‘Bryn and Bruno are hopeful that the Merchants will sell to them. They were going to discuss it with them last night.’
‘Yeah, maybe. We’ll see. It’s been a crap week, that’s all I can say. Everything coming apart at the seams.’
‘Where will you go if you do have to leave?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
They picked in silence and then carried on along the edge of the meadow. Swift noted that her limp had improved. Kat gave an informative commentary on the riches of the hedgerow and the uses of flowers, nuts and berries. Sharing her learning seemed to lift her mood. She was much better at this than at woodcarving.
She commented briefly on the hazelnuts they gathered. ‘Best to pick them now, when they’re still green. The shelled nuts make tasty nibbles, or you can roast them in the oven, or make hazelnut butter. If you wait till later in the year, they’ll probably all have been taken by squirrels.’ When they moved on to rowanberries she told him that they were once planted to protect farm cottages from roaming witches. ‘You can’t eat them raw, but they make great jams and jellies. You can make schnapps with them. I was planning to ask Afan if he wanted to try making schnapps with me this autumn. Best laid plans. He’s gone and I’ll probably be gone too.’
‘If you do stay, you can organise foraging expeditions for the public. I understand that people here have lots of ideas about developing Tir Melys and branching out.’
‘Maybe. Just can’t see it working, somehow.’
‘Well . . . you’re good at this foraging business. You have skills you should share. You’d get people to come along if you publicised it.’
‘Really? You mean that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot.’ She smiled, her eyes locked on him, brightening.
He did mean it, but he was deliberately softening her up. He disliked her so much that he couldn’t bother sparing her feelings. He bent, cracked two hazelnuts on a stone and handed her one of the nuts. She had a child’s plaster on one of her fingers, decorated with Elsa from Frozen.
‘I’ve found out about the bouldering group and what happened to Afan at Ogmore,’ he said. ‘You were there in another group when Dru Knight fell.’
She rolled the nut in her hand. ‘Did Afan tell you about that?’
‘Never mind. Were you in touch with him in the years since then?’
She rolled the nut with the tip of a finger. ‘Not as such.’
She can never manage a simple yes or no. ‘Did you realise that Afan was living here when you arranged to move in?’
‘I might have done.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s see. Was your decision to move here anything to do with that knowledge of the Ogmore incident and a desire to revisit it with Afan?’
She pulled a mulish face. ‘You can mind your own business. You’re not the slightest bit interested in my company or foraging, are you?’
‘I might be, having tried it. Foraging, that is. Did you fancy Afan back then, when you were a member of MOVE? Were you following up an old flame or was there more to it?’
‘What are you on about?’ She seemed rooted to the spot and her hands were clasped tight around the hazelnut.
‘I’ll tell you, Kat. Afan must have spent years trying to get over what happened to Dru Knight. He found peace here and then you turned up. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for him.’ In fact, he could, only too well. Demanding, predatory Kat had arrived and lurked across the way, hungry for Afan’s attention and affection, a constant reminder of the awful event. ‘Did you blackmail Afan? Did he pay you to keep quiet about Dru Knight?’
She threw the hazelnut into the hedge. Her expression was peevish. ‘I’m not talking to you. You’re so nasty. I can’t imagine why Afan was friends with you. He was nice. He was sorry that I’d suffered my own trauma back then at Ogmore, seeing that woman with her head split open. Brains and blood all over the place. I never got over it, actually, and when I had my own injury, it brought it all back.’
‘I’m sure it did. And you decided a trauma could be exploited, in more ways than one.’
‘I hate you!’ She seized the foraging bag and swung it at him, catching him on the arm. It bounced off. Leaves and nuts weren’t much use as weapons. She stomped away, back along the meadow, barely limping.
He picked, cracked and chewed a couple of hazelnuts and walked on towards the coast path. He needed to see the horizon, scent the salt air. His phone picked up a signal. He had a missed call from Sofia.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at the hospital this morning?’ Swift said when she answered.
