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

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘As we’re now sort of co-working, did you find any of Afan’s financial information here?’

  ‘Absolutely zilch. Must have dealt with it all online, so our techies are investigating the computers at Blasus. I couldn’t do that myself. I have online accounts, but I like bits of paper with figures written on. Seems more tangible.’ She yawned and shook her head. ‘I need to go. I want to catch Caris Murray if I can. Here’s my personal mobile number. I can’t give you a badge but keep in touch, Lone Ranger.’

  She handed him a scrap of paper with her number and strode out, smacking her stick against the ground, her coat flapping in the breeze. The sky had lightened, and the sun was hazy but warm. Swift was weary but his mind was busy. He massaged his temples. He’d take Afan’s bike out and get some exercise. He needed to decide what he was going to say to Ruth, and the terms he wanted to negotiate about Branna and the future.

  He was cycling towards the chapel when he saw Elinor coming out with Frankie on a lead. She was wearing a baggy wraparound cardigan over a patchwork smock and blowing her nose. He slowed as he neared her, and he saw that her eyes were watery.

  ‘Oh, hello. I was just in the chapel for a bit. It’s a good place to be quiet. You off for a ride?’

  ‘That’s the idea. How did you get on with your social worker?’

  She picked Frankie up and cuddled him close. ‘It was a bit difficult. Guy arrived back very late for the meeting and said he’d lost track of the time. I could see that Terry was fed up. He asked Guy if he was fully committed to the adoption, and then Guy lost his cool and said he resented being interrogated in his own home by a government flunkey with poor literacy skills. Then he asked why Terry never called him by his proper title — he’s Dr Brinkworth, of course — and Terry said it would be best to set up another meeting and he’d have to bring his manager.’ She gulped and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’m worried now, in case this goes against us.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t go so well.’

  ‘Guy has a short fuse, hasn’t he, Fwankie? He doesn’t suffer fools gladly and he never reacts well to stress, that’s the problem.’

  ‘And what about you? This is stressful for you as well.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’ She glanced back at the chapel. ‘Afan was very understanding when I talked to him about it all a while ago. I visited the chapel, and he was there. He just listened, really. He did ask me if I thought that Guy had the patience to raise a child. He said that his dad had been very self-centred and short-tempered, a frightening man. I told him that Guy isn’t that bad, he just gets wound up. He’s terribly intelligent you see, and very talented, so he sets high standards for himself and others.’

  Swift sighed inwardly. ‘Guy’s lucky to have you. You’re very understanding.’

  ‘Oh, well — he puts up with me going on about things.’

  ‘Did you tell Guy that you’d talked to Afan about the adoption?’

  She blushed and seemed startled. ‘Oh no, I didn’t mention it. That was just for me, a bit of reassurance. Guy hates to think that anyone’s prying into our lives or making judgements. That’s why he finds working with the adoption people so difficult.’ She was clutching the dog tightly, in a smothering hold, but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘I must get back. I want to make sure he’s okay now. He takes these things to heart. People don’t see it, but he feels things very deeply.’ She buried her face in Frankie’s head and set off.

  Swift cycled on, enjoying the breeze and the warm early evening scents. He pictured Elinor in the seclusion of the chapel, confiding in Afan as if he was a minister. It sounded as if Afan’s father had been a bully, just like Guy Brinkworth. Would Afan have spoken to Guy about his behaviour? If he had, Guy might have reacted badly, resenting Afan’s disapproval. His short fuse might have flared into violence. Swift couldn’t believe that an adoption agency would deem that Guy was a suitable parent. It would be a terrible blow for Elinor, but he reckoned that Terry should advise her to forget about the hassle of adopting a child with her testy, egotistical husband, and stick to mothering Frankie.

  * * *

  He’d just eaten some of the chicken hotpot, which was rich and good but far too salty. He’d decided that he couldn’t manage any more and would bin the rest, when there was a knock at the door. Kat was outside, holding a package in baking foil.

  ‘Hello! Did you enjoy your chicken?’ She was through the door without being invited, standing by the table and scanning his plate. ‘Oh, you haven’t finished, have I interrupted?’

