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

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  He said, ‘This is a lovely house.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jasmine said more graciously. ‘We’re privileged to call it home.’

  Swift saw her husband’s mouth twist as if he was in pain. He asked, ‘Did you make the willow furniture?’

  ‘All my own work,’ Peter replied.

  ‘It’s handsome.’

  ‘Thanks. I take great pleasure in it.’

  It was a magnificent house, sturdy and imposing, with sloping, timbered ceilings and deep windows. There was an open fire burning in the kitchen hearth, with pots and pans hanging from a rack overhead. The deep, wide fireplace reminded Swift of those he’d seen in the kitchens at Hampton Court. He pictured a pig roasting on a spit while a sweating kitchen boy turned it. The Merchants might cosily refer to themselves and all the smallholders as ‘stewards’, but they had ultimate control over this community, and the house stamped them as the landowners.

  Swift addressed Peter. ‘What made you decide to move here from London?’

  The man’s face brightened a little. ‘I’d done my time in banking. We wanted a simpler life. I’ve spent many happy years with my wine and willow. Yes, good years, well spent. I read my poetry. Every morning I wake up and I’m grateful to be here in this little corner of heaven.’

  There was a strange silence. Peter slumped a little in his chair while Jasmine chewed.

  ‘I understand that a young man, Morgan Callender, went missing a couple of months ago,’ Swift said.

  Jasmine snapped, ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Bruno.’

  ‘I see. You never need to tune into the news here, there’s always someone broadcasting. Yes, Morgan vanished from his home in Holybridge. He didn’t live here. He was an occasional volunteer and not a particularly reliable one.’

  ‘You must have been worried, all the same.’

  ‘We were concerned, of course,’ Peter replied, ‘and sorry for his family, but we heard that he left a message saying that he’d decided to leave home.’

  Jasmine pulled a face. ‘He was a dissatisfied young man and when he did bother to turn up, he never finished a job properly. The police reckoned he’d taken off to London, or some other city. They see a lot of that. There’s not much around here for youngsters. We have one other volunteer — one who hasn’t taken off to the bright lights — who comes a couple of days each week. Her name’s Caris Murray and unlike Morgan she’s reliable, although she was friendly with him. I’ll ask her to cast an eye over Afan’s garden while she’s here. Just to tidy it and pick any ripe produce for the kitchen. So if you see her, you’ll not be concerned.’

  ‘By the way, there’s a natural spring at the back of the house,’ Peter told him. ‘We’ve seen maps that show it’s been in use for more than two centuries. The water has a high calcium content, so it’s good for teeth and bones. You can bring a bucket if you want any water from there for cold drinks. We generally use harvested rainwater for cooking, etcetera — it’s fine as long as you boil it. Every home has rain barrels and of course we have a central reservoir.’

  ‘Presumably, you’ll be eating in the refec while you’re here,’ Jasmine said. ‘You need to put your name down for supper by ten in the morning. The book’s by the fridge in there. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve a lot to be getting on with.’

  He went back to the refec and put his name in the book for supper. Bryn, Kat and Suki had already written in it. He didn’t particularly want to eat with them all, but he didn’t have much choice for now and he’d better show willing. He saw that Bruno would be cooking. A note in tight, backward sloping writing said, Tonight’s menu is homity pies with salads and plum crumble. He’d never heard of homity pie. It sounded American.

  He walked back to Afan’s, going over the snippet of quarrel he’d overheard, wondering who Giles was and what it was about. It sounded as if the Merchants were in financial trouble. Did Afan know about it and was it the sourness he’d referred to?

  He was on edge and decided to take a walk along the coastal path and find a phone signal. He hoped to have some further message from his friend. He’d noticed a local guide lying on top of the other books on the kitchen table, and he guessed that Afan had left it there for him. He sat in the surprisingly comfortable wooden armchair. It was on rockers and the back was shaped like a hand, with the fingertips forming a headrest. He turned to the maps in the guide and scanned the section of path that ran from Tir Melys to Holybridge. He read that it was a challenging trail, with regular ascent and descent, requiring good fitness: ‘The landscape is wild and remote, with eight stiles to cross and steep gradients. The terrain is tough. About two miles along this section, you will note a Neolithic burial chamber, Carreg Trefin.’

