‘You might be able to help. My name’s Ty Swift. I’m a friend of Afan Griffith. Have you heard the sad news about him?’
She froze, a book in her hand. ‘Oh yes, just this morning! I’m so sorry. I was really shocked. He was such a lovely man.’
‘I’d arranged to stay with Afan at Tir Melys, but he was missing when I arrived.’
‘Oh, gosh! When did you get there?’
‘Monday afternoon.’
She put down the book she was holding. ‘How awful for you. What will you do now?’
‘I’m staying around for a bit. I want to see his murderer caught.’
‘Of course. Let me just get this out of the way.’ She bent and moved a box to one side. A lock of black hair fell onto her forehead and she swept it back under her bandana as she straightened up.
Swift found her fluid movements attractive and wondered if she’d had the same effect on Afan. ‘Were you close to Afan?’
She came towards him. ‘As friends, you understand. One of the lovely things about running this shop is that some customers become friends too. He bought quite a few books here and sometimes we’d chat about local history, and particularly medieval Pembrokeshire. He was very erudite, really knew his subject. Did he have any family around here? They must be in bits.’
That answered one of the questions he had for her. ‘Not that he ever mentioned.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s sad. I suppose the people at Tir Melys were his family in a way.’
‘I expect so. Have you had much to do with the community?’
‘I’ve been there a couple of times.’
‘Afan seems to have been very involved there.’
‘He waxed lyrical about the bees and mead making. He brought some of his apple mead to our Welsh class for a tasting session once. It went down a treat. Just as well we saved it until the end, or we’d have learned nothing!’
‘Were you in his class?’
She pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘I’m the teacher. We meet in my flat upstairs. Afan came to my class on Fridays, although he didn’t attend regularly anymore.’
‘Why was that?’ Bruno had said that Afan came to lessons every week.
The woman went to the door, checked that there were no other customers on the way in, and came over to the service desk. She moved confidently, dusting her hands on her jeans. Her light verbena scent was pleasant. ‘Would you like a coffee? It’s free.’
He didn’t want the conversation to stall. ‘Maybe in a minute, thanks.’
She perched on the desk edge, swinging a leg. Her pretty, sapphire earrings danced as she talked. She had extraordinary eyes, deep-set and a pale blue grey. He found them mesmeric. ‘Just help yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s freshly made. My name’s Gwyn, by the way, Gwyn Bowen. Afan was vague about the lessons. He just said that he was a bit busy at Tir Melys and it was difficult to fit everything in.’
‘When did he start missing lessons?’
‘Around early May. There was something not quite right.’
‘Why was that?’
She ran a finger along the desk edge. ‘I dunno. He sort of looked sideways when he was speaking to me. Seemed on edge, not being quite straight. I was a bit annoyed, frankly, because it disrupts the class dynamic if people don’t come regularly. I wasn’t thrilled when he only turned up now and again. I said as much to my friend Caris, but she told me I was being a control freak.’
‘Would that be Caris Murray, who volunteers at Tir Melys?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I haven’t met her, but I expect I will. I’m staying at Tir Melys at the moment.’
‘This must be such a blow for you. And poor Caris — I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet. She’ll be so shocked. She liked Afan a lot and often spent time with him at Tir Melys. She’s had a tough year. Morgan, her friend — or maybe boyfriend, it was always hard to work those two out — went missing not long back. The word is he’s in London, but it was all very sudden.’
‘Is that Morgan Callender who used to work at Tir Melys as well?’
‘Yes. Caris has gone very quiet since it happened. Maybe she cared more about Morgan than she let on. I don’t see as much of her these days, her mam’s got a bad heart so she has to keep an eye on her. It beats me how she copes, to be honest. I understand, because my dad’s poorly with dementia, but he’s in a care home so at least I don’t have day-to-day responsibilities.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘Sometimes we’ve joked that we could move my dad in with her mum and they could sort of prop each other up. Then Caris could share my flat with me. Wishful thinking.’
