The timescale meant that this wasn’t the troubling matter that Afan had contacted him about. Morgan had rested his cheek on Caris’s shoulder. Abused people were rarely good judges of character, their perceptions were skewed, and they were often self-sabotaging. Morgan struck him as the kind of needy person who attracts trouble, a gullible young man who wasn’t used to shouldering any responsibility. Reports of his time at Tir Melys indicated that he was unreliable, and Swift doubted his self-proclaimed DIY skills. He understood why Lori Murray had said her daughter could do better for herself. Afan had no doubt been moved by Morgan and Caris’s problems, but he must have wondered what he’d let himself in for after the incident in the flat below. If he hadn’t died, he’d probably have asked Morgan to move out. Morgan and Caris must have realised this, and Swift supposed that one of them might have stabbed Afan to buy themselves time. It was a thin motive, but people had killed for less if they were scared, and these two were certainly highly anxious and muddled. But he couldn’t see either of them having the wit or the gumption to commit murder. The police would check their alibis for Monday, but he asked anyway.
‘I was at work,’ Caris said, ‘on a ten to six shift.’
Morgan pointed at the floor. ‘I was in flat three all afternoon, helping with the cleaning. They said I didn’t have to, but I wanted to give a hand. Anything to try and make things okay again.’
He’d probably thought it might earn him brownie points with Afan, but by then it didn’t matter. ‘Do either of you know of anything else that was worrying Afan? Something that was on his mind?’ He focused on Caris, because Afan had liked her enough to tell her personal details that he hadn’t shared with anyone else at Tir Melys. Swift could see why. Although she’d lied to him, she’d done it to protect Morgan and there was a sense of decency about her. He’d got the same feeling about her mother. Two sincere women, struggling against huge odds. ‘Caris, you mentioned that someone else had asked Afan for money. Who?’
‘No idea. He said that he might give someone a loan, but he needed to mull it over.’ Caris turned to give Morgan a reassuring kiss on the temple.
Swift decided to leave it there. Caris followed him out to the hall, pulling the door to, as if they were the grownups, not talking in front of the child in the room behind them. She stroked the shining emerald at her throat.
‘That’s a lovely necklace,’ Swift said.
‘Thanks. Elinor gave it to me. I helped her prepare and freeze a load of veg. Was . . . Was my mam okay when you saw her? Was she very upset?’
‘Yes, she was, but bewildered as well. She’s been worrying about what you might be involved in.’
Pain crossed her face. ‘I haven’t liked lying to her, it’s been a nightmare. I didn’t know what else to do, and I had to protect Morgan. I love my mam and I do trust her, but the less I told her, the better.’
‘You will talk to her about all of this when you get back?’
‘Yes, I’ll have to.’ She glanced behind her and lowered her voice. ‘What will happen now, about Morgan being here?’
‘The police will interview you and Morgan. You need to ring DS Spencer.’
‘I will, later on. Will Morgan be able to stay here for now?’
‘I expect so. But from what you said, he might be wiser to move on as soon as he can. Would his brother really come to Cardiff to find him?’
She blinked tears away. ‘Persecuting Morgan was Calvin’s favourite hobby. He’d go miles to torment him.’
He was moved by her plight, sandwiched between her clingy boyfriend and her sick mother. ‘Morgan could search around Cardiff. There will be opportunities. Maybe he’ll find a job with accommodation, they do exist. There are other cities nearer than London, if he wants to put more miles between him and his brother. Bristol or Birmingham would be near enough for you to see each other.’ Even as he said it, he knew that Morgan lacked the wherewithal to fend for himself. He’d squandered the opportunity handed to him on a plate. If he’d gone to London, he wouldn’t have survived. He saw the same understanding in Caris’s eyes and the droop of her shoulders. She was the one who always had to be in charge. He wanted to urge her to go to Bellissima’s or Storm Disco and have some fun.
‘I’d better get back to Morgan, make sure he’s okay.’ She hesitated, and then stepped closer. He could smell her lemony shampoo. ‘What you asked about Afan having any other worries. There was a strange situation at Tir Melys — a bit of a nightmare that I got trapped in. I wish now that I’d not got involved and told Afan about it. I’ve really regretted it, and I’ve started trying to put it right.’
