Sam arrived with their orders and Swift waited until he’d gone. Price slathered brown sauce over his sausage roll.
Swift said, ‘I assumed someone would check on me. It’s what people do these days.’
Price chewed a mouthful of food and said scathingly, ‘I suppose you’re playing detective now, snooping around at Tir Melys. I’ve seen how you absorb everything that’s going on. Maybe DI Weber has you on the payroll. A helping hand for the one she can’t use at present.’
Swift was startled and wondered if Price might have an inside contact in the police. It would be easy enough in a town like this. If Price had murdered Afan, he had the shrewdness to be elusive. Swift kept a poker face. ‘If only. I never play at being a detective, my work is too serious for that. Does my job bother you?’
‘Me? No. If you want to grub around in other people’s rubbish, that’s your choice. As long as you don’t step on my toes, I don’t care.’
‘I want to find out who killed my friend. I presume you want me to.’
‘Course. Afan was a decent man. Just because I don’t blub and go on about him like a drama queen doesn’t mean I’m not sad.’ He grinned again. ‘Speaking of drama queens, I saw you had a visit from Kat last night. Careful there, Ty. Once she’s got you in her sights, she’s hard to shake off and you’re easy on the eye. I reckon she’s got the hots for you.’
Swift ate some of his sandwich and stirred his coffee. He smiled back at Price. ‘I can take care of myself, but thanks for the warning. You all seem to keep a close eye on each other at Tir Melys. Kat saw who’d visited me, you knew she’d been to see me. You might as well have net curtains.’
Price winked. ‘You understand how it is. Tir Melys is like a tiny village. Sometimes it pays to notice what your neighbour’s up to.’
‘Have you anything particular in mind?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I guessed that would interest you, see. I will own up to keeping an eye on Elinor. She can be a pain in the arse, but she has a good heart, and I don’t like her husband. Let’s just say that her eyes are red-rimmed too often. I might well punch Guy very hard one day. I’ve been near it a couple of times. It’d give me huge satisfaction.’
With his bulk, Price could do a lot of damage if he decided to get handy. ‘Guy’s provocative.’
‘He is, and a bloody snob. Thinks he’s God’s gift to us because he has a doctorate. He loves to correct anyone who uses the wrong word or phrase.’ He finished his food, burped and leaned back. ‘One of the things I valued about Afan was that he could handle Guy. I once saw Guy blush so red I thought he’d expire. He’d said something horrible to Elinor at supper and Afan gave him this killer stare and said, “None can be called deformed but the unkind”. I asked him about that afterwards. It’s from Twelfth Night. Anyway, I applauded, and Guy said nothing more that night.’
‘He was probably even nastier to Elinor when they got home.’
‘Probably. She chooses to be married to him. There’s no understanding people.’
‘If you like to keep an eye on what your neighbours are doing, did you ever notice anything unusual or troubling about Afan?’
Price’s eyes glinted. He was enjoying the game. ‘That would be telling.’
Swift sipped his coffee. ‘You’ll have to answer if the police ask you that question.’
Price winked. ‘Well, that’s different, isn’t it? One has a duty to answer their questions. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the law, but I’m not answerable to you.’
‘I’ll answer my own question, then,’ Swift said. ‘There was something going on with Afan, something bothering him.’
Price tilted his head sharply. ‘Did he tell you something, then?’
‘Maybe.’ Swift deliberately changed the subject and tried hooking another line. ‘I heard that the Merchants have financial troubles.’
Price made a buzzing sound. ‘You’re as busy as one of the Tir Melys bees.’
‘I get around. If it forces them to sell up, it’ll be a major blow to everyone.’
‘You’re right there, no word of a lie. But that’s the landed gentry all over, isn’t it? Londoners like the Merchants who fancied a patch of Wales, where land’s cheaper and they could squire it over the locals. It’s been the way in Pembrokeshire for centuries, with fforinyrs coming in. They call this county “little England”. The Brinkworths are the same — they’ve chosen to favour us with their company, but Guy believes we’re backward, leek-munching troglodytes. Distinct lack of PhDs around here.’
‘You think the Merchants were lying, then, when you challenged them?’
