He wasn’t sure what to make of her. He said nothing for a while. The rain thudded and the engine purred. He drifted sleepily, and then forced himself to stay alert.
‘You’re sad and desperate, Elinor. Let’s go back.’
* * *
He invited Elinor to have cocoa with him and she accepted readily. He was exhausted and didn’t want her company, but she was at a low ebb and he needed to exploit that.
He asked, ‘Do you want to tell Guy where you are?’
‘No. I expect he’s fast asleep. Nothing ever disturbs Guy’s sleep. Anyway, I don’t care if he’s not and sitting up worrying. I hope he is. He deserves to be.’
‘I’ve not heard you speak in that way about Guy before.’ You’re usually busy making excuses for him.
She stared at the floor. ‘No . . . well . . . every worm turns, or so they say.’
They sat by the stove with mugs of cocoa and biscuits, in a soft pool of light from one lamp. Frankie was cocooned in one of Elinor’s arms, accepting bits of shortbread. She was in the armchair and rocked him like a baby. Swift had given her a towel and she’d draped it around her shoulders. Her hair straggled down in damp curls. The wind had risen and was snapping at the windows.
‘The late fruit will rot,’ Elinor said glumly. ‘And no . . . no Caris to help pick it.’
‘No, no Caris.’
‘Do you think the same person killed Afan and Caris?’
The hot cocoa stung his lip and he winced. ‘Can’t say.’
‘It’s terrible. Unbelievable. Why would anyone leave a body in a holy place?’
‘Maybe it was just convenient.’
‘How can you be so calm?’ She put a hand to her mouth and turned to him. ‘Shouldn’t we tell the others what’s happened?’
‘It’s gone one in the morning. There’s no point in waking everyone up, and we should leave it to the police.’
‘I suppose, yes.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘I don’t want to stay here now. The Merchants have agreed to sell to us, but I don’t want to carry on. Everything’s spoiled. All our plans built on shifting sands. To think of the sacrifices I’ve . . . Oh, Fwankie, what are we going to do?’
Swift’s head was aching. He swallowed a couple of painkillers. ‘You’ve had a dreadful shock. You were very fond of Caris. She told me.’
She shifted. ‘Did she?’
‘You gave her a lovely emerald pendant.’
‘Yes.’
‘Very generous.’
‘Well . . . she was helpful with our produce.’
‘Maybe she was, but I’ve been wondering if you gave her the pendant and other jewellery for a different reason. Not a good one.’
She winced, bent and kissed Frankie’s head, then stared into her cocoa.
Swift reached into the tin of biscuits and took a digestive. He was ambushed by another memory of Ruth, of lunching with her after she’d married. One of those wistful, strange meetings they used to have in London. She’d pushed aside the complimentary shortbread. Neither of us likes shortbread, we never eat it. He was burdened by thoughts of her, and wished he’d never seen the woman at Ogmore. The fire’s warmth had made him sluggish and he fought through inertia. It was as if the constant rain and damp here had seeped into his brain and numbed it. He forced himself to straighten up, aware that he was nearer to a resolution of these crimes. He spoke quietly.
‘Elinor, I’m certain now that Caris, and possibly someone else, had you between a rock and a hard place. Tell me about it.’
She caressed the dog’s head. ‘Listen to that storm building. I hope there’s no damage to our roof. It’s cosy in here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. And safe. Two people have died, Elinor. This has to stop.’
She sighed. ‘I haven’t felt safe for ages, have I, Fwankie?’ She turned to Swift, a look of appeal and despair. ‘I’ve been frightened of saying or doing the wrong thing. Like I’ve been fighting on so many fronts I can never win. I want a baby so much.’
‘Yes. But that can’t be at any price. I’ve seen the jewellery you’ve been giving away.’
‘But that’s not the only cost you’re talking about.’
‘No.’
‘Ah, if you only knew. If you had any notion of what I’ve been through. I wonder if you can spend your soul. The stories say you can sell it to the devil, so why not spend it too?’ She held her mug out to him. ‘Can I have another?’