  He put on his walking boots, tucked a bottle of water and a flapjack into the deep pockets of his waxed jacket, took a pair of binoculars from the back of the door and set off. He passed Bryn Price and Bruno. They were deep in conversation, mending a fence on Bryn’s smallholding. Bryn waved, calling that the rain would hopefully hold off for a couple of hours.

  In this southerly direction, the Tir Melys land ended in a narrow meadow dotted with purple bell heather, witch hazel, corn marigolds and comfrey. Scores of bees clustered around the blossoms and sheep were grazing by the far hedge. A stile at the end led onto the coastal path. Once Swift was on it, the ground started to wind and rise steeply, and a sharp breeze buffeted him. Goats wandered on the vertiginous cliffs above him, among tiny red sorrel flowers that turned the grass scarlet. At the top of a steep climb, he stood and trained the binoculars on the glittering sea below, sure that he could see bottlenose dolphins. Choughs, guillemots and kestrels wheeled overhead. The light was intense, vibrant. He could see why Afan had chosen to settle here after he left the anxiety and stresses of his job. It would have offered the prospect of a peaceful haven, of daily self-sufficiency and these natural wonders to roam. But he still thought that a few home comforts wouldn’t go amiss in Afan’s rural sanctuary.

  He panned the horizon with the binoculars, his mind drifting to the man he hadn’t seen for years. He remembered Afan’s kindness on his return to Lyon from the harrowing trip to London, when he’d been ambushed and bruised by Ruth’s news that she was leaving him. Afan had said little, but had bought him a drink and listened, his dark eyes pensive and gentle. His friend had been kind too when he’d been stabbed in the thigh during a raid on sex traffickers. Afan had returned from Brussels to Lyon for a conference, and he’d visited Swift in hospital, bringing good coffee, books and newspapers. To his discomfort, Swift couldn’t recall repaying any of these kindnesses. He shouldn’t have allowed the friendship to drift.

  A ping on his phone told him he had a signal. He turned his back to the sun and saw that Ruth had sent him a photo of Branna frolicking on a beach, her arms thrown wide, captioned Hi Daddy! As always, when her photo was being taken, she was gurning for the camera. He laughed, felt a pang of separation and then filmed the cliffs and sea and sent the video for Branna with the caption, Can you spot the dolphins? There was no email or text from Afan. Swift rang his number, but it went to voicemail. He left a message, saying that he hoped everything was okay, and then sent a text.

  Contact me when you can. In the meantime, I’m keeping your bed warm.

  He walked on, stepping over three stiles, now climbing, now descending. Sweat dampened his neck and his lungs were expanding. He was panting as the path twisted left and then levelled out. About fifteen metres ahead, on a grassy slope, he saw the Neolithic burial chamber, a rough oval slab set aslant four supporting stones. The prehistoric dead would have had a fine, far-reaching view of sea, sky and cliffs. Branna would like a photo of this as well. She had a taste for the ghoulish — she’d been interested in death and why people had to die since learning about Anne Boleyn’s beheading. Recently, she’d questioned him closely as to why some people were buried and some ‘burned up’. He approached the chamber and was raising his phone, ready to take a photo, when he stop
ped in his tracks.

  Someone lay within the shelter of the chamber. He couldn’t see the head, which was hidden by a supporting stone. It looked like a man on his back. His first reaction was that this was someone who’d decided to take a rest after a strenuous walk, judging the chamber a useful shelter, out of the wind and inevitable rain. He called out twice, and then feared that this figure wasn’t going to respond. His chest tightened. He climbed the slope and knelt down.