‘Let’s say I’m surprised that Jasmine’s nose didn’t grow. I’m working on it — hold the front page.’ Price tapped his nose and folded his arms on top of his gut. ‘I’ve got lots of irons in the fire in Holybridge. My family have been here for generations. My name comes from the Welsh, ap Rhys. It means son of Rhys.’ He laughed. ‘I told uppity Guy that his name means “farm”. He didn’t like that one little bit. Far too common. It’s too easy to get a rise out of him, but I do enjoy it.’
‘How come you’re living as a tenant at Tir Melys if your family are from here?’ He saw a frown gathering on Price’s face so added, ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Messy divorce, and I do mind.’ He hummed for a few seconds. ‘If you’re fishing for snippets of gossip, here’s a morsel to go with your sandwich. Suki and Afan were in here one day. I saw them through this window as I was passing. They were having lunch and it wasn’t a comfortable conversation. She had a face like thunder, and he was staring miserably into his mug.’
‘When was that?’
‘Dunno exactly. In the spring sometime.’ He turned to Sam, who was cleaning a table. ‘Hey, Sam, I was telling Ty here that Guy Brinkworth is well up himself. Far too good for the likes of us. What’s he a doctor of again? Something phoney-sounding, like one of those qualifications you can buy on the internet.’
‘Parapsychology.’ Sam laughed. ‘It’s pretty much regarded as a pseudoscience. Maybe Guy was able to predict his grades.’
‘We had a right giggle when we found that out,’ Price said. ‘I mean, what kind of doctorate is that and what bloody use is it to anyone? I might have a bit of respect if his subject was something handy, like land management or conservation. He probably couldn’t get a proper job, which is why he pitched up at Tir Melys, hammering out his jewellery. Anyway, his PhD doesn’t seem to help him use his psychic powers to find out who killed Afan.’
He and Sam started to banter back and forth, with Sam calling, ‘I knew you were going to say that.’ Price waved a mock warning finger at him and went to the jukebox, where he selected Led Zeppelin. Swift paid for his meal, went outside and unlocked the bike. He glanced through the window when he straightened up. Price was gyrating beside the jukebox, making the peace sign, while a couple of customers clapped.
He was a braggart, but he might be a useful one.
* * *
The bike handled well with its broad tyres, but Sion Hughes hadn’t mentioned that his house was four miles from Holybridge along a series of winding, narrow roads that climbed uphill all the way. The inevitable rain arrived ten minutes after Swift left the town, but it drifted softly and he pushed on, breathing hard, finding the wind and wet exhilarating.
Hughes lived in an unremarkable modern, pebble-dashed bungalow facing a broad valley. The ordinariness of the house was transformed by the view and the front garden, which contained tall steel and bronze sculptures of spindly trees standing in a circle within a ring of white rocks. Some of their branches intertwined. Swift stood and inspected them for a full minute. They were eerie and beautiful. Kat could learn a few lessons from the sculptor’s skill and simplicity.
The knocker on the door was made from rusted iron, in the shape of a bee. Hughes opened the door carrying a phone. He looked like Paul McCartney after a couple of years on the razzle. He had the same pixie features and boyish smile, but hi
s face was deeply lined, and a pronounced dewlap hung beneath his chin. He wore black jeans with a leather fringe vest over a pink T-shirt, and a rainbow-coloured hemp necklace. He was slim and erect, with thin, silvery hair skimming his shoulders. Swift introduced himself and they shook hands.
‘Hey, man, you’ve caught some raindrops,’ Hughes said. He even sounded like Macca. ‘Come on in.’
The living room was painted pale grey and had a picture window with cream and grey wooden blinds looking over the verdant valley and Hughes’s extensive apiary. The floor was white oak. Two Eames lounge chairs in brandy leather with matching footrests faced the window, separated by a low walnut table. One wall was covered with a canvas print of a section of a beehive, crowded with worker bees. Opposite it sat a sleek black home entertainment system. Built-in bookshelves framed the recessed, log-effect electric fire which flickered on a low, comforting flame. Swift caught the sharp whiff of marijuana.
‘Sit down and chill,’ Hughes said. ‘Would you like tea? I don’t have coffee — bad for my blood pressure.’
‘I’m okay, thanks. I’ve just come from Blasus, in town.’
Hughes gave an approving nod. ‘Good food and service?’
‘Yes, and great music.’
