Toft pinched the bridge of his fleshy nose. ‘I can’t see what relevance it would have to what happened to him. This was years ago.’
‘It’s possible, that’s all,’ Swift said.
‘Well, then, if it might help . . . As I said to you, I met Afan through a club that offered all kinds of outdoor activities. Our main interest was bouldering. There are some great spots for it in Wales, including around here. I’d been to the East Cliffs here with Afan a couple of times, just the two of us. We were skilled, so now and again we took out small groups of people who wanted more experience. Have you ever climbed or been bouldering? Do you know about the role of the spotter?’
‘I’ve got a boat and I row as often as I can, but I’ve never climbed. Bouldering is climbing short distances without ropes or harnesses, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Toft replied. ‘It’s more about technique and power than endurance. Some people like it because you don’t have to heave lots of equipment around. Basically, you need a crash mat and a chalk bag, to keep your hands dry. The spotter is the person who stands below the climber, by the crash mat, ready to guide them safely back down to the mat if they slip. The aim is to break their fall and protect their head from an impact. It’s an essential part of bouldering outdoors.’
‘Sounds like a hugely responsible role.’ Swift had a sinking feeling that he could predict the ending of this story.
‘It is. Crucial. One Saturday, Afan and I took a small group of four, two men and two women, just by Southerndown beach and the East Cliffs here. They had different levels of experience, so I went to one group of rocks and Afan was further along. We’d been there for almost an hour when I heard awful screaming. It seemed to go on for minutes. I couldn’t move, because I was spotting one of the group. I got him back down as quickly as I could and ran to where Afan was. The woman in his group had fallen and hit her head. It was a terrible sight. Lots of blood and she was just, well . . . crumpled. She was taken to hospital, but sadly she died a couple of days later from head trauma.’ He finished his orange squash, patted his chest and let out a deep breath. ‘Even now, it chokes me up.’
‘I’m sorry, that sounds terrible. How did it happen?’
‘Afan said — and the other climber, the man who was with him, confirmed it — that he’d been distracted for a split second. There were some teenagers fooling around on the shore nearby, just past an outcrop of rock. One of them started yelling with pain because he’d trodden on a sharp shell and cut his foot open. They were out of sight, but the shout was enough to distract Afan and — Sod’s Law — in that moment, the woman who was climbing lost her footing and fell. She missed the crash mat and landed on rocks.’
Swift was shocked. He pictured the scene — the sea behind, the sun and breeze, the woman poised on the rocks above, young people larking about on the shore. Then, in seconds, a broken body. It was a trauma that would slice deep and stay with you.
Toft stood, walked around the sofa and adjusted a vase of flowers on a table. Then he perched on the sofa arm. ‘I was so sorry for Afan. He was in bits about it. There was an investigation and an inquest, of course, and the verdict was accidental death. Up to that fall, Afan had done everything right and by the book. Conditions were dry and chilly, which meant that the friction between hands, feet and rock was at its best. Bouldering in good conditions is equivalent to cycling with the wind at your back, and the rocks were medium difficult, suited to what Afan knew of his group’s abilities.’
It sounded as if Afan had gauged the conditions well, paying the same attention to environment and weather as Swift did to wind forces and tides before he launched his boat. It was what Swift would have expected of him. ‘It sounds like really bad luck. That can happen when you take any physical risks.’
‘True, but there’s understanding that and the emotional impact of a death on your watch. Also, we discovered during the investigation that the woman who died had exaggerated her levels of experience. She’d done some indoor bouldering but almost none outdoors. That was very foolish of her, because there’s a lot more to anticipate and contend with in outdoor work. Indoors, you have colours and markers to guide you. Outdoors, holds and footholds are far less obvious, and you have to think much harder, coordinate your breath and movements. In a way, you have to learn a whole new set of skills. If Afan had been aware of that, he’d have given her an easy route. There are plenty around here.’
‘Did that help Afan? He’d acted properly but she’d misinformed him. It wasn’t his fault.’
