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

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  Chapter 10

  Swift was drinking a bottle of pale ale called Rockhopper, while Sofia Weber glumly circled a glass of orange juice on the table. She told him she couldn’t have any alcohol in case it reacted with the strong painkillers she was taking. She hadn’t bothered undoing her coat, which was still held together with an elastic band. Strands of hair had escaped from the grip at the back of her head, giving her a rakish air.

  She said, ‘No booze, no fun. And it’s not as if the painkillers are that effective.’ She was haggard, as if she was about to keel over.

  ‘Bad day?’

  ‘Crap — and I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘Nah, I’ll grab a bite when I get home.’ Her phone buzzed on the table and she reached for it.

  Swift sat back and read the plaque on the wall above her head while she answered it. It informed him that the pub dated from the sixteenth century and had been a town hall, a courtroom, a market, an auction room, a coroner’s court and a grain store. It was cosy, with sloping old slate floors, oak beams, antique settles and a huge open log fire. Upstairs there was guest accommodation. A group of walkers clustered around a table with maps, discussing their day’s ramble and planning tomorrow’s while they ate ham, eggs and chips. Nearby, two older women were deep in a game of backgammon, chatting in Welsh.

  Sofia finished her call, took a long drink of orange juice and leaned forward, whispering.

  ‘The woman over there with the badly dyed black hair and crimson lippie is telling her friend that if she was forty years younger, she wouldn’t pass you over.’

  Swift put a hand to his heart. ‘It’s good to be told I can turn heads, but she’d have to get in the queue behind Kat Glover, who seems to have taken a shine to me.’

  Sofia harrumphed. ‘Lucky you. She’s got over Afan pretty quickly then, despite her apparent grief.’

  ‘Maybe I’m any port in a storm, or she’s transferring her emotions to me.’ He smiled at the black-haired woman. She blushed and fingered the necklace at her throat.

  ‘Rather you than me. Now, let’s crack on because my eyes will close soon. I spoke to Afan’s solicitor. His will is dead simple, drawn up years ago by that firm. He’s left his whole estate to two anti-bullying charities. The solicitor doesn’t have any financial documents, so he has no idea what Afan was worth. Given that we didn’t find any either, he’s going to have to start a search. We’ve taken the computer that Afan used at Blasus and given it to our IT people to trace his history. I’m hoping that his email account or cloud files have some information about his contacts and transactions.’

  ‘I’ve emailed Amira Brodeur, who was in a relationship with Afan for a while in Lyon. She should be able to fill in some background. I haven’t heard from her yet.’

  ‘Right. I have Interpol on my to-do list for tomorrow. Call me if you hear from Ms Brodeur. Spence has run a check on everyone at Tir Melys. Guess the offender.’

  ‘Bruno or Bryn,’ he said without hesitation.

  ‘Correct, it’s Bryn,’ she said, making a tick sign in the air. ‘He was fined and did community service for breaking a guy’s jaw in a pub fight in Cardiff when he was seventeen. Nothing since, so probably a case of raging teenage testosterone.’

  ‘But it shows he can be violent. There’s a kind of compressed energy about him and he’s a loudmouth. I’d guess that Afan wouldn’t have had much time for him. Where was he on Monday afternoon?’

  ‘That brings us neatly to alibis, none of which are independently verifiable. The Merchants said that they were together for the timescale we’re covering, gardening, having lunch and a rest. Guy Brinkworth was out on his bike and had handily left his phone at home, so we can’t track his movements. He’s given us his supposed route, which was nowhere near the coastal path. Bruno Andersen and Suki Mehta spoke briefly at 12.20 p.m. for about five minutes, when she swapped him some tomatoes for aubergines — such exciting lives those people lead. Other than that, those two, Kat Glover, Elinor Brinkworth and Bryn Price were all on their own, gardening, working, cooking and reading — or in Elinor’s case, doing prep work towards adoption. They all said that they hadn’t seen Afan after around half ten, when he was on the communal allotment and waved to Kat, and they were tucked up in bed when you saw your fleeting figure around midnight on Monday.’

