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

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘No, that wasn’t the motive. Had Afan had any disagreements with anyone, here or locally?’

  ‘None that I heard about. He just kept bees, made mead and grew vegetables. A steady, trouble-free, day-to-day routine. It’s not the kind of life that leads you into disputes with people.’

  Not entirely true, given Afan’s email. Bruno was painting a rosy picture that didn’t quite add up. Swift observed him as he dusted the rolling pin with flour. Did he have a reason for painting that picture? Was it a smokescreen? Something had troubled Afan and he’d fallen foul of someone. And from what Swift had seen of this community, they were like a squabbling extended family with some prickly members. They were isolated, too, spending a lot of time in close proximity. That could provide fertile soil for resentment, and resentment could ripen into murder.

  Bruno rubbed flour from his fingers and turned to him. ‘Was it really Afan who sent you that email, saying that something urgent had come up?’

  Swift quartered tomatoes. ‘No, I think his killer sent it, to delay any concerns about him.’ So the killer knew I was visiting, which indicates that it was probably someone who lives here or has contact with Tir Melys. ‘How many volunteers come here?’

  ‘At the moment, just Caris Murray. She’s here at various times.’

  ‘What about Jasmine’s counselling and therapy — that must bring people here?’

  ‘That’s more her wish list than a reality. Nobody signed up for her recent course. Maybe there’s not much need around here, or maybe she’s not much good at it. I’m not sure her heart’s been in it the past couple of months, and empathy isn’t her forte. She has a thyroid problem, which saps her energy a fair bit, so I guess that’s a factor. She sleeps most afternoons, can’t make it through the day without a nap.’

  ‘You don’t like her much, do you?’

  Bruno grunted. ‘Not particularly. She’s patronising and her grand style can be jarring. Afan and I used to laugh about it. He’d refer to her as “the chatelaine”. She’s particularly grandiose when she gives her harp concerts, dressed up in Celtic-themed gear. She sells tickets for them locally, so people come here for those. She’s a good player, but anyone would think she was a virtuoso.’

  Swift reached for a bowl of cooked peas and added them to the tomatoes. He popped one in his mouth. It was fresh and sweet. ‘Did Afan know many people in Holybridge?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He went there fairly regularly, to the bookshop and the café, for Wi-Fi.’

  ‘He did a beekeeping course, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right, this April. He was going to Welsh lessons too, once a week on Fridays. He’d forgotten most of what he’d learned at school. You can chop some spring onions for that, then the couscous can go in. It’s ready in the fridge.’ Bruno cut two circles of pastry and laid them in greased pie dishes, raising and patting the sides. ‘Afan was so clued-up about the bees. I’ll be scratching my head without him.’ His voice caught and he passed a forearm across his face. ‘The police were searching the kitchen cupboards. What was that about?’

  ‘They make all kinds of searches. Part of their process.’

  Bruno stiffened. ‘I suppose that means they’ll do background checks on everyone here as well.’

  Talking about the police again had rattled him. ‘That’s right. Does that bother you?’

  Bruno didn’t answer, cracked an egg into a mug and whisked it with a fork. Swift read his silence as a yes.

  Homity pies turned out to originate from Devon, not America. Bruno put a mixture of cooked potatoes, onion, spinach, cream and grated cheese in each dish and then grated nutmeg on top. He covered the pies with pastry lids, crimped them down and brushed a glistening egg wash over each.

  ‘I reckon we might be eating late so I won’t put these in yet. That salad could use a bit of mint, if you like, and then you could make one with leaves. If you don’t mind, I’ll just work now and not talk. I’m okay with company up to a point, then I get irritable.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ Swift found him a likeable man, despite his changeable moods.

  ‘Yeah, I’m so subtle. I have depression. That’s not an excuse. Just the way I am. I have good, intermediate and bad days. Today’s so-so.’

  Bruno switched on the radio to a Welsh station, Dragon Radio, and they worked on in silence, listening to Fleetwood Mac, Bob Marley and Katherine Jenkins. Swift found the monotony of chopping and mixing therapeutic. His mind cleared and quietened in the way it did when he was rowing.

  It was just after eight o’clock when the police left. Bruno lit the candles and they all sat down to eat. There was an air of relief and exhaustion around the table.