‘What kind of nightmare?’
She licked her lips nervously. ‘It’s hard, because it concerns other people. I never meant it to . . .’ A phone rang and Morgan called, ‘It’s yours, Caz.’ She turned away. ‘I’d better get that, in case it’s my mam. I’ll be back tomorrow to see her, and I’ll be at the concert later. I’ll talk to you then.’
On the way back down, he saw that the door of flat three was open. A woman dressed in overalls, carrying a can of paint, was just going in. She glanced at him.
‘Redecorating?’ Swift asked.
‘And some! We’ve almost finished now, but the place was in a right state. Yobs throwing a party, apparently. If I was the owner, I’d be spitting hot coals!’
Swift sat on the steps outside the house, just below the pig. He was frustrated by Caris’s last remarks, indicating some other problem at Tir Melys. He rang Sofia Weber. ‘I found Morgan Callender. Caris is with him.’ He ran through what he’d discovered and gave her Morgan’s address. ‘They both have what sound like solid alibis. Caris promised that she’ll ring Spencer this afternoon.’
‘I won’t hold my breath. That’s all really helpful. Sounds like Afan thought they were star-crossed young lovers. He must have realised he’d saddled himself with a real problem when he heard about the damage. I’ll contact the solicitor now.’
‘Morgan won’t have to move immediately, will he?’
‘I don’t see why he should.’
‘His big fear is that his brother will come after him if he gets wind of where he is.’
Her voice was low, drained of energy. ‘Well . . . that’s another problem and not one for me. I’ve enough on my plate. I can issue an “on pain of death” instruction around the station that nobody’s to breathe a word, but I get what Caris means about the grapevine in Holybridge. I’ve looked Calvin up and there’s no record. I asked Spence about him. He’s got a reputation for being a lout and a big mouth, and he definitely dabbles in the drugs scene, but he’s never been fingered for anything.’
‘What did you find out about Bruno?’
‘Ah yes, Bruno the bee man. He did two and a half years in jail in Alberta for theft, came out nine years ago and headed to the UK soon after. It was all horse-related crime. He worked at a vast stables and was helping to relieve the owners of equipment — trailers, tack and the like. Expensive stuff. I suppose that Afan might have found out somehow.’
‘Even if he had, that would hardly be a reason to kill him. Would anyone at Tir Melys be that bothered if they knew about Bruno?’
‘Possibly not, my Lone Ranger, but not everyone likes the idea that a thief is living among them. Bruno might believe that it would disturb them. Are you going to delve into the fleshpots of Cardiff for the rest of the day?’
‘I might indulge in a little culture, Inspector.’
‘Ha! Fill your boots. I’m a bit chilly today, despite the sunshine. Maybe the weather’s about to turn and I’m feeling it in my bones.’
Before he left the steps, he sent a text message to Lori Murray.
I’ve seen Caris. She’s fine and with Morgan. Please keep that to yourself. I’m sure she’ll explain it all to you tomorrow.
He gave the pig a final pat and set off to find a Welsh-themed present for Branna.
* * *
He had an interesting chat with Bryn Price later that night. He head
ed to the kitchen when he arrived back to fetch milk and Bryn was in there, slugging wine, chopping tomatoes for chutney and chucking them sloppily into a huge stainless-steel pot. He had earbuds in and was executing little dance steps but took them out when he saw Swift.
‘I like late-night cooking sometimes,’ he said. ‘I’m a bad sleeper and it relaxes me. Glass of chateau loganberry?’ Bryn waved the bottle. He was well oiled and a little unsteady on his feet. The tomato chunks were hit and miss, and Swift eyed the sharp knife, hoping that Bryn didn’t slice his finger.
‘I will, thanks. You’ll be here until the early hours, doing that.’
‘Nah. I’ll leave it all marinating overnight. Gives it a great flavour. Then I’ll cook it up tomorrow. Bruno’s going to give me a hand filling the jars.’
Swift took a slice of underripe tomato, followed by a sip of wine. His palate tingled. ‘I wonder if he ever misses Canada. Wales must seem very small-scale.’