He made fresh drinks, coffee for himself to try to stay alert, and sat back beside her, stifling yawns. Elinor shared another shortbread with Frankie. Her chair creaked faintly as she rocked. Then she started talking. Swift surreptitiously pressed record on his phone. It was a long, rambling and anguished story with much backtracking and pauses for bouts of tears. She was in a pitiful state. He listened intently, holding exhaustion at bay. He was hearing a blend of truth and lies, and he wasn’t sure how to sift one from the other. The more he heard, the more he realised how burdened Afan had been with other people’s dilemmas. The man must have been overwhelmed at times.
It was almost 2 a.m. when Elinor went home. Swift was anxious as he watched her walk away. Should he let her go? She was highly volatile, and her husband would do nothing to ease her unpredictability. Her monologue had calmed her for now. He wished that he could ring Sofia and discuss his suspicions. There was nothing more that he could do tonight. He fell onto the bed fully clothed, his head full of the complex yarn Elinor had spun him. He fell asleep instantly.
Chapter 19
A thunderstorm woke Swift at just gone seven. He’d slept deeply. The air was humid, and his clothes were sticking to his body. He made coffee and stood at the open window, studying the turbulent sky. A trellis of runner beans had collapsed, and the gutters were streaming. He felt better this morning than he’d expected. He was stiff and his back ached, but it could have been worse.
His reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn’t pretty, with the grazes now a livid red. He decided to leave well alone and not to shave. In fact, he’d grow a beard until he got home to the luxury of hot water. He showered and ate bread and cheese while he played back Elinor’s voice, then made a copy of the recording with edits. It was hard to gauge how much of what she’d said was misdirection. He had an idea why these murders had been committed, but he was unsure about who was involved and hesitated over his next steps. This place, with its strange brew of seething emotions, seemed to be draining his energy and befuddling him. He poured another mug of coffee, mulling over what he needed to do and the best way to achieve it.
First, he drove just far enough to get a phone signal, noting that the chapel had been cordoned off and a heavy-duty padlock fitted to the door. There were no police cars around. When his phone came to life, he saw that DS Spencer had texted him a thumbs up about Trevor Wright. He called the hospital, enquired about Sofia and was given the neutral response of ‘Ms Weber is comfortable’. Next, he phoned Spencer. ‘Thanks for the alibi confirmation.’
‘That’s okay. We’ve removed Caris’s body. We’re on our way back to Tir Melys to talk to everyone, including you.’
‘How did Caris die?’
‘Stabbed in the back. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘Time of death?’
Spencer spoke as if he was reading from a crib sheet. ‘I can’t share that information with you. Enquiries are ongoing.’
Not going very far with you in charge. ‘I wondered if you’re going to have to include all the people who came to the concert in your questioning.’
‘What I said before,’ Spencer said in a robotic voice.
He’d better not push the sergeant’s limited skill set. ‘Okay. Have you informed anyone about Caris’s death yet? Other than her mother, that is.’
‘Just her mam and Morgan.’
Good. ‘I’m sending you the recording of a conversation I had with Elinor Brinkworth in the early hours of this morning. It’s significant. Can you speak to me first when you arrive? I’ll be at the cot
tage.’
Spencer agreed. Swift made one more call, a crucial one, and left a voicemail saying he’d visit during the morning. He drove to where he’d left Afan’s bike, managed to wedge it in the boot of the car and took it back, where he stored it in the shed. He retreated to the cottage, made coffee and stayed there until Spencer arrived. He didn’t want to mix with any of the others until they’d been questioned.
He gave Spencer a coffee, watching as he stirred in four sugars.
‘Thanks for this — I haven’t slept. The boss has made a tiny bit of improvement,’ Spencer said, holding a forefinger and thumb up a centimetre apart.
‘That’s good. Let’s hope she continues to fight back. It would be welcome news for her to hear that this killer, or killers, are in custody. Probably do her as much good as the medical treatment.’