  ‘Have you got any forensics?’

  ‘Still waiting on results.’

  ‘What about the pottery left by Afan’s body?’

  ‘Everyone said that their sets are all present and correct and the numbers checked out. So, given that it’s for sale, it could have come from anywhere.’ Sofia yawned, and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I asked the Merchants about this rumour that they’re selling. They were flustered and Jasmine got righteous. Said it wasn’t my business and when I stamped on that, said it wasn’t true. But I didn’t buy it. When I asked them about their son, they said he was fine and dandy, raking it in in London.’

  ‘I googled Giles Merchant. He runs a cake-making business. I’ll forward you the link to it. From what I’ve learned, the Merchants aren’t making the income they expected from their rentable rooms in the Bivium — God, I hate saying that affected word — and their income from the tenants can’t be great. But the house and land must be worth a fair bit. Bryn Price knows more about it than he’s willing to tell.’

  ‘I’m going to have another word with him, lean on him more. I didn’t like his cocky manner. But even if the Merchants are planning to sell, I can’t see at the moment how that would connect to Afan’s murder.’

  Swift sipped his ale. ‘I don’t buy Bryn stabbing Afan, it wouldn’t be his style. He could do someone damage if he got angry enough, but he’d use his fists and punch them to death. There’d be blood, mess and broken bones, not a neat stab wound.’

  ‘I don’t disagree, but he’s in the queue with only his word for where he was.’

  ‘Going back to Afan’s assets,’ Swift said. ‘I’m fairly sure that he planned to rent out his apartment in Lyon when he moved to Brussels, and that he bought another place there. He must have done something with the proceeds from selling those properties unless he was renting them both out for income. I could ask Amira about it.’

  Sofia finished her juice, cupped her left hand under her plaster and seemed to drift away into her own thoughts. They sat in a companionable silence for a couple of minutes. Swift was more relaxed than he had been for a while.

  Sofia roused herself. ‘Maybe Afan gave most of his money away when he took to the simple country life. The bullying charities might already have had a share.’

  ‘He was a generous man, but he still had to pay rent.’

  ‘True.’

  Swift told her what Kat had said about Afan giving money to Caris Murray. ‘Did you see Caris?’

  ‘Didn’t get much out of her. She said that she and Morgan Callender hadn’t been that close, and she was more annoyed than sad about him taking off. They’re both from the rough end of Holybridge, but they’ve not been on our radar for anything. Spence confirmed that Callender left a note, saying he was heading for London. He lived with his dad and brother and by all accounts, the brothers didn’t get on. Callender’s nineteen, so he was never actually filed as a missing person. Caris said she’d got on with Afan and wasn’t aware of any problems. She seemed evasive, but then I find most teenage girls unfathomable. Maybe she needed a loan and Afan gave her one. I wouldn’t rely too much on Kat Glover’s tittle-tattle. She strikes me as a woman who always has an angle.’

  Swift scratched his chin stubble. He hadn’t bothered shaving for the last two mornings, because the water had been cool and Afan’s bathroom mirror was the size of an envelope.

  Sofia noticed. ‘Are you aiming for the raggle-taggle gipsy look?’

  ‘Not deliberately, but shaving at Afan’s isn’t pleasurable.’

  ‘Hmm. Seems to me that all that was missing in his life was a hair
shirt.’

  He smiled at that and told her about his visit to Sion Hughes and the information concerning Afan’s train journey. ‘If Afan lied, and to more than one person, he must have needed to conceal something.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll send that dummkopf Spence to the station tomorrow to ask at the ticket desk.’ Sofia reached for her stick, swaying slightly. ‘I’m bushed now and the pain’s kicking in. Got to go, I’ve a cab due. Are you staying?’