Swift thought about the wider context to Tir Melys. Afan must have come across other people when he visited the town. ‘Is there anyone else around here who knew Afan, or did he ever mention anyone from his younger days in Wales?’
She took off her glasses and cleaned them with the hem of her shirt. Her eyes shone large and clear, her lips curved generously. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘He knew people through our classes, but I wasn’t aware that he saw them outside of lessons. Tir Melys was very much his focus.’ She paused and rubbed her neck. ‘Now you mention it, there was a guy who’d met him back in the day in Cardiff. He stopped by here last year asking for a book. There were a couple of bottles of Afan’s mead on the desk and this guy saw Afan’s name and said he wondered if it could be the same person. I had photos of one of our classes on my phone and I showed him one with Afan in. He said they’d done sports together in Cardiff, way back. I told him about Tir Melys and he seemed surprised that Afan had decided to come back to Wales. I mentioned it to Afan, but he didn’t seem interested.’
‘Do you remember this man’s name? Was he from around here?’
‘Oh, now you’re asking. He was on a minibreak with his family, I remember that, because he had a young girl with him, and she was bored. She knocked over some books, fidgeting around. He wasn’t living near here. He was from the Glamorgan area.’
Swift wanted to ask more, but a man in walking gear came in and headed straight for the desk, enquiring about ordnance survey maps for the Brecon Beacons. Swift moved away, helped himself to a coffee, and then browsed the shelves. The shop was well set out, with clear sections and little cards below some books, with reviews and recommendations for other similar titles. He picked out a Gillian Flynn that he’d not read and from the history section, a slim volume called Holybridge Old and New, printed by a local press.
He waited to pay and asked Gwyn where there was a café with Wi-Fi.
‘Blasus is good. It’s where Afan used to go. Just on Castell Street, turn right out of here and round the corner. Oh, listen, I’ve remembered that the guy I told you about ordered a book, so he’d have given me his details. When I’ve got a spare minute, I’ll go through my orders from last year and check with him if I can pass on his name.’ She squared off a pile of leaflets on the desk. ‘Who’ll tell us about Afan’s funeral — I mean, if there’s no family involved?’
‘I’m not sure. If he left a will, it’s up to the police to find out if he had a solicitor and what his wishes were, if any. I’ll pass on any information that comes my way.’
‘Thanks. Give my best to the people at Tir Melys. This must be a terrible time for them.’
It was one of those unpredictable days of warm sun and quick, hard showers when you’re hot one minute, chilly and soaked the next. Swift took his jacket off as he walked to Blasus, which was busy with the buzz of conversation. It might have been preserved in aspic since 1968. The walls were covered in multicoloured, psychedelic swirls and posters of Che Guevara, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Diana Ross and Bob Dylan. Behind the counter was a huge pink and yellow tapestry covered in flowers and proclaiming Peace & Love. The chairs and tables were orange plastic, and his eye was drawn to a splendid, gleaming red jukebox with Stereo engraved on the glass door. Joan Baez was singing ‘Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands’. He expected to find that superannuated hippies ran the café, but there wa
s a man in his twenties serving at the counter. He had a horseshoe moustache, long hair and wore a striped headband. His flowered shirt was tucked into blue jeans and his name badge, in the shape of a peace symbol, said Sam.
Swift ordered coffee and a club sandwich and paid for half an hour of internet use. ‘This is a fascinating place. There aren’t many internet cafés left these days. Do you get a lot of custom?’
‘Plenty. It’s a little goldmine. Tourists come in, of course, but lots of locals use us. Once you leave town, Wi-Fi is either slow or non-existent in lots of places. There’s always talk that it’ll be massively improved, but it never comes to anything — which is good for Blasus. Phones don’t always cut it if you want to do some online business, research or play games. Loads of students come here. And then there’s the social angle. We run “Learn to surf the web” classes for older people on Wednesday afternoons, and we have live music at weekends.’ Sam grinned enthusiastically. ‘I love working here. You get all sorts, all generations. How did you find your way to us?’
‘Gwyn at the bookshop directed me here.’
