So many questions, and this horrible sensation that they’re trying to trap you. You’ve had a crap time today, finding Afan, and none of us have exactly sympathised. It’s terrible for you.’
Innocent people could feel cornered when faced with a police enquiry, but Bruno’s reaction seemed excessive. ‘Thanks. It’s not the meeting I was expecting with Afan. I’d anticipated laughter and the pleasures of catching up. It’s not the first time I’ve found a body, although it’s a different kind of shock when it’s a friend.’
Bruno was startled. ‘Wow, really? How many dead people have you dealt with?’
Too many. ‘I don’t ke
ep count. If you’re a detective, you have to expect that it might happen.’ He remembered his girlfriend Kris Jelen. He’d found her body in her flat, where she’d been killed by a man who’d been paid to harass him. Then there was Ben Ramsay, the young man who’d been suffocated and left in Swift’s house. Ruth had had Branna in her arms when she found his body. She still used it as a stick to beat him with. He couldn’t blame her. He could hear her now. ‘It’s a dirty job that you do. Doesn’t the taint of it bother you? I worry about it impacting on Branna as she grows up and finds out about some of the things you’ve been involved with.’
Bruno said, ‘Yeah, I guess. Afan didn’t do that kind of work in Interpol, did he? No way can I imagine him dealing with violence and the dead.’
‘No, Afan was a senior officer in criminal intelligence. He dealt with information about the people who traded in crime. He examined and liaised on international data about criminal activity: times, locations, backgrounds, activity in sex and drug trafficking and illicit markets, stuff like that.’
Bruno unwrapped the pastry. ‘Amazing, the things you find out about folk. It’s all a long way from beekeeping in rural Wales. I had no idea. He didn’t talk about what he’d done before he came here. Mind you, neither did I.’ He sprinkled flour on the worktop. ‘Jasmine asked for us all to eat together tonight, but I’ve no idea if anyone will have an appetite. The pies will keep for a few days if they’re not eaten. Well, if you want to lend a hand, you can prepare a couscous salad. The ingredients are on the counter there.’
Kat was still sitting at the table, staring down, alternating the pigtails to her mouth. Now and again, she groaned softly.
‘I wish she’d go home,’ Bruno muttered, glancing at her. ‘I asked her if she wanted to help with the food, but she didn’t reply.’
‘She’s in shock.’
‘Yeah. We all are, but chewing her hair isn’t going to help any. I’m amazed she hasn’t got stomach trouble. I googled it. It’s a kind of OCD thing, called trichotillomania. I’m not one to talk, I have my own problems, but I wish she’d get therapy.’ Bruno was rolling out the shortcrust pastry with deft movements. ‘I just don’t get it. Afan was the sweetest, gentlest guy. Why would anyone want to kill him? I mean, if his wallet wasn’t taken, it wasn’t a robbery.’
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 7