‘It didn’t seem to. In the end, he’d altered his stance and been distracted, even if the reason for that was beyond his control. A good spotter gives the climber the confidence to focus one hundred per cent on the moves, and that’s how Afan usually was, utterly reliable. We’d spotted for each other and I had complete trust in him. He should have been focused and ready with outstretched arms to guide the student to the pad and away from hazards. And he was, but for that bloody stupid teenager yelling his head off. Worst of all, if that wasn’t bad enough, we found out that the woman who died was a single parent with a ten-month-old baby.’ Toft leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. ‘Afan was gutted. He left the club, never came back and later I heard that he’d gone abroad to work. That’s why I said I was surprised that he’d come back here, with those awful memories. I was pretty shaken up by it, I can tell you. These things leave their mark. I left the club too. I’ve never climbed since or taken responsibility for any group activity. I swim and walk.’
‘Who was the woman who died?’
‘Her name was Dru Knight. She’d moved back to Cardiff from London to live with her mam while she was pregnant. The grandmother minded the baby while she worked. She was employed in a carpet shop.’
‘Do you remember the names of the other members of the two groups?’
Toft rubbed his forehead and glanced at his watch. ‘It’s more than twenty years ago. I recall a Jimmy. That’s all, I’m afraid. It was a busy club and lots of people came and went — students from the university, all sorts from all over. I’ve tried not to dwell on it down the years. It’s painful talking about it, even now. I have to fetch the family from church, if that’s all.’
Swift drove to a car park near the beach, bought a hot dog from a stand and sat on a wall, catching mustard on his finger as he ate. A dense sea mist had drifted in, bathing everything in a swirling grey vapour. He didn’t mind the warm, light drizzle it carried. The little pulses of rain on his face were refreshing. A woman appeared from the mist, walking with her hands in her pockets. She passed in front of him, glanced in his direction and smiled. For a moment, he almost exclaimed Ruth! The same tawny hair and hazel eyes. Same delicate beauty. She carried on, walking away from him and within seconds, she’d vanished into the grey. He wanted to follow her, talk to her, find out if she was anything like the woman he missed. The impulse was strong. He resisted it and closed his eyes, disturbed. The emotions were still there, damped down like embers that might flame up if they were sparked. He waited until his breathing quietened. When he opened his eyes, the mist seemed to have thickened and the world was utterly silent. Perhaps he’d imagined the woman. He rubbed his eyes, went back to the car and forced himself to reflect on the matters queuing in his head.
There was Caris. He was impatient to learn about the other dilemma at Tir Melys that had trapped her, and that she’d shared with Afan.
Someone had been into the cottage when he’d returned last night. There’d been no sign of a break-in, so whoever it was must have a key. Nothing had been taken, but the drawer in the kitchen table hadn’t been quite closed and he was sure he’d shut it firmly because it stuck easily.
He returned to Bryn’s teasing crumbs of information from the night before. He’d been drunk and talkative, but Swift reckoned that Bryn had only told him exactly what he’d wanted to. It had cast Bruno in a new light. He hadn’t just washed up at Tir Melys, as he’d implied. What must it be like for him,
living in a place that had once belonged to his family and had changed hands in what sounded like a dubious transaction? And what was his motive for taking up a tenancy there — was it really what he’d called hiraeth? Had Bruno confided in Afan and then turned against him for some reason — maybe because Afan had challenged his motives and the big reveal that Bryn had mentioned? Bruno might have decided to silence Afan. It seemed a flimsy motive, but perhaps not to a man who was under pressure.
The Merchants must be planning to get rid of Tir Melys. That was why they hadn’t agreed to any suggestions for new ventures. If Afan had got caught in that web, he might have been a threat to someone.
This information about Afan and the bouldering accident might be vital. In Lyon, Afan had been a keen walker, just as he’d been at Tir Melys. He’d never mentioned an interest in any other outdoor activity and would have had even more of a reason than Dale Toft for giving up climbing. The accident must have weighed on him down the years. Had it, or a person associated with it, come back to haunt him?