‘Glad to hear it. I own it.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Yeah. I based it on my favourite hangout in San Francisco back in the day. A Haight-Ashbury/Holybridge fusion but with better service and no hash in the brownies — more’s the pity. Young people are far more clean-living than in my day. You have to move with the times, even if your bones creak while you’re doing it.’
His allusion to the birthplace of 1960s counterculture explained his hint of Californian drawl and the hippie-themed Blasus. The whole time, he was fiddling awkwardly with the back of his phone.
‘Hey, could you fix this for me? It’s fully charged but it keeps dying. They told me to take the SIM card out and put it back in. I get how to do it, but my arthritic fingers won’t cooperate.’
The fingers on his right hand were gnarled and curved inwards. Swift took the iPhone, checked that it was switched off, removed the SIM and then replaced it. Hughes hummed while he did it, in his light, faded voice. Swift turned the phone back on, and the screen lit up.
‘There you are, good as new.’
‘Brilliant, man! I wish someone could get my circuits moving again so easily. Thanks a bunch.’
‘That’s okay. I see you get a signal here. There’s none at Tir Melys.’
‘Yeah, I couldn’t stand that. I like to know I’m connected, especially here on my own, with my seized-up hand and creaky hip.’
Swift pointed. ‘You have a great view to compensate for the isolation.’
‘Yeah, isn’t it? I spend a lot of time just sitting here. Afan called in once and we shared a joint and gazed at the wonders. He said it was heavenly. I’m very sad about what’s happened. He was one of the good guys.’
‘Did you ever visit him at Tir Melys?’
‘Not at his cottage. I went to one of the harp concerts last year, at his invitation. Jasmine played well, although I find the harp a bit samey when it’s played solo — after a while all the melodies start blurring. I prefer it when it’s used with vocals, like Queen did, and the Beach Boys and Eurythmics. I worked as a studio technician in the music industry, so I’m probably a bit of a stern critic. The medieval-themed evening wasn’t really my scene, although I enjoyed the mead and nibbles. But I made the effort. They’re doing good stuff at that community. There was some butch chick following Afan around all evening, making sure she sat very close to him.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘I saw him in Blasus a couple of times. We get regular custom from the people at Tir Melys. They all need their internet fix, even if they pretend not to. Then he enquired about beekeeping courses. He came to one earlier this year, about natural beekeeping. We had a lecture on using horizontal hives, which was fascinating — explaining how we can try to mimic bee behaviour while we manage them. Afan was particularly interested in successful wintering.’
Hughes became energised as he spoke about winter preparations: strengthening colonies, leaving as much honey as possible for the bees, the importance of varroa floors, pollen supplements, pest treatments, insulation, mouse guards, use of Gas-Vaps and feeding fondant and syrup. It went over Swift’s head, he got lost in Hughes’s ramblings and suspected that he could talk for hours on his favourite topic. He half-listened, reflecting that this was the kind of handsomely designed and furnished living space that he’d have expected to find at Afan’s home. Luxuriously simple and relaxing. The chair was the most comfortable he’d sat in since leaving London. Hughes must have seen the bewilderment on his face because he trailed off.
‘I’m going on too much about my pet passion, aren’t I? Verbal diarrhoea is one of the pitfalls of old age and living alone. Sorry, man.’
‘You did lose me there. I can tell you live and breathe it. I imagine that it must be an incredibly demanding occupation.’
‘It’s wonderful, because you get so much back from the hard work. Afan and Bruno used to bang on about bees almost as much as I do!’
‘Bruno said he’s going to miss Afan’s expertise.’
‘He will, but I got the impression he’s no mean beekeeper himself. He has his troubles and working with bees, you have to be focused and calm.’
Swift gazed out of the window. A watery sun glinted on the washed vista spread out below. ‘Did Afan ever seem worried about anything? Tir Melys is a small community — there might have been tensions or arguments.’
Hughes was sitting with one skinny ankle resting on a stool, the other leg straight out. ‘He never mentioned any falling-out and he always seemed in good spirits. I suppose he must have had an enemy — someone took his life.’
‘It’s unlikely to have been a stranger.’
‘Yeah, I guess. The police were in touch earlier, asking which computer Afan used at the café. I passed them on to Sam, my manager.’ He rubbed his hip. ‘It was odd, mind you, how he lied about the train.’
‘What train was that?’