  Jasmine closed her eyes and made the Namaste greeting. ‘We gather as a sorrowful community this evening. This is a dreadful time for us all, and we have to remain strong and help each other through it. We miss Afan, our dear friend and fellow steward. We will continue to honour the land in his memory.’

  Swift scanned the table. They all had their eyes closed, including Bruno, but Bryn Price spoke to Jasmine as soon as she’d finished.

  There was a challenge in his voice. ‘We are continuing with our stewardship of Tir Melys then, Jasmine?’

  Jasmine stiffened. ‘Of course we are. I don’t understand what you mean, Bryn.’

  They were all gaping at him. He poured himself a large glass of wine, holding their attention. ‘Just checking. I heard a rumour that you might be planning to move on from here.’

  There was a shocked murmur as his blustering voice carried around the table. Kat gasped and placed a palm to her heart.

  Jasmine took a sip of water. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Oh, just around and about.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Peter Merchant said. He put a hand over his wife’s. ‘We’ve all had enough of a shock today, Bryn, without you worrying people unnecessarily.’

  ‘It’s not true, then?’ Bryn asked. He sounded as if he was enjoying himself.

  Jasmine had rallied. ‘It certainly isn’t, and I’ve no idea where such a lie has come from. This community is dear to our hearts. Really, Bryn, you must trust us more than that.’

  ‘I’d say I’ve worked out how much I can trust you.’

  Guy tilted his glass at Jasmine, a little smile on his lips. His hair was loose and flowing down his back, enhancing his androgynous air. He was wearing a chunky silver and gold ring with a zigzag topaz stone and a matching plaited necklace. ‘As you always say, Jasmine, respect is our watchword at Tir Melys.’

  Jasmine tugged her hat down. ‘Exactly. Now let’s eat, although I have to confess, I haven’t much appetite.’

  ‘Homity pie was one of Afan’s favourites,’ Kat whispered.

  They were all silent while they helped themselves to the food. Swift tried some of the gooseberry wine. It was almond-coloured, light and refreshing.

  ‘The police were asking me about my pottery, where I sold it.’ Suki said. ‘They counted my crockery and asked how many of each item I usually had. Weird.’ She was wearing a sari this evening, white polka dots on black cotton, with a white T-shirt under the folds.

  ‘Were they all accounted for?’ Swift asked.

  ‘Yes. What was that about? Why did you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ he said easily.

  ‘I told them I broke a couple of pieces in the kitchen a few months back,’ Kat said.

  ‘Most of us have some of your pottery,’ Elinor told Suki. ‘Terry, our social worker, admired it when he came last week. I told him it’s for sale in Davis’s in Holybridge. He really liked it, didn’t he, Guy? He said he was going to buy a set.’ She smiled brightly at her husband. Frankie was in place on her lap, subdued.

  Guy finished chewing and said in a bored voice, ‘I couldn’t say, I didn’t take much notice. I try to ignore Terry’s irritating voice as much as possible, especially when he mispronounces words. If he says “perogative” instead of “prerogative” and “mischeev
eeus” instead of “mischievous” again, I’ll start howling. And don’t get me started on his atrocious grammar, getting “their/they’re” and “your/you’re” mixed up in his reports.’ He spelled the words aloud. ‘Apostrophes are too high a mountain for Terry to climb. It’s hard to believe that a dullard like him is responsible for deciding if highly educated people should adopt a child. I wouldn’t let him make a decision about Frankie’s welfare.’

  ‘His heart’s in the right place and he’s very kind and understanding,’ Elinor said.

  Guy snorted. ‘What an accolade about a supposed professional. But then, your standards are lower than mine, Elinor, and you think that emotions rank higher than intellectual rigour.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . . so stupid of me . . .’ Flustered, Elinor dropped her fork on the floor. Frankie barked and she shushed him.

  ‘Best to engage brain before you speak,’ her husband advised. ‘Returning to the subject of Suki’s pottery, I don’t suppose her sales are at the top of her agenda on a sad day like this.’

  ‘At least Elinor’s got a brain, Guy, instead of a head full of spite,’ Bryn said.