‘I’ll give her a free herbal tea next time she’s in. She envies our busy trade sometimes. I’m sorry for her. Most of her days seem slow, no matter what she does to attract customers. She’s worked so hard, trying to make the shop a success, put her heart and soul into it but . . . People buy books online, don’t they, even second-hand ones?’ He pointed to the computers. ‘Our speedy Wi-Fi probably does her out of a lot of trade but that’s the cut and thrust of business for you.’
There was nothing laid-back and woolly about Sam. Swift reckoned that the ’tache and long hair were part of his brand. ‘Did you know Afan Griffith?’
‘Of course. Afan was a regular in here. He always had tea and a cheese toastie. We heard what’s happened this morning. Truly terrible. Are you a family member?’
‘No, a friend of his.’
‘I’m ever so sorry. Afan was a quiet sort of man. He’d always lend our older customers a hand if the computer baffled them. Why would anyone want to kill him?’
‘Hopefully, the police will find out.’
Sam said, ‘If you want another coffee, it’s on the house.’
Swift was touched. ‘Thank you, that’s kind.’
‘Least I can do.’
The computers were grouped at the far end of the room and he stopped to examine the jukebox on his way. Rock-Ola was inscribed in red lettering across the top. There were about a hundred records inside and he put two pounds in the slot and selected ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ and ‘Sunny Afternoon’.
He checked his email and saw that Ruth had sent two. The first had more photos of Branna, this time at a fairground, sporting a yellow sun hat and perched in a cup and saucer. He replied, explaining what had happened at Tir Melys — he could imagine Ruth’s raised brows — and saying that he’d be in Wales longer than he’d expected. He added that there was no phone signal or Wi-Fi where he was staying — he pictured Ruth’s exasperated expression again — and said that he’d call around seven tomorrow evening. He informed Branna that the joke Welsh name for a microwave was ‘popty ping’. When he opened the second email, his mouth went dry.
Hi, Ty. I just wanted to say that Marcel and I are getting married next year, probably in the spring. We’ve been discussing where to live, and I’ve decided to move to Guernsey with Branna. We want to have children, and this is a lovely place to raise a family. I’ve checked the job market here, and I should be able to get a part-time lecturing post. I understand that you’ll find this difficult, but you can see Branna regularly and FaceTime etc. every week. It will be so good for her to have siblings and play on the beach after school. There are excellent facilities here for children with hearing problems. I wanted to give you the heads-up because Branna is very excited about the wedding and is already being bossy about what I should wear and the large role she wants to play. You can imagine. I hope that you can be happy for me.
He’d considered this possibility, like a train hurtling down the track towards him. It had caused him sleepless nights. How could he challenge Ruth’s decision? She had the right to lead her own life and she was Branna’s main parent. Her lecturing job was routine, with timetabled hours, whereas his days were unpredictable, with work often occupying his evenings. Ruth had grown away from him since meeting Marcel Vaudin and become more judgemental of him and his work. Marcel had a house on a beautiful island, above idyllic Fermain Bay. There was no contest between living there and North London, especially if you had one child and wanted more. He didn’t bother replying. There was nothing to say for now. FaceTime was fine, but on a screen, he couldn’t make Branna laugh by rubbing his chin on her neck or feel the warm weight of her when she climbed on his back. He saw a bleak future. He and Branna would have intermittent meetings, like ships that pass in the night.
His lunch arrived. The sandwich smelled delicious, but he couldn’t face it now. He shoved it to one side. He’d ask Sam to box it up and he could eat it this evening. The coffee was strong and bracing and he drank it gratefully, his hand unsteady.
He forced himself back to the other tasks he needed to complete. He forwarded Afan’s emails and his replies to DI Weber and checked that, other than email, Afan had no social media presence. He read through the Tir Melys website again but didn’t glean any new information. He was curious about the Merchants’ finances, so searched for Giles Merchant. This threw up a number of candidates, but based on Suki’s information, the most likely was a website for a business called Scrumptious, operating from Putney. It was a cake-making outfit and featured a photo of a beaming Giles Merchant in a chef’s hat, balancing two iced sponge cakes in either hand. He resembled his father but had his mother’s imperious gaze.