Hughes fingered his rainbow necklace. It was incongruously youthful against his crêpey, puckering skin. ‘I was at the station. I’d just come back from visiting a friend in Tenby. I saw Afan heading onto the platform for the Cardiff service. I mentioned it next time I saw him, but he said it wasn’t him, I must have been mistaken. He seemed kind of embarrassed when he denied it.’ He shrugged. ‘Other bits of me are flaky, man, but my eyesight’s sharp. I didn’t push it — none of my business if he didn’t want to share and it was no biggie.’
A trip to Cardiff sounded innocuous enough, but why had Afan wanted to keep it secret? ‘Do you recall when that was?’
‘Sure, it was my friend’s wedding anniversary. It was a Friday, beginning of June.’
When Afan was supposed to be attending Welsh class but had said he was too busy at Tir Melys. ‘And you’re sure it was him?’
‘Oh yeah. No doubt at all. He kind of hunched forward slightly when he walked. I’d have recognised him anywhere.’ Hughes sighed. ‘His death is so senseless and such a waste of talent. I hope the cops get whoever did it. His bees will miss him, they’ll sense his loss.’
Swift was surprised. ‘Bees recognise their keepers?’
‘Sure. I believe so, and lots of beekeepers reckon so too. There’ve been studies that show that bees recognise individual humans and use the same techniques as us to distinguish faces. Although they probably do most of their detecting from our personal odours — they have an acute sense of smell. I’ve read articles in scientific journals about honeybee behaviour. There’s some evidence that they use mechanisms that could be employed by computer programmers for use in facial recognition. How neat is that?’
Swift imagined Afan’s bees having their own mourning drone, unremarked by human ears. ‘I had no idea. My knowledge of bees is sadly lacking. I like their hone
y, that’s it. At least the bees at Tir Melys still have Bruno for continuity.’
Hughes insisted on giving Swift a jar of honey as he was leaving. It was a bit like taking coals to Newcastle and he said that there was a supply at Tir Melys, but Hughes laughed.
‘You’ll find that my honey has an entirely different flavour, because my bees harvest pollen from masses of dandelions in this valley. See, man, honey’s a catch-all term that doesn’t do this wonderful nectar justice. Each batch of honey is unique, with different aromas, colours, flavours and viscosity. Spend some time with it. Stick your nose in the jar before you eat some.’ He laughed. ‘Okay, okay, I can hear myself switching to bee autopilot again. Nice to meet you, swing by any time.’
Outside, Swift checked his phone and saw that he’d had a text from DI Weber, asking if they could meet at the Bridge Arms in Holybridge at around half six. Dale Toft had returned his call, saying that he didn’t mind speaking about Afan. Swift rang him back.
Toft had a deep, serious tone. ‘I was sad to hear about Afan. Gwyn Bowen rang me and said you’d been asking about him. I hadn’t seen him for a very long time. What happened was dreadful.’
‘How did you know him?’
‘We were members of an outdoor activities club in Cardiff. It was called MOVE. It’s gone now — there’s a gym there. That was back in the mid-nineties. I knew him for a couple of years.’
‘Gwyn said you seemed surprised when you found out that Afan had come back to Wales. Why was that?’
There was a pause. A painted lady butterfly landed on Swift’s handlebars, flexed its wings and fluttered away.
‘It’s rather difficult. Delicate. I’d rather talk about it in person, if that’s okay with you.’
‘That’s fine. I can come and see you.’
Swift agreed that he’d visit Toft in Ogmore on Sunday morning.
He cycled away into the afternoon sun, glad that he’d brought his sunglasses. The bike hummed through muddy puddles. The sides of the narrow road were thick with tree mallow and wild marjoram. The payoff for the previous climb was that most of the route back to Holybridge was downhill. Swift let the bike choose its own pace and went over what he had learned so far. There were tensions at Tir Melys, but as far as he could make out, none that centred on Afan. Dale Toft knew something that was too sensitive to discuss on the phone. The significant detail for now was that from May onwards, Afan had lied to three people — Bruno, Gwyn and Sion Hughes — about what he was doing on Fridays. Finding out why was important, but Swift suspected that it wasn’t going to be easy. The train from Holybridge to Cardiff stopped at a number of stations, any of which might have been Afan’s destination. Maybe Sofia Weber would have come up with something after her contact with Afan’s solicitor.
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 13