  The man wore jeans and a black cagoule. His arms were folded across his chest. Swift’s heart was heavy with foreboding. He took a breath and leaned into the shadow of the cairn. It was Afan. Afan with a leaner, weather-beaten face and a goatee beard. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. He could have been sleeping. There was no obvious injury. When Swift touched his arm, his body was stiff with rigor. A turquoise mug sat at the right side of his head and on the left side was a matching bowl. A paperback book with a deep yellow cover lay propped on his crossed hands. The title was Hives and Honey. Had Afan decided on suicide and arranged himself here, waiting for death? He searched carefully around the body, but could see no note, no bottle or empty tablet packet. Swift gazed for a few moments at Afan’s older but familiar face and was shaken by grief.

  A chill dizziness came over him. He sat on the hard ground of the slope, among fragrant broom with his head lowered between his legs. He took deep breaths until the world stopped spinning, then raised his head slowly and gazed up at black and white razorbills swooping to ledges on the climbing cliffs above. The only sounds were birdcalls, the rustling breeze and the restless sea. Afan was at rest here in this isolated burial place. Now he’d have to be dissected and examined on a pathologist’s slab. I should have come to see him sooner.

  He took his phone out, but the signal had vanished again. He retraced his steps fast along the path until a bar appeared, and phoned emergency services. Then he rang the landline at Tir Melys but no one answered, so he left a message, saying that he had found Afan’s body and the police were on their way. He wondered if there was someone there who wouldn’t be surprised by this news.

  He walked back to Carreg Trefin and sat by his friend. Towering, black-grey clouds were moving in fast from the Irish Sea. The breeze strengthened and whipped the water into tall white crests. It started to rain, a slanting, soaking drizzle but, lost in thought, he barely noticed.

  * * *

  It was almost an hour before the police arrived. Swift gave his details to a DS Spencer and a brief description of how he’d found Afan’s body. It took a lot of fumbling and repeated questions for the sergeant to record the information with his thick fingers. It was pouring now. (He heard Afan say, sheets of rain.) A dripping, grumpy-sounding DI Weber, who was the lead investigator, told him that he could head back to Tir Melys but he wasn’t to give any details about Afan’s body or its exact location.

  Before he left, he turned back to the group of colleagues huddled around the cairn, the photographer bending close to the body. He was reluctant to go, but he’d only be in the way and he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with DI Weber. She was a shrewd, rugged woman with her right arm in a cumbersome plaster and sling and she leaned on a curved walking stick. An elastic band, stretched across her chest between the buttons, secured her stockman’s full-length coat. Even with the injured arm and the stick, she was formidable.

  Swift’s hooded waxed jacket had kept his head and torso dry, but his legs were drenched, his jeans clinging and heavy. He was fit from regular rowing but by the time he reached the meadow, he was tired to the bone. When he opened Afan’s door, he was shivering, numb and drained. He stripped off his clothes, towelled himself dry, changed and hung the wet jeans and jacket over the stove. The cottage was chilly, so he lit a fire in the stove, using the last of the logs in a wicker basket beside it. He stood at the table, running a comb through his tangled curls, and observed the books. He couldn’t recall exactly how many there had been when he’d first arrived, but he was sure that he’d seen one with a deep yellow cover and it was missing. He needed a mug of tea but didn’t fancy oat milk, and he wanted to make the community aware of the awful news, so he found his leather jacket and set off for the refec.

  Kat was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with arms crossed, hugging her body. She was ashen. She stammered, ‘I just picked up your message. What’s happened?’

  ‘I found Afan’s body. Let’s go inside.’

  He followed her into the kitchen. A man with mottled, dry skin, a hipster beard and long blond hair tied in a topknot was sitting at the table, checking wooden bowls of golden and purple plums.

  Kat blurted out, ‘Guy, Afan’s dead! Ty found him!’ She started to cry, deep loud sobs.

  Guy Brinkworth stared, his fingers hovering over a bowl. He had an androgynous appearance and such sparse, pale eyelashes that his eyes seemed naked. ‘When was this?’

  ‘In the last hour or so,’ Swift told him.

  Kat was leaning against the table, howling now. ‘Afan, oh, Afan,’ she repeated.

  Swift pulled a chair out for her. She smelled hot and sweaty. ‘Sit down, Kat.’

  Guy grimaced with a weary expression at Kat slumping onto the chair. ‘What happened to Afan, was it an accident?’