Swift was staring out to sea when Lori Murray rang him. He heard the tension in her voice.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again. It’s just that Caris isn’t home yet, and she’s not answering her phone. I’ve still got a number for Morgan but when I rang, it said it’s no longer in use.’
Swift saw that it was two thirty. ‘What time were you expecting her?’
‘No later than one. I rang the station and they said there’s no train disruption.’
‘Maybe she’s been delayed in Cardiff.’
Lori sounded dubious. ‘Maybe, but she’s very good about ringing if she’s going to be late. Was she okay when you saw her?’
‘She was fine. You didn’t call her yesterday?’
‘Me? No. I’ve done the potatoes all ready for her to roast. I always prep the veg for her.’
‘She’s only a bit late. I expect she’s on her way. I’ll check in with you in a while.’
Back in the car, he hoped that Lori Murray was just being an overanxious mother. Then he took his phone from his pocket and searched for Dru Knight. There were a number of hits. The first he selected was from a report in the South Wales Echo:
WOMAN INJURED IN CLIMBING FALL
Drusilla Knight, 25, from Splott, Cardiff, was badly injured on Saturday afternoon. She was bouldering with companions from the MOVE club when she fell from a rock, injuring her head as well as sustaining other fractures. Ms Knight is in intensive care in Cardiff Royal Infirmary. There has been no comment from the police or MOVE. Ms Knight lives with her mother and has a baby son.
The article was accompanied by a photo, the kind of head-and-shoulders shot taken in a booth, of a young, dark-haired woman with a cheeky grin.
Later that week, the same paper carried the story that Dru Knight had died. A month later, the Western Mail had a summary of the inquest. It repeated the information that Dale Toft had given him, including a verdict of accidental death. It also listed the names of the three other climbers who’d been present, all of whom had been questioned by the police. One name stood out as Swift scanned them:
James Khalil
Katrina Glover
Norman Hunter
Kat Glover, who’d subsequently taken up residence at Tir Melys and who’d had a marked interest in Afan Griffith. Perhaps she’d been driven by more than romantic yearnings. He’d been speculating as to why Afan had been so long-suffering with Kat. Now maybe he’d found the reason.
* * *
Swift stopped the car fifteen minutes from Tir Melys, while he still had a signal, and phoned Lori. It was almost four thirty.
‘Still no sign of her and I can’t raise her on her phone,’ Lori said. ‘I rang Gwyn, because she’s supposed to pick Caris up here at half six. She hasn’t heard from her either. I’m beside myself with worry.’
‘I can call the detective who’s investigating Afan’s death. Let me have a word with her. Maybe she can ask the Cardiff police to call on Morgan, in case Caris is still there. Perhaps she’s been taken ill.’
He phoned Sofia Weber and was relieved when she picked up, sounding woolly. ‘Sorry to disturb your Sunday.’
‘It’s okay. I’m at the hospital, being poked about and waiting to have a blood test, so it’s nice to have a distraction.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Dunno. I’ve got a temperature. I keep coming over a bit odd and sleeping the sleep of the dead, so they decided they needed to stick needles in me.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘Yeah, I’m in A & E. They must be having a slow day. They were keen for me to come in. What have you got?’
He explained about Caris. ‘Four hours or so isn’t a long time, but her mother says it’s unusual for her to be so late without ringing. Caris was supposed to be back to cook lunch for her mum, and she was planning to attend a concert at Tir Melys this evening. I don’t understand why she’s not answering her phone. She needed to talk to her mother today about the situation with Morgan.’
‘She called Spence yesterday afternoon and agreed to come into the station first thing Monday morning. Maybe she and Morgan talked it all over last night and decided to do a runner together, given that there was a chance that his bolthole would be blown. They might have caught a train to London, or anywhere else for that matter.’
‘She wouldn’t do that to her mother, not without giving her some explanation or at the very least phoning her. She cares about her.’
Sofia sounded cynical. ‘She didn’t mind pulling the wool over her mam’s eyes for months.’