  Swift had been about to tell her about Dale Toft, but he didn’t like to keep her any longer. Her eyes were washed with pain. ‘I’ve a phone call to make.’

  When Sofia had gone, he sat and finished his ale. He liked the detective, but he was aware that she wasn’t operating at her best, given her injury and a sluggish sergeant. They’d missed the keys at Afan’s, and she might be overlooking other details or failing to follow up on them. She was listless, and his own experience told him that injury and painkillers could lead to impaired reasoning. He didn’t trust her or her sergeant to find Afan’s killer.

  He went out into the small, pretty garden at the back of the pub. The phone signal was strong there and it was empty, which was good, as calls to Branna involved some shouting. He rang Ruth’s number. As soon as she answered, Branna seized the phone and appeared on screen. She was in her pyjamas, her hair damp from the bath.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’

  ‘Hi, trouble, how are you?’

  She laughed loudly, dancing from one foot to the other. ‘Been on beach an’ caught a crab!’

  ‘Terrific!’

  ‘An’ . . . an’,’ she said importantly, puffing her chest out, ‘Mummy an’ Marcel getting married an’ I’ll be bridesmaid.’

  She’d blindsided him, but he forced a cheerful response. ‘That’s amazing. Can I help you choose your outfit?’

  ‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘I want blue, like sky. You come to the wedding too. You have to be smart.’

  ‘Well . . . Hard for me, especially when someone with a name beginning with B messes around with my clothes and gets chocolate on them.’

  She jumped up and down, almost dropping the phone. ‘Ha ha! That was me! Just a naughty joke! You have to wear a suit for wedding.’

  ‘We’ll see how it goes. Tell me what you had for supper.’ He needed to distract her from wedding invitations, and food was always a useful topic.

  ‘Salmon an’ pasta an’ ice cream.’

  ‘Not all together, I hope. That would be peculiar.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  She grew tired of talking after a couple of minutes, blew an airy kiss and handed the phone to her mother. Ruth was tanned and relaxed.

  ‘Hi, Ty. As you can see, Branna’s fine and still in the room.’

  ‘Good, okay. I’ll talk to you about other matters when you’re home. Congratulations on your wedding plans.’

  ‘Thanks. Talk more when we’re back in London. Everything okay with you? I was sorry to hear about your friend. I remember you always spoke warmly about him when you were in Lyon.’

  ‘It’s very sad. I’m making my own enquiries.’

  ‘Hmm. Isn’t it best to go home and leave it to the police?’

  ‘No, I owe it to Afan.’

  Ruth gave the slight, disapproving frown that she’d started using with him in recent months. She walked with the phone to another room with a TV flickering in the background. ‘You and your strange priorities, Ty. He was hardly a close friend. You said you hadn’t seen him for years. I’m not sure why you feel such an obligation. Don’t forget that you have a responsibility to your daughter to stay out of trouble.’

  He shouldn’t say the words, but what the hell. He was fed up with Ruth’s censorious tone. ‘Afan was good to me after you dumped me and I was in a bad way. I haven’t forgotten that.’

  Ruth’s lips tightened. ‘Let’s not do the blame game, Ty. Surely we’ve moved on from that, and we both have very different lives now.’

  ‘I agree, Ruth, so maybe you could stop constantly implying that I’m to blame for doing a job that I love. Without wanting to sound rude, mind your own business. I don’t judge how you run your life and work, and I don’t have to conduct my life according to your, and I suspect Marcel’s, standards. I’ll be Branna’s father on my terms, not yours.’

  She made a tiny, impatient noise. ‘I’d better go, it’s story time and if Branna gets overtired, she takes ages to get to sleep.’

  He rang off, annoyed with Ruth but glad that he’d fought his corner. The dynamic between them had shifted since she’d got together with Marcel. Swift had supported her through her difficult divorce from Emlyn, and they’d cooperated well on Branna’s care. Now, Ruth frequently reproached him and had taken to quoting Marcel’s views on childcare, especially where Branna’s hearing was concerned. While he had a signal, he sent Ruth a brief email.