Bryn took another gulp of his wine. Some dribbled down his chin, but he didn’t notice. ‘He doesn’t mention it. Anyway, the boy’s come back to his roots, hasn’t he? The valleys called to him across the cold Atlantic.’ He sang through a hiccup, waving the knife around. ‘Come home again, come home again, they call through the oceans of time.’
‘Bruno told me his mother came from around here.’
Bryn laughed. ‘Good old Bruno. That’s an understatement.’
‘What do you mean?’
Bryn haphazardly sliced a huge green tomato in half and glanced slyly at him. ‘Hmm . . . That would be telling and I’m not sure I should. Careless talk and all that.’ He mixed the ingredients in the pot with a wooden spoon. ‘Oh, what the hell . . . doesn’t matter if I tell you now, when we’re almost there. Bruno’s great-uncle Davey used to own this farm. He sold it to the Merchants at a knock-down price, three months before he died. He couldn’t manage the place, it was getting run down and he had no kids, so he decided to offload it. There was talk around here, because some people reckoned old Davey was a bit doolally and didn’t really understand what he was doing, but the sale went through very fast. Davey went into the old people’s home in town, then pegged out. Bruno’s mam used to stay here a fair bit when she was a child and help with the lambing. So it’s in his blood, you might say.’
‘Have other people here heard that story? Do the Merchants have any inkling about Bruno’s family connection?’
Bryn laughed again. ‘You’re the man with the questions. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bruno’d told Afan, although we’d agreed that he shouldn’t let on to anyone. But old Afan was a bit of a father confessor, people opened up to him when they’d have done better to keep their gobs shut.’
‘Which people are you talking about and why wouldn’t you and Bruno want anyone to be aware of his connection to this place?’ He was hoping that the wine would lead Bryn into further disclosures, but he was disappointed.
‘Patience now, Mr Magnum PI. I’m pissed, but not that pissed. Sometimes, you have to watch and wait. I expect you’ve done that, lurking in dark corners with the collar of your trench coat turned up. All will be revealed, very soon. Just stick around.’ He threw dark brown sugar into the pot, spattering some on the cooker, repeating with a laugh, ‘Yes, there’ll be a big reveal.’
Chapter 15
Swift walked to the chapel early the next morning. He sat for a while in the chill silence, focusing on nothing in particular but feeling remorseful about his dead friend. He recalled golden evening light, a pavement café, glasses of absinthe and listening to a torch singer with Afan.
‘Need your love so badly, I love you oh so madly
But I don’t stand a ghost of a chance with you.
I thought at last I’d found you but other loves surround you
And I don’t stand a ghost of a chance with you.’
‘Funny how things turn out,’ Nora had said to him when they’d last spoken. She’d phoned him to say she was sorry that she’d seen Fitz Blackmore behind his back. ‘I didn’t mean to fall for him. I didn’t mean to cheat on you. Things weren’t right with us and it just happened. We never know what’s round the corner waiting for us, do we?’
Swift rose, went to the hermit’s chamber and stood inside for a few minutes. He was sure that Afan would have entered the secret space when he needed peace.
Who were you going to meet on the coast path, Afan?
Me in your bed, you in the morgue.
Funny how things turn out.
On the way back, he heard the Land Rover behind him and stepped to the side. Suki slowed and stopped. ‘Lift?’
He’d wanted the walk, but needed the opportunity to speak to her alone, so he climbed in. A box holding a few pieces of her pottery lay on the back seat.
Suki gestured to it. ‘There’s an early market in Holybridge on Sunday mornings. Just in the summer season. A stallholder sells my stuff for me, so I’ve been in, replenishing his supply.’
‘Do you sell much?’
‘It varies, but not bad. How are you doing?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Have the police made any progress with their investigation?’ She handled the vehicle confidently, an elbow propped on the open window.
‘I’m not sure. I hope things are progressing. Did you talk to the Merchants about the future here?’
‘No, I spoke to Bryn and he told me to hang on. He said we’d all hear more very soon. So I decided to wait for a while,’ she said.
‘There was something else I wanted to ask you.’