  ‘It was lovely, thanks. Very filling. I can’t manage any more for now.’

  ‘I used to make one for Afan every couple of weeks. I’d have left it on the table, like I usually did, but the door was locked, so poor little me couldn’t get in.’

  He stood with his back against the dresser, arms folded, unwelcoming. ‘The police have advised you to lock your door, so I hope you are.’

  ‘I certainly am not! Not worrying about security has always been one of the lovely things about living here. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm me, and I’m not afraid of anyone either.’

  You’d have no reason to be afraid if you’re Afan’s killer. ‘Okay, that’s up to you.’

  ‘Exactly. If you put the rest of that chicken in the fridge, it’ll be fine for tomorrow. Just make sure you heat it through thoroughly.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  She thrust the package towards him. ‘Here, some lemon and honey cake, one of my specialities. Afan’s honey, natch.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but you really shouldn’t go to so much trouble.’

  ‘I like baking and it’s therapy. I’m so sad about Afan and it’s hard to settle to anything. It’s something to do, otherwise I’d just be sitting at home and crying.’

  If he refused the cake, he’d be denying her grief. He took it, sensing that she was relentless and in her own way, formidable. She reminded him of Branna when his daughter was in one of her obdurate moods.

  She sat in the armchair and hooked one leg over the side. Her skin-tight jeans strained against her bulging calf muscles. ‘I always sat here when I came over to see Afan. He’d make a cup of tea and we’d have a slice of whatever cake I’d brought.’

  He didn’t want her company, but he thought he’d better take the hint. ‘I was about to put the kettle on. Would you like a cup now?’

  ‘Lovely, yes.’ She watched with that concentrated, unblinking gaze of hers as he prepared tea. ‘It seems so weird, to knock on the door and you open it, instead of Afan. You’re a similar height and build, so it’s a bit spooky, in a way.’

  ‘Many things seem strange when someone dies. It’s odd to be staying here, using his things and sleeping in his bed.’

  She stared and then said, ‘Afan always used the striped mugs for tea.’

  ‘Okay.’ He sighed inwardly and put back Suki’s mugs that he’d taken out of the dresser. He replaced them with striped ones.

  ‘I saw that DI Weber came to visit you earlier.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did she have any news?’

  ‘She just wanted to ask me a few follow-up questions.’ He brought the tea over, and plates for the cake. He cut two slices and handed her one.

  Her jaw clicked as she ate. ‘I suppose you know lots about Afan, given that you worked with him in Interpol. What was he like back then?’

  The cake had a strong lemon flavour but it was soggy — more like a pudding, and he could have done with a fork to eat it.

  ‘He was a good person to work alongside and well respected in his job. How would you describe the Afan you knew?’

  She swallowed and took a sip of tea. Then she said solemnly, ‘Serious, fascinated by nature and particularly bees, and very kind. Too kind, in a way.’

  ‘Oh? What makes you say that?’

  She bit into another chunk of cake. ‘Some people traded on his kindness and saw him as a soft touch. He was his own worst enemy. He didn’t
like to turn people down.’

  From what he’d heard and witnessed, she might have been describing the way she’d treated Afan herself. ‘People here, at Tir Melys?’

  She fingered the end of a plait. ‘I don’t want to say anything that causes trouble.’

  He left a pause to see if she’d continue, but she was examining the ends of her hair and he guessed that she wanted to be persuaded. ‘Of course you don’t, and I understand that. But I can see how fond you were of Afan. None of us like to think that a friend is being made use of.’

  She pursed her lips, her eyes fixed on him. It was like being stalked by a watchful predator. She wanted more. He obliged.

  ‘I’m sure you looked out for Afan. I can tell that you’re that sort of considerate person. He’d have appreciated it.’