  I won’t attend your wedding and assume you weren’t planning to invite me, so please make sure that you/Marcel don’t encourage Branna to think that I might. I’ll talk to her about it when I see her at home. She’s got a lot to handle in the coming months and I’ll deal with her in my own way about it.

  That was better out of his system. He checked his calls, texts and emails in case Amira Brodeur had responded, but found no reply. There was one from Ruth.

  Okay, Ty. I’ll leave you to talk to B. Let’s keep things on an even keel.

  In the car park he unlocked Afan’s bike and saw Caris Murray in the distance, talking on her phone. She seemed wired and intent, holding the phone clamped to her ear with both hands. She turned down a side street and was gone from view. He cycled after her, following her slowly once she was in his sights. She walked rapidly, criss-crossing a number of roads, each one becoming progressively more down-at-heel, the tarmac pitted and potholed. Finally, she entered a depressing, short row of shabby terraced houses that fronted the narrow, uneven pavement. It was the kind of place where lidless bins stood by front doors and the gutters were clogged with rubbish. In hot weather, it would be fly heaven.

  He waited until she’d let herself in through a peeling red front door, and then cycled to the house. There was no one around, but he thought he’d better hold on to his bike. The bell was detached from its casing, with wiring showing, but it rang when he pressed it. He could see a large, wall-mounted TV through the thin net curtain of the living room and recognised Matt Damon playing Jason Bourne.

  Caris answered the door still wearing her coat. She sounded apprehensive. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find where I live?’

  ‘I asked around. I just wanted to have a chat about Afan. Can I come in?’

  She folded her arms. ‘No. It’s not convenient.’

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘Not now. I’ve already spoken to a policewoman today and I’m knackered.’

  ‘DI Weber?’

  ‘That’s right. She was banging on for ages, asking me stupid questions.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve got some questions of my own. Have you any idea why Afan missed Welsh lessons on Fridays, lied about the reason and got the Cardiff train?’

  Caris chewed the inside of her mouth and stared over his shoulder. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Someone saw him at the station. The Afan I knew was a truthful, honest kind of person. He wouldn’t have lied easily, so I’m puzzled about what made him mislead people.’

  ‘No idea about that at all.’

  Fibber. ‘I thought you might, given that you were friendly.’

  ‘Like I said, no idea.’

  ‘Okay. Did Afan loan or give you money?’

  She snapped to attention. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Someone I was talking to.’

  Her eyes flickered while she weighed up her answer. She said defensively, ‘Afan lent me some money, yeah. I had a few problems and we were friends. That’s no one else’s business.’

  ‘How much did he lend you?’

  She coloured up. ‘That’s nothing to do wi
th you. You’ve no right to be asking me. I’m not the only one who tapped him for money, you know, so there!’

  ‘Really? Who else asked him?’

  She stepped back from the door. ‘I’m not telling you anything else!’

  He took his card from a pocket and gave it to her. ‘If you fancy a chat, get in touch.’

  ‘I won’t, don’t worry. You can piss off, coming here and bothering me.’

  She slammed the door and the bell quivered and then dropped lower on its dangling wires. A woman with fading mousey hair peeped around the curtain at him and then vanished.

  Dusk was falling, he was hungry, and he wanted to get back to Tir Melys before it was pitch dark. He cycled away fast, his head full of questions.

  Chapter 11

  It was high time he had fresh drinking water. The next morning, he took the enamel bucket and found the natural spring behind the Merchants’ house, following the track behind the high beech hedges that screened their home. He heard the water before he saw it. It was in a small copse of holly and birch trees and came from a pipe set into a stony ridge with a lipped saucepan hanging beside it. He drank some from his hand. It was beautifully cold. He filled the bucket and as he walked back with it, he saw Elinor Brinkworth drive away in the Land Rover with Frankie curled up in the back window. Dr Brinkworth might be at home, polishing his PhD.