‘Oh yes? Go ahead.’ She smiled at him. Her teeth were tiny and even.
‘Someone mentioned that you had an argument with Afan, back in the spring.’
‘Really? Who is this “someone”? One of the community?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
Her grip on the wheel had tightened. ‘That’s not very pleasant, an anonymous allegation.’
‘Allegation’s a bit strong. It was just a passing remark.’
‘Indeed. And where was this argument supposed to have taken place?’
‘In Blasus.’
‘Blasus! An argument in Blasus . . .’ She tapped the wheel. ‘I rarely saw Afan in there. We did have a bite to eat earlier in the year. I don’t remember an argument. We never argued, neither of us was the type. We did discuss the possibility of developing more activities at Tir Melys. We’d throw ideas around now and again, but never come to any decisions. Afan sat on the fence about it. I might have been trying to persuade him that we should branch out a bit.’ She pulled into the parking area and turned to him. Her voice hardened. ‘Then again, I might well have been telling Afan that he needed to stand up to Kat and stop her invading his space. I used to get quite upset about that sometimes. The way he let her bug him. I’m sure neither of us realised we were being monitored. We probably had a friendly discussion, maybe a bit lively at times. Does that answer your question?’
‘Thanks, yes. I hope you didn’t mind me raising it.’
She took the keys from the ignition and adopted a milder tone. ‘That’s okay. You’ve lost your friend. So have I. It’s hard. I just wish that people wouldn’t make spiteful comments. It doesn’t help deal with the grief. I expect it was Kat, with her big wooden spoon, or maybe vindictive Guy.’
‘It doesn’t matter who mentioned it. It’s not important. See you later, at the concert.’
He left her sorting through the box in the back and went on to the cottage. He hadn’t handled that well. Suki had flinched at the memory of a lunch that, by her reckoning, had been a friendly discussion. Perhaps she’d just been uncomfortable because someone had been talking about her.
* * *
Swift drove into Ogmore-by-Sea late morning, following the line of the estuary. A thin, misty rain dimpled the River Ogmore. Dale Toft’s detached house was on a corner plot, built of brick and stone, with a sea view and a first-floor balcony.
Toft led him into a long, narrow sitting room. It was bu
sy with ornate rugs and crammed with faux antique furniture. It was hard to move without tripping over occasional tables and standard lamps. The low ceiling was textured in whorls of plaster and the striped sofas were huge, with carved wooden arms and tassels. Large photos, converted into framed paintings, dominated the walls. They showed a hearty family. Two of the children had their father’s broad, squashy nose.
‘Coffee for you?’ Toft asked.
‘Please.’
It was ready in a silver pot on a tray and he poured it into a china cup with a daisy pattern. When Swift sniffed it, he could tell it was going to be instant and terrible, despite the posh trappings. He took a sip gamely and blinked. It tasted strongly of chicory, like the bottled coffee that his great-aunt Lily had used in cakes. He couldn’t recall the name, but the label had featured a scene from the British Raj: a seated man in a kilt and a pith helmet, with a tent in the background and a turbaned Indian servant standing by.
Toft checked his watch. ‘We’ve got an hour. The family’s at church.’
‘You don’t go?’
‘They’re RC. I’m Baptist. Different paths to the same God.’
He was in his forties with a ruddy complexion, one of those men who’d been fit in youth but become a bit paunchy. He must have still liked the outdoors, as his arms and neck had a healthy glow. Swift had spotted walking poles in the porch.
He shifted his perch on the plump, over-stuffed sofa. It was the kind of punishing furniture that resisted you. ‘I’m interested to hear what you can tell me about Afan Griffith. It sounded as if something difficult happened back when you knew him.’
Toft had sensibly passed on coffee and was drinking a glass of orange squash. ‘It was a nasty episode. It’s not easy to talk about it. I suppose Afan had his reasons for not telling you. I can understand that.’
‘Whatever it is, it can’t hurt him now.’
‘No, even so . . .’
Swift said, ‘I understand your reluctance. I’m a private investigator as well as Afan’s friend. I’m doing my best to help the police with their investigation into Afan’s background. The police might well be in touch with you soon.’
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 19