  She seemed to deem that sufficient flattery. She swung her leg from the chair arm and leaned forward slightly. ‘It’s true. I tried to care for him, but his soft heart meant he wouldn’t listen. That Caris Murray was always moping and wheedling her way around him. Her boyfriend, Morgan, used to tag along with her sometimes when she came to work here. He was a waste of space, couldn’t focus on anything for more than two minutes. Both of them come from rough backgrounds and I suspected they were on the make and take. I’d see the two of them talking to Afan, very hugger-mugger. When Morgan took off, Caris was telling Afan her sob story. If she saw me coming, she’d switch to speaking Welsh, which was very rude. I saw Afan giving her money once. He was in his shed, bottling mead and I needed some honey. I was about to go in when I saw Caris in there with him. He was handing her a bunch of notes and I heard him saying, “that’ll tide you over.” She kissed him on the cheek and told him he was a diamond. I went back to see him after she’d gone. I didn’t say that I’d seen her take the money, but I told him he was too generous and trusting.’ She fell silent.

  ‘How did Afan react?’

  She found that memory less pleasing. Her expression grew pinched. ‘He got a bit tetchy and told me that people’s lives were often complicated in ways that others failed to understand. That was all he’d say.’

  Kat wouldn’t have liked Afan taking an interest in any woman but her. Caris’s fine cheekbones would have been irritating. ‘I don’t understand why you thought Morgan and Caris were “on the take.” Volunteering doesn’t seem a very lucrative occupation if you’re out to exploit people, and there’s nothing valuable here to steal.’

  She sniffed. ‘That sort always have an agenda. There was definitely something going on, I could tell.’

  Swift got up and fed logs into the stove. Given that Kat was a woman with her own agenda, she’d been right in spotting that something was going on. It sounded odd and difficult to fathom. Afan had been unfailingly kind and generous, but he’d never been a walkover. Swift was miles away and then realised that Kat was issuing an invitation. She’d got up and moved towards him, her hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘I’ve got a proper kitchen at mine, Ty. You’re staying for a bit, aren’t you? Why don’t you come round for supper Friday evening?’

  ‘I’m not sure of my timetable yet.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Well, I hope you can. I’m making lamb tagine and it’s pretty good, if I say so myself.’

  No doubt it was another of Afan’s favourites. When she’d gone, Swift tidied up and put the rest of the chicken and the lemon cake outside in the compost bin. He locked the door behind him with relief. Kat’s visit had been useful, if hard work. He decided he’d like to visit Caris Murray on her own territory.

  Chapter 9

  Swift was back in Holybridge the next day. He cycled in against a strong head wind, wondering how many times Afan had made the same journey. It was strange, following in his footsteps, talking to the people he’d lived among, shadowing his absence. At seven that morning, Swift had been woken by a sound at the front door and, dazed from sleep, he’d imagined for a few moments that Afan would appear, asking why Swift was sleeping in his bed. When he’d drawn back the curtain, he’d seen that it was Bryn Price, leaving a box of freshly laid eggs on the doorstep.

  He stopped at the bookshop to see Gwyn Bowen. The place was empty, and she was taking books off shelves and dusting them. He had the impression that she was occupying herself with busywork and supposed that she had to do something to fill the hours. It would be disheartening to spend all day in a shop few people frequented. She gave him the details of the customer who’d met Afan. His name was Dale Toft and he lived in Ogmore-by-Sea, about twenty miles west of Cardiff.

  ‘I hope he can help you,’ Gwyn said.

  ‘We’ll see. Are you friendly with the people at Tir Melys? You said that you haven’t been there often, but maybe they come in here to shop.’

  She gazed at him with her limpid eyes like pale crystals. ‘I don’t know them that well, been there a couple of times. I was at one of Jasmine’s concerts several years back. Bryn comes in sometimes, usually to gossip rather than to buy.’

  ‘Have you seen Caris since she heard about Afan?’

  She wiped a ledge and squared off a couple of paperbacks. ‘We spoke on the phone. She’s gutted. It’s hard to find the right words when someone’s so upset.’

  Gwyn seemed muted today and disinclined to talk, so he left her to her cleaning. His next stop was Blasus café, where he ordered home-made lemonade from Sam. He chose a random selection on the jukebox, pressing odd numbers. He was rewarded with Dionne Warwick, the Everly Brothers, the Hollies and Chris Montez.