  ‘The police might be able to tell you more. They’ll be arriving soon. I’m Ty Swift. I came to visit Afan but he wasn’t here. Could you go around the site and ask everyone to come here? I should stay with Kat.’ He was probably already stepping on DI Weber’s toes, but at least he could tell everyone about Afan’s death at the same time.

  Guy looked disgruntled but stood, saying dispassionately, ‘For goodness’ sake, Kat, stop screeching and get a grip. You sound demented. We all know you like to emote but creating a scene doesn’t help Afan or any of us.’

  Her head jerked up and she glared at him, her face the colour of one of the dark plums. ‘You heartless bastard! How on earth does Elinor put up with you? You’re a cold, cold fish.’

  Guy shot back, ‘Better than being a shark, always lurking in the shallows to trap people. I wouldn’t be surprised if Afan killed himself to get away from you.’ He grabbed his coat and left the room.

  Kat put her face in her hands and continued crying, more quietly now. Swift was used to strange reactions to bad news, but he was shocked by the acid exchange. He crossed to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He found teabags and a plastic box full of home-made spicy biscuits. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he opened the cupboards and checked out the crockery. He made the tea in a red earthenware pot and took it to the table, where he poured two mugs.

  ‘Here, drink this. There’s sugar if you want.’

  Kat was chewing on the end of a plait. She reached out a hand for the mug of tea and said pleadingly to him, ‘What happened to Afan? Please tell me.’ She had a hair stuck to her bottom lip.

  ‘All I can say for now is that I found his body. I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait.’

  ‘But . . . how did he die?’

  ‘Kat, I don’t know.’

  ‘What Guy said — he didn’t kill himself, did he? Afan wouldn’t do that.’

  He repeated, ‘I can’t tell you.’ If you were minded to end your life, then Carreg Trefin might seem an ideal location.

  ‘Oh my God, what will I do without him? How will I fill the terrible gap this leaves?’

  This struck him as stagey, but it could be the shock making her sound like a ham actor. She looked terrible, her eyes raw and popping. Whatever Bruno and Guy said, Kat had been under the impression that Afan was an important person in her life. Swift drank his tea and ate a couple of biscuits. It was just the warming tonic he needed — and the sugar was warding off the shock, giving him energy.

  Kat blew her nose and dabbed her eyes with the tissue. ‘Afan was going to let me help him make a new mead. Just a small, trial batch. I’d found him an old Tudor recipe using elderberries and meadowsweet. I was really excited about the two of us working toge
ther.’ Her eyes welled up again.

  He said nothing. He recalled the postcard he’d found and that note of entreaty, we could go foraging early one morning. He suspected that Afan hadn’t wanted to take Kat up on her offer. The hair-sucking alone would be unappealing. She’d constructed a fantasy about herself and Afan that bore little relation to reality. He sat in silence, feeling hollow and lost, while Kat sniffled and sighed.

  The others started to troop in, bringing the dampness of rain with them. Suki first, followed by Bryn and the Brinkworths, with Elinor clutching Frankie in one arm and holding on to her husband’s waist with the other. Bruno, Jasmine and Peter arrived together. They were all sombre and they glanced silently at Kat, who by now had a pile of damp tissues in front of her. Jasmine sat in her chair at the head of the table.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ She glared at Swift as if he was the cause of the problem.

  ‘I went for a walk along the cliff path, towards Holybridge. I found Afan’s body. I called the police. They’ll be here soon.’

  ‘But what happened to him?’ Jasmine said crossly.

  ‘The police will tell you.’

  ‘But . . . did he have an accident or something?’ Suki was stroking her left hand with her right. She had little pale marks on her earlobes, where she’d worn studs.

  ‘I honestly have no idea how he died. Even if I knew, or could guess, I couldn’t tell you. The police would be very annoyed with me, and with justification.’

  ‘He hadn’t been ill recently,’ Suki said, ‘and he’s always been in pretty good health, except for winter coughs. Maybe he had a heart attack, or a stroke.’

  ‘I suppose you’re familiar with police methods from your time with Interpol,’ Peter said to Swift.