‘I am. I’m hanging around. Hospitals are ninety-nine per cent waiting, one per cent treatment. I wish they’d make up their minds about what’s wrong with me. I’m nauseous all the time now, as well as knackered. There’s been no contact from Caris. We’ve CCTV of her on the platform at Holybridge at noon yesterday, so she caught her train home. Last sighting of her was at 12.10 p.m., on camera when she crossed the bridge into town. After that, nothing. Her phone’s been switched off since one o’clock Sunday.’
He filled her in on his visit to Dale Toft and his meeting with Kat. ‘I’ve been puzzled as to why Afan tolerated Kat’s encroachments into his life to such a degree, and that explains it. Have you got any information yet about Afan’s finances?’
‘Hang on. I’ve got something from our techies but haven’t had a chance to go through it all yet. They found various online folders and they’ve confirmed that he had very substantial savings, stocks and shares. Let’s say he was a rich man living a frugal life.’ There was a pause. ‘Okay, I’m into what they’ve highlighted in Afan’s current account. He had a monthly payment to Haskin Estates in Cardiff — that’s the management company that rents out the flats for him. One to the Merchants for his rent, payment for his phone and until February this year, a standing order for three hundred a month to a T Wright. Have to follow that up. Oh, here we go, another current standing order to Ms K Glover for one hundred a month. Not big blackmail bucks, but a steady trickle of extra income.’
‘I’m not sure that it was blackmail as such, but I believe that there was emotional coercion.’
‘Not quite with you.’
‘Afan was nothing if not conscientious to a fault. If Kat turned up here and piled on the pressure about her enduring trauma from Ogmore and her subsequent leg injury, he might have decided that he owed her. He probably pitied her. If payment ensured that she didn’t publicise what had happened at Ogmore, so much the better.’
‘Yeah, I see. And if she was benefiting financially, she’d have no reason to kill him.’
‘It makes her an unlikely suspect.’ He heard voices in the background, one a low male rumble.
‘Got to go, keep lone ranging.’ Sofia rang off.
He walked back to the cottage. Afan had been generous with his money and property, funding Kat and bailing out Morgan. He might have felt pressured when Bruno also asked him for a loan. It was one thing to be open-handed, quite another to be treated like the local bank. And who was T Wright? He couldn’t make sense of any of it.
Chapter 17
Swift was a couple of miles off the coast, sculling through moderate waves in a fresh breeze. White horses foamed along the side of the boat. Tall cliffs framed the coastline to his left. The sun was fitful, but the sky was bright, all blue and white patches. He’d needed to clear his mind while he waited for a call back, so he’d hired the Seastar just outside Holybridge and launched her off the slipway there. It was a solo boat, made from glass-reinforced plastic. He liked its lightness, the way it handled and cut through the water at a pace.
It was a while since he’d navigated open waters and he was still adjusting, trying not to resist the wind. After half an hour, he was starting to relax, getting the rhythm of the currents and letting the boat follow the waves. He remembered the golden rule — don’t fight the sea. He’d read that rowing on rivers was like road b
iking, while coastal rowing could be compared to mountain biking, and his muscles were confirming that. He positioned his blades to make sure that he caught the deep face of each wave. The concentration and heightened state of awareness was bliss, as was that moment when the boat started to glide across the air bubbles trapped beneath. Razorbills and guillemots were whirring overhead, fellow travellers across the waves.
After nearly an hour, he saw St Madoc’s cove. He was aiming for the caves there and steered the boat inwards. The waves grew gentler as he neared the shelter of the narrow gap into the caves. He passed under a low roof and steered through the channel. Shards of light penetrated from above, reflecting on emerald-green water that reminded him of Caris’s pendant. He wondered if she was wearing it now, wherever she was. He feared that she was dead and that it might be adorning her corpse.