‘True, but she had a good reason for doing that and she fretted about it. It’s been hard for her. Divided loyalties. I’ve got a strange feeling about this. She and Morgan have a direct and close connection to Afan.’
‘You don’t have a current phone number for Morgan Callender?’
‘No. I expect he changed it once he left home, so his brother wouldn’t find him. One of the few sensible things he’s done.’
‘Okay, I agree that it’s odd. I’ll call Cardiff and ask some uniforms to call at Morgan’s. Are you going to be at Tir Melys tonight?’
‘Yes, so no phone signal. I’ll call you from the landline later. Do you want me to ring Ms Murray back?’
‘No. I’ll speak to her and get this underway. I might be able to rouse Spence. I agree that this seems out of character, but teenagers can be erratic, especially when they’re lovelorn and confused. Ring me if Caris rocks up for the concert wondering what all the fuss is about.’
He started the car and drove to Tir Melys, anxious and disturbed. Caris knew something about the community that was weighing on her. He was concerned that she might have forced someone’s hand by attempting to put a nightmare situation right.
Chapter 16
The Bivium was busy with people arriving for the concert. Elinor was on the door and told Swift that they’d sold all the tickets. He wondered if some of the audience were rubberneckers, titillated by the proximity to murder. He asked if Caris had arrived, but Elinor said she hadn’t seen her. Bruno and Suki were on kitchen duty, preparing trays of finger foods — sandwiches, crackers with toppings, tiny sausage rolls, savoury pastries, miniature quiches and individual fruit tarts. Kat was arranging glasses with bottles of Tir Melys wine and mead. The concert would last for an hour, and then the guests would help themselves to food at the dining table and drinks at the kitchen counter. Another table had been set up with a selection of community produce for sale — honey, wine, mead, preserves, willow baskets, woodcarvings, jewellery and pottery.
Swift just had time for a shower and a change of clothes. He headed to the Parley with minutes to spare and saw Gwyn Bowen sitting at the end of a full row. He leaned down to speak to her.
‘Have you heard from Caris?’
‘No, nothing. Her mam rang me and said she hadn’t come home, so I didn’t call by for her. Maybe she’s come down with something. I’ve tried her phone but she’s not answering, and sh
e hasn’t texted me, which is a bit weird.’
‘This is unusual, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. She doesn’t let people down. I mean, she’s been a bit distracted recently, but if she makes an arrangement, she generally sticks to it. I haven’t actually seen her since Afan died, just texted and one quick call.’ Gwyn plucked at her sleeve. ‘She’s been kind of elusive. Her mam’s really worried. I’m hoping she’ll turn up, although I don’t think she’ll come here now. She’d have to cycle, so it’d hardly be worth her while.’
‘Contact me if you hear from her.’
‘Sure.’ Gwyn’s eyes were huge behind her glasses. She was dressed attractively in a turquoise shirt and jeans, her hair curling softly around her shoulders. ‘Ms Murray said that you saw Caris yesterday. I suppose you were asking her about Afan. Was that in town?’
‘We met up briefly,’ he confirmed.
He had the impression she wanted to ask more, but she said, ‘Oh, okay.’ She tucked her hair behind the pretty earrings she wore. ‘Did you have any luck contacting Dale Toft?’
‘I saw him this morning.’
‘That’s good. Did he tell you anything useful about Afan?’
‘We discussed what had happened back when they knew each other. It was interesting.’
‘I wonder if the police—’ Gwyn started to say.
There was a sharp tap on Swift’s shoulder, and he turned to see a bright-eyed Kat.
‘I’ve saved you a seat beside me. Better sit down, it’s going to start any minute.’
She wore a white, calf-length cotton dress. It had lace frills around the neck and armholes, and she’d attached white roses to her pigtails. She was a bizarre version of a little girl. He followed her to a seat towards the back of the room. Bryn was passing and whispered to him, ‘Here comes the bride!’
Kat gazed at him. ‘How come you’re pally with Gwyn Bowen?’
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 20