‘Yeah.’ Spencer didn’t sound optimistic.
Swift shoved the biscuit tin to him and went through an account of the previous night.
‘You should report that someone tried to run you down,’ Spencer said, focusing on the least important issue.
‘Maybe I will. Have you listened to the recording I sent you?’
Spencer dunked a biscuit in his coffee. His colour was high. ‘Not yet, I had to get other stuff organised.’
Swift saw that he was flustered and unsure. He said impatiently, ‘You need to, and talk to Elinor Brinkworth next. She has vital information about Caris and Gwyn Bowen.’
‘Okay. I hope there’s going to be some forensics back on Caris’s body, something to give us a steer. Her mam’s in bits. My mam’s taken her and Morgan into her house.’
‘Morgan’s here?’
‘Yeah. He turned up early this morning. He’s all over the place. My mam’s letting him stay with her so he can keep his head down, out of Calvin’s way.’
‘He’ll need to.’
He said wistfully, ‘My mam’ll be good with him. She likes having someone to organise and boss, she’ll be in her element. She’ll do his laundry and make him humongous dinners.’
‘You’re used to having a strong woman in your life, DS Spencer.’
‘Oh . . . yeah, that’s right. You can call me Spence by the way, everyone does.’
‘If you’re needing a steer, here’s one for you,’ Swift said as Spencer finished his coffee. ‘Think of those grave goods. Why did someone put them by Afan and come back here for the book to place on his body?’
Spencer rubbed his forehead. ‘The book? Oh, yeah. Is that important?’
‘I’ll leave it with you.’
* * *
In the bookshop, Swift perused the local history section while Gwyn Bowen answered a phone query. The shop was empty as usual. When she’d finished, he went to the desk. He was about to wing it, but it wouldn’t be the first time. She wore black jeans and a grey T-shirt. Her hair was tied back in a red cotton scarf and draped across one shoulder.
When she saw his face she said, ‘Have you been in an accident?’
‘Sort of. It’s not that bad.’
‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Something about Caris?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Is there any news?’ She was pallid, the usual peach bloom on her cheeks dimmed.
He’d thought that the Holybridge bush telegraph might already have informed her and was relieved that she hadn’t heard. ‘Can we talk somewhere less public?’
‘Okay. We can go upstairs to my flat. I’ll just lock the door.’
He watched her slip the sign to Closed and turn the key in the door. She was light on her feet, in flat shoes decorated with little silvery bows. He followed her up narrow, creaking stairs.
‘Watch your head at the top here,’ she called. ‘You’ll need to duck.’
He bent under the lintel and through the low doorway. She led him into a spacious sitting room with a deep bay window jutting over the narrow street. The furniture was old and shabby, the walls were painted off-white. The slanting floorboards gleamed warmly with wax and she’d added colour with batik throws similar to the ones he’d seen in Morgan’s flat.
‘Have a seat. That armchair’s the comfiest. Tea or coffee?’
‘No thanks. Have you heard from Bryn Price?’
She sat opposite him and frowned. ‘Bryn? No.’
‘He was hoping to talk to you after the concert on Sunday night, but you’d gone.’
‘I was tired and worried about Caris. I wanted to get back, call in to see her mam. Bryn has my number.’
‘The Merchants have agreed to sell to the community, which is good news. He thinks you might be interested in getting rid of the bookshop and buying into Tir Melys. I understand the shop isn’t doing that well and you’re struggling.’
She was offended. ‘Oh, I see. I’m not sure that’s anyone’s business but mine.’
‘I’ve found that Bryn makes everything his business. I expect he’ll be in touch. That was quite an evening on Sunday, wasn’t it?’
She shifted in the seat. ‘I thought you’d come about Caris?’
He’d been cruel, keeping the news from her, but he’d wanted to confuse her, and he suspected her of her own heartless acts. ‘That’s right. I’m afraid I have bad news about her.’
‘Oh.’