  Swift would never have put Guy and Elinor together as a couple, but perhaps it was a case of polar opposites attracting. He was skinny, with girlish, prissy features, and a long nose that he used for looking down. She’d piled her plate with food, whereas he had small portions. Swift couldn’t help remembering the rhyme, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.

  Elinor rubbed her fork on her paper napkin. ‘It was horrible, being questioned by that detective, having to give an account of where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. Why is it that the police make you believe you’re a suspect even when you’re completely blameless?’

  Bryn folded his arms. ‘Is anyone completely blameless? I doubt it. Most of us have things we’d rather keep quiet about. I bet even you have, Ty.’

  Swift said, ‘Of course. Most of us have committed some kind of petty misdemeanour: sticking a postage stamp upside down, beeping a car horn without good reason, parking on the pavement. Luckily, not many of us commit murder.’

  Jasmine cleared her throat. ‘We all need to gather here at the Bivium at ten tomorrow morning. The police are coming back to fingerprint us. DI Weber seemed to find it odd that we didn’t have next of kin details for Afan.’

  ‘He was born in Cardiff,’ Kat said hoarsely. ‘I remember him saying that and I told the sergeant. I asked Afan once if he wanted a Mother’s Day card because I had a couple of spares, but he said he was without a mother to send one to. That was ever so sad. I really felt for him.’ She was picking at her food and pushing it around the plate.

  Bruno threw her a withering glance. ‘Is it sad, necessarily? Afan was in his forties. Lots of people have lost a parent by the time they reach that age, and from what I knew of him, he wouldn’t have been maudlin about it.’

  ‘You didn’t know him like I did, none of you did,’ Kat said meaningfully.

  Guy sniggered. ‘In your dreams.’

  Kat pointed her knife at him. ‘You couldn’t stand him. You weren’t fit to clean his shoes.’

  Bryn tapped his glass. ‘Now now, children, play nicely at a time of mourning. What will our guest make of us?’

  Jasmine spoke quietly. ‘Yes, this isn’t a time for bickering. Please show respect for Afan and our visitor. We should all bear in mind that Ty has had the biggest shock today and he’s dealt with it very well indeed.’

  Swift concentrated on his pie. Even when she was trying to be kindly, Jasmine couldn’t help but sound condescending.

  Bryn sat back with his forearms stretched on the table. ‘I wonder where Afan’s phone is.’

  ‘In the sea, I expect. It would be the obvious place to chuck it. And the weapon, whatever it was. I doubt the police will ever find either.’ Guy turned to Swift. ‘You haven’t told us much about how you found Afan. Was he right on the path? Could you see the stab wound?’

  ‘The police have asked me not to discuss it.’

  ‘It’s just as well I didn’t find him,’ Elinor said. ‘I’d have been a nervous wreck, wouldn’t I, Fwankie? I’d probably have collapsed on the path and then I’m such a blabbermouth, I’d have told everyone the details. I can’t keep anything to myself.’

  ‘Yes, you do prattle on,’ her husband said. ‘Emotionally incontinent Elinor.’

  ‘How quickly things change,’ Bruno said softly. ‘If Afan was here, you wouldn’t be speaking like that to Elinor. Better be careful, Guy. The police might think you had a strong motive for not wanting him around.’

  A silence fell. Elinor folded in on herself, stroked Frankie’s ears and kissed his forehead. He looked up at her adoringly and then settled his head on his paws. Swift wondered if he was keeping a low profile this evening because Jasmine was present.

  Peter filled his glass with water and said, ‘I was wondering if maybe someone, a tourist or a walker, no one local at any rate, met Afan on the path and they had an argument for some reason. It might have been someone on drugs, or perhaps a schizophrenic person who should be in hospital and whose medication wasn’t controlled. You do hear of such random things happening.’

  ‘And this random person just happened to be carrying a weapon?’ Bryn laughed.

  ‘Interesting that you should choose someone with a mental illness as the murderer, Peter.’ Bruno stared at him. ‘Not that you’re into stereotyping. Mad, bad and dangerous.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it in that way,’ Peter said hastily.

  ‘Really? Putting it more politely than Guy, which is no great effort, maybe you should think more carefully before you theorise.’