He allowed the boat to rock gently through a series of hollows in the rock, dipping an oar now and again to keep his course. The caves smelled of the sea and damp, rotting matter. After the rush of the waves and bird calls, this underworld was silent and cool. There were dark streaks of red oxide in some of the jagged walls and strangely shaped fissures above his head. He reached out to touch a boulder. It was slimy and smooth. He let the boat drift through caverns for some time, aware of the stillness. The weight of rock above him was like a secure shield. He was perturbed, convinced that Caris’s disappearance must be linked to Afan’s death. He was aware, too, of other vague disquiets that he couldn’t name.
A sliver of light spilled in through a gap at the end of a channel. He spotted the small sandy strip of beach he’d noted on a map. He headed for it, pulled the boat up and took the bottle of water and cheese roll that he’d brought with him onto the sand. He was hungry, his appetite whetted by exercise, and he ate his picnic in solitude, listening to the meditative hiss of the sea.
His phone rang. DS Spencer stumbled over his words. The signal was weak and crackling. Swift had to tell him to take a breath and start again.
‘The boss left . . . text message. She’s . . . into hospital and they’ve . . . turn her phone off . . . bone infection. Osteomyelitis . . . said to tell you . . . carry on being “Lone Ranger”. Make sense?’
‘I understand. Any news about Caris Murray?’
‘Nothing . . . asking around the streets . . . CCTV . . . nobody saw anything. Quiet . . . there . . . Sunday.’
‘Is someone taking over from DI Weber?’
‘The boss? Waiting to hear.’ He sounded lost, his voice a little boy’s. ‘Concentrating . . . Caris.’
‘Could you call me if you hear any updates about DI Weber?’
The signal powered in momentarily. ‘Yeah, okay. I rang just now but they said she was having treatment and couldn’t speak to anyone. Her brother’s at the hospital.’
Swift rang off. He wanted to call the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell him anything. Spencer would be directionless without Sofia, a little lamb seeking its mother. He had no faith in the sergeant’s ability to find Caris without his boss at his side. He finished his water. He’d planned to spend longer in the cave system, but now he’d need to up the pace of his own investigation. He was apprehensive about the person who was moving silently around Tir Melys, slipping unseen into Afan’s cottage. Their behaviour suggested unfinished business.
He dragged the boat into the sea and started rowing back to Holybridge in choppier conditions. His muscles had stiffened a little but soon warmed and relaxed as he found a rhythm. To his relief, one of the staff gave him a hand with the boat up the slipway. He stopped at the café attached to the hire shop for a mug of tea and a slab of fruitcake to up his energy level. When he checked his phone, he saw that he’d had the call he’d hoped for, from Joanna Knight, Dru Knight’s mother. There was only a handful of Knights listed around Splott and he’d done a trawl of them, eliminating two young women and an older man. He’d left a message for Ms Knight, keeping his fingers crossed that he’d struck lucky. He listened to the voicemail. A cold, cautious tone.
Hello, is that Mr Swift? I got your message. Not sure how I can help you about Dru. Seems a bit strange after all this time, but I suppose I don’t mind if you want to call me back.
He washed down a mouthful of the rich cake and rang Ms Knight.
‘Thanks so much for coming back to me.’ He explained who he was. ‘I’m sorry if my contact brings back sad memories, but my friend, Afan Griffith, was murdered recently. You might have seen it on the news.’
‘No, I avoid the news, too depressing. That name’s familiar, though. I’ll never forget it. I suppose it’s the same man who caused my daughter’s death.’
‘It’s the same man who was bouldering with her at Ogmore. I’ve heard about the accident, how your daughter was injured.’
She sounded as if her teeth were clenched. ‘Accident. Yes, that’s what they said it was. It should have been manslaughter. Griffith should have gone to prison for what he did. I’m glad he got what was coming to him in the end.’
He could hear that her pain was as raw as if her daughter had died yesterday. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why should you be sorry? You don’t know me.’
‘True, but I realise it must have been very hard for you.’
‘Hard? I’ll say! Dru had got herself knocked up by some man in London and came back here with her tail between her legs. Took it for granted, of course, that I’d bail her out. She’d no right to be off climbing up rocks when she had a child. Completely irresponsible. Next thing, I was on my tod with a baby. Thank goodness I’d nagged Dru into taking out life insurance. I’d have gone under without that.’