‘She’s dead. Her body’s been found.’
Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘Oh, God, no! Where?’
‘In the chapel at Tir Melys.’
‘Was she murdered?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Poor, poor Caris. And her mam. It’ll destroy her mam.’
‘Yes.’ Her shock appeared genuine. He waited while she cried, removed her glasses and wiped her eyes.
‘When was she found?’
‘Last night. Elinor found her.’
Something changed in her expression. She retreated into herself. It was as if she’d pulled on a mask. She said, ‘I can’t believe this. Afan and Caris both dead.’
He hoped she’d put her glasses back on. She looked vulnerable without them and he didn’t want to think of her in that way, or gaze into her lovely eyes. ‘Is this the room where Afan had his Welsh lessons?’
‘What? Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondered. I seem to have been retracing his steps everywhere I go. It’s strange but somehow right.’
She pressed a tissue to her eyes again. ‘Do the police have any idea why Caris was in the chapel?’
‘I’m not sure. Will you be able to tell them anything?’
She stared at him. ‘You believe I know something about Caris’s murder?’
‘Honestly? At the moment, I’m not sure.’
She cleared her throat. ‘All I can say is that I was expecting to meet Caris at her mam’s on Sunday to take her to the concert, but she didn’t come back.’
Swift wasn’t sure of his ground. This young woman had come up with a way to distract him and had sent him off course to Ogmore. Time to switch tracks on her. He gestured to the throws. ‘You and Caris had the same tastes. She had these pretty throws in Morgan Callender’s flat in Cardiff. Did you buy them together?’
Her lips parted in surprise. He watched as she struggled to digest the comment.
‘Cardiff? I don’t understand. Morgan’s in London.’
‘No. He’s never been in London. He went to Cardiff when he left town, and Caris spent weekends there with him.’
‘How could he be in Cardiff? He wanted to be far away from his brother. I don’t get it.’
Swift touched the weave of the throw. It was soft and fine. ‘No. But then, you and Caris had grown apart of late, hadn’t you? Not quite the close friends you once were. You told me that you hadn’t seen that much of her recently. She kept a major part of her life from you. You fell out, of course, about what you were up to with Elinor Brinkworth. That’s the problem with getting involved in tangles with people. It can backfire.’
Those eyes like pale grey moonstones stared at
him. To his relief, she put her glasses back on. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
He’d keep it light and conversational. ‘Well, Gwyn, I’ve been puzzled about two young women who visited Elinor and owned her expensive jewellery. I saw the price tags when I was in her studio. Caris can’t have been earning big money at a warehouse. I’ve heard that you’re in financial trouble with this shop and like Caris, you have responsibility for a sick parent. Yet you could both wear beautiful, exclusive pieces. I had a long chat with Elinor last night. Very cosy, in front of Afan’s stove. The story she told me wasn’t a cosy one, though. It was sad and desperate. What you experienced when you were at school was terrible and I’m sorry for you. No child should undergo that, carry the memory of it through life.’
The silence stretched. A tourist coach rumbled past outside. Swift saw a boy in a baseball cap with his nose pressed to the window.
Gwyn found her voice. ‘What did Elinor tell you?’
‘A lot.’ I wish I was more certain about how to decipher it. ‘I can understand that you hate Guy after what he did, or rather failed to do. Bryn Price mentioned that you didn’t achieve your potential at school. Now I understand why.’
She said in a frosty tone, ‘I don’t want to talk about that. It’s my private business, no one else’s.’
‘Gwyn, you’ve made it other people’s business through your actions. There’s no privacy after murder.’
She clasped her hands together. ‘I haven’t murdered anyone!’
‘Maybe not, but what you’ve done has contributed to someone deciding to commit murder. You have to talk about what happened to you at school. To the police, if not to me. For now, though, if it will help you make up your mind, I’ll play you what Elinor told me about your experience.’
He found the edited section on his phone and played it. She listened to the tear-laden voice, staring at the phone as if it was alive.
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 24