  Kat banged a hand on the table. ‘Can’t you all just shut up! Stop going on about things that don’t matter and being nasty to each other. Afan’s dead, he’s never coming back and all you can do is squabble!’ She shoved her chair away from the table and stomped out of the room.

  Guy broke the silence. ‘Kat won’t be wanting pudding, then.’

  Suki glared at him. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself and the rest of us. What must Ty make of us?’

  ‘I should imagine he’s used to witnessing the tension created by a murder,’ Guy told her. ‘It’s not a time for worrying about social graces.’

  Suki fired back, ‘Not that you’re blessed with those.’

  ‘Hush, everyone, please! You are too much sometimes, Guy,’ Jasmine said to him. ‘We need to be kind to each other at a time like this. I suggest we finish eating and all get an early night. It’s been an arduous day. I’ll call on Kat and make sure she’s okay. Remember, DI Weber said that we should all start locking our doors, especially at night, until this investigation is over. It goes against the grain, but best to do as she asked.’

  ‘I wonder why she spells her name Weber and not Webber?’ Elinor said. ‘What do you think, Fwankie?’

  ‘She’s from a German family, hails from Haverfordwest,’ Bryn told her. ‘Her Dad came here from Hanover in the Eighties, something called an Erasmus scholarship, and he decided to stay. You’ll like her, Guy, what with her coming from an educated family and being a graduate herself. She’s trilingual and speaks proper and all, not like some of us dunces. She’ll make sure your statement is typed up with no spelling or grammar errors. I heard her swear in German. Impressive, eh?’

  Guy folded his arms and sighed.

  ‘I hope she’s more professional than her dress suggests,’ Jasmine said. ‘I’d say she gets her clothes from a charity bin and those Doc Martens are the kind of boots teenagers wear. At least the sergeant had a suit on.’

  Apart from Elinor, they’d eaten little of the main course. Bruno carried it away to the fridge and brought back the plum crumble. Most people took just a spoonful and they ate in silence. Frankie fell asleep and snored softly. Swift enjoyed the sharpness of the fruit and realised that the shock of finding Afan was starting to wear off. The residents were all preoccupied and weary. This
community had suddenly found itself in peculiar circumstances, and that stress could bring out the worst in people. Yet the more he saw of them and listened to their backbiting, the less he understood why Afan had wanted to make his home among them.

  He glanced at the Merchants. Jasmine was staring into space, chewing at her bottom lip and Peter seemed to have aged ten years in a day. He wondered what they were up to and why they were concealing it from their tenants.

  * * *

  At Afan’s cottage, the stove was still glowing. Swift fetched logs from the stack by the shed and fed them in. Flames were soon dancing. The police had searched neatly, and the books were in two straight piles on the table.

  Swift went through the cottage carefully, searching in the dresser and the wardrobe and the bookshelves in the bedroom, unsure what he was hoping to find. Anything that might indicate what Afan had been concerned about, although the police would probably have got to it first. It didn’t take him long, with such sparse possessions.

  The wardrobe contained a couple of pairs of jeans and jumpers, half a dozen T-shirts, two waterproof, fleece-lined trousers, a long coat similar to DI Weber’s and half a dozen cotton shirts from Marks and Spencer. No Louis Vuitton. On the floor, ranged against the back, he saw a couple of Kat’s clunky bird woodcarvings. They were as far as it was possible to imagine from the beautifully crafted antiques that Afan had owned in Lyon. Poor Afan, unwilling to exhibit them but too kind or embarrassed to get rid of them. In front of them were one pair of elegant brown leather shoes and a pair of hiking boots. Swift picked up a shoe and saw the label, Chaussures comme des Gants. Shoes like gloves. He recalled when Afan had had them handmade in Lyon, from calf leather. One evening, when they’d met for a walk by the river, he’d just come from a measuring session in the shop along the quays. Afan’s feet had been narrow and he’d had difficulty finding shoes that fitted. As they’d crossed the Pont Bonaparte, he’d said that he liked to spend his money on comfort. Swift was glad now that he had, but wondered at the life change that had led him to give up his luxury for the austerity of Tir Melys. Perhaps, in the words of the song Bryn had sung, he’d been seeking a happy heart.