  He sat at a computer and started a search. He’d decided that the only way he could work alongside Sofia Weber was to operate as if he was conducting his own investigation. If there were crossover points and information to trade, that was fine and mutually beneficial. As Sofia had said, a victim’s life often explained their death and he wanted to track back in Afan’s life, following the thread that had led him to Tir Melys. In Lyon, Afan had been close to Amira Brodeur for quite a while and must have shared details about his life. He’d never told Swift why they’d parted, but he’d indicated that his move to Brussels had caused a fracture. She’d worked as a personnel officer for the national police in the city and when Swift found her, he saw that she was still with them, as a communications manager. He switched to Facebook and sent a friend request. He contemplated the message he should send. It was difficult, informing someone about a death at such distance and Amira might have forgotten him. She and Afan might have stayed in touch but for all he knew, they’d parted on bad terms and Amira wouldn’t welcome the contact. He stared at the screen for a moment, then started typing.

  Hi Amira, I hope this finds you well. I might need to jog your memory. We met when I was working for Interpol. I was friendly with Afan and the three of us had a drink a couple of times. I’ve been back in the UK for a while now and I work as a private investigator. I regret that I have some very sad news concerning Afan. He has been murdered. I found his body on Tuesday. I’d like to talk to you. I’m adding my email address if that’s more convenient, and my phone number although at the moment, I’m staying in a place with no signal.

  I’m sorry to contact you in this way. I hope to hear from you.

  Kind regards, Ty Swift.

  He drank the sharp, refreshing lemonade and googled the Holybridge Beekeepers Club. The contact was a Sion Hughes. He rang the number and spoke to a wistful-sounding man, whose voice dropped when he explained who he was.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Hughes said. ‘That’s an awful shock for you, coming all the way from London and finding that Afan’s been murdered. I heard that a friend found him. Was that you?’

  The grapevine was humming. ‘It was me, yes. I wondered if I could come and see you? It’s good to talk to people who knew Afan, helps me form a picture of his life here.’

  ‘Well . . . If it will help you, of course. I’m free around half two this afternoon.’

  Swift noted the address and directions and logged out of the computer. He heard a familiar voice and turned
around. Bryn Price was at the counter, ordering a snack and talking in Welsh to Sam. Swift walked over, nodding hello. He ordered coffee and a ham sandwich and asked Price if they could have a quick chat.

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t charge for my time,’ Price said. He smelled beery, and his straining gut and double chin suggested he enjoyed his drink.

  They moved to a table by the side window. Afan’s padlocked bike was leaning against it.

  ‘Good bike, that,’ Price said. ‘Afan bought it from a cousin of mine who shelled out a fortune for it and then lost interest in his new hobby. Afan said it rides well. It’s got good quality tyres. You won’t have had to adjust it much — you’re a similar build to him. In fact, you could give people the willies, if they see you on it. They might think Afan’s ghost is cycling around.’

  ‘If they do, I can reassure them that I’m flesh and blood. It’s very comfortable, rides smoothly. I just needed to alter the saddle tilt a bit.’

  ‘I’d say you’re fitter than Afan. He took plenty of exercise, but he didn’t have your physique. Do you work out?’

  ‘I have a boat and I row regularly.’

  Price said, ‘That’ll be it. I get plenty of exercise working the land, but I never drop a pound because I like exercising my arm as well.’ He grinned and made a drinking motion. ‘Afan used to get bronchitis every winter. It would go on for weeks. I reckoned he’d have been better off living in a warm climate than in rain-soaked Wales.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you why he came back?’

  ‘I can’t remember that he did.’

  It was the first time that Swift had seen Price close up in daylight. He had bloodshot eyes and a square head with close-cropped, sandy hair. The eyes might be bleary, but they missed nothing.

  ‘I saw you on the computer,’ Price continued. ‘I looked you up earlier. You didn’t tell us you’re a private detective. “Self-employed” indeed!’

  ‘It didn’t seem relevant,’ Swift hedged.

  ‘Not at first, I suppose, but you might have said something after you found Afan.’ Price smirked. ‘Maybe it suited you not to tell us. Private eye staying private and all that jazz.’