‘Was Afan in touch with you after your daughter died?’
‘No, he bloody well wasn’t.’
‘I wondered if he’d offered you and your grandchild financial help.’
She laughed. ‘You’re joking. He sent flowers for the funeral and I binned them. If he’d offered blood money, I’d have thrown it back in his face.’
‘Does your grandchild still live with you?’
‘Trevor? Why are you asking about him?’
‘Is his surname Wright?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he still live with you?’
‘No, he’s in Penarth.’ She paused. ‘Why do you want this information? What are you after?’
He’d got what he needed. He wished he hadn’t upset her. ‘I’m just checking on a few things. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘So you should be. I don’t like getting phoned up like this. Oh, hang on — this money angle — did Griffith’s conscience bother him? Did he leave Trev something?’
Maybe she was one of those people who watched programmes like Heir Hunters and hoped for the letter revealing an unexpected windfall. He didn’t like to raise false hopes but it had to be done. ‘I’m not sure. But wouldn’t you regard that as blood money?’
‘That’d be different,’ she said. ‘Like Griffith paying his dues.’
Swift let that pass. ‘I’d like to speak to Trevor. Could you give me his number?’ He expected her to refuse, but she rattled it off. Despite her anger, the lure of an inheritance was a strong one. ‘Was Trevor expecting to benefit from Afan’s will?’
‘I’d have thought that . . .’ She checked herself. ‘I can’t be doing this anymore. Trev’s headstrong, just like his mother. Never listens to me. He can deal with his own affairs. Bugger off.’
It was always good to be told where you stood. Her denial concerning financial help had been genuine. Trevor had been dealing with his own affairs and accepting money from Afan without her knowledge. Why had the regular payment stopped, and had Trevor thought that he would benefit from Afan’s death?
Swift had forgotten to take the teabag from his mug. The tea was stewed but he drank it anyway while he rang Trevor’s number and listened to his cheery recording. Hi, Trev’s voicemail is broken. This is his fridge. Leave a message and I’ll stick it to myself with a magnet. He left a message and stood
by the door of the café. The sun was setting, burnishing the sea red-gold. More boats were coming back on the evening tide. Weary rowers sat by the water’s edge, talking quietly. A cluster of windsurfers stood on the shingle, sipping coffee and sharing a packet of biscuits. There was the sense of a peaceful end of a day well spent. Once again, he thought that Afan should have been here to share the pleasure of the moment.
* * *
Swift was back in Cardiff, this time transported by an uncrowded mid-morning train. He sat with Trevor Wright in a noodle bar in Castle Arcade, near the wine shop where the young man worked. It was on the first floor, next to a balustraded walkway. Wright had a bland expression, a round, soft face and a brash manner. He was making his way speedily through a bowl of teriyaki beef, as if he was worried that someone might snatch it away. Swift had opted for a pumpkin katsu curry.
‘Nan told me you’d called her,’ Wright said. ‘I bet she roughed you up. That’s her style. She was getting on my case about finding out if Mr Griffith left me any money.’ He mimicked his grandmother: ‘You need to make sure you follow up on that, and don’t put it off like you usually do with things.’
‘Were you expecting him to leave you anything?’
‘He won’t have.’
‘Do you say that because you were in contact with him?’
‘I might have been. What’s it to you?’
Swift ignored him. ‘Your nan’s unaware of the standing order Mr Griffith had made to you.’
Wright speared a sliver of beef. ‘How come you know about it?’
‘I find things out.’
‘I suppose I should thank you for not dobbing me in with my nan about that.’
Swift took a sip from his Tiger beer. ‘Thanks aren’t needed. But I’m interested in how the standing order came about and why it ended.’
The greenish light from the oriel windows in the arcade roof gave Wright a sallow complexion. His red and white T-shirt stated, Partners in Wine. He scratched his chest above the lettering. ‘Why are you poking your nose in?’
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 22