Hi, I’m Giles and I set up Scrumptious Cakes in 2012. We deliver delicious cakes, cupcakes and other sweet treats throughout London. Our clients are individuals, businesses and events organisers. We’ll tailor our cakes to your needs and make suggestions if you’re not sure what you want. All our goodies are made to order by our highly skilled bakers, using only the finest ingredients.
Go on, get in touch. We bet you want to!
There were photos of beautiful cakes in all shapes, sizes and colours, themed for engagements, weddings, birthdays and anniversaries. Beneath them were links to YouTube videos of cakes being made and decorated, with some recipes thrown in. Swift watched one. The theme was a rainforest, and it was visually striking in emerald-green, blue and red icing, topped with multicoloured trees and butterflies. He recalled Jasmine’s worried comment, Giles needs the help, and we don’t have a lot of choice. Perhaps Scrumptious wasn’t as successful as the publicity suggested. He sent himself a link to the website and sat pondering. He decided that he wanted to talk to Caris Murray. It seemed odd that both she and her boyfriend had volunteered at Tir Melys and had met Afan, and the two men were now gone, one of them dead. In Swift’s experience, odd was always worth pursuing.
At the counter, Sam told him that wrapping the sandwich up was no problem. ‘It’s not that you didn’t like it, then? Our food’s highly rated.’
‘I’m saving it for later, thanks. Did Afan seem bothered about anything recently?’
Sam was assembling a brown cardboard box. ‘I don’t think so. He’d come in, ask for his usual, put a record on the jukebox and use a computer.’ He handed the food across.
‘Thanks.’ Swift was about to go, and then turned back. ‘What music did Afan play?’
‘His favourite was Motown. He always chose Martha and the Vandellas, “Dancing in the Street”.’
Swift was gladdened to hear that something about Afan hadn’t changed. He went back to the jukebox and selected the record. Sam smiled at him and raised the glass of water he was drinking in a toast. ‘Lechyd da! To Afan.’
Swift opened the café door and almost fell over DI Weber, who clutched at her arm protectively, losing her grip on her stick. Swift caught it for her and handed it
back.
‘Thanks. I expected to see you,’ she said. ‘You’d been to the bookshop before me too.’
‘A DI doing all the legwork?’
She frowned at him. ‘I hope you’re not meddling.’
‘It’s natural to care about a friend who’s been murdered.’
‘Hmm. Well, while we’re passing the time, I can inform you that you’re not a suspect. Are you going to be back at Tir Melys later this afternoon?’
‘I can be.’
‘There’s things I want to discuss. I’ll see you at Mr Griffith’s place around half four. Have the kettle on. Now, I don’t usually ask men to open doors for me, but I’ll make an exception today.’
On his way back to his car, Swift stopped at the organic grocery where he bought orange juice, two cartons of vegetable soup, some tins of baked beans and apples. The mini fridge at Afan’s had just two compartments, so he had to limit his supplies. He could get bread and milk when he needed it from the kitchen at Tir Melys. He didn’t want to have to eat in the refec all the time and be beholden to the community, and he particularly didn’t want to fulfil Jasmine’s expectation that he’d dine with them daily. It was useful to get a handle on the general dynamic and relationships of the community and observe them close up. If Afan’s killer was at the table, he didn’t mind breaking bread with them now and again, especially if it helped to catch them, but he was no martyr and he couldn’t face nightly suppers.
The road back curved around the coastline. Swift stopped the car in a lay-by and gazed out at the hazy horizon and a wide stretch of sandy beach. The unpredictable weather and brisk breeze meant that it was almost empty. As often happened with sudden death, Afan’s was causing him to reflect on the years that had slipped by so quickly, years without contact, and his life during that time. Losing Ruth, then meeting her again and helping her during her difficult marriage. Setting up his own investigation agency, discovering that Ruth was pregnant with their child and then finding out that Branna had hearing loss. The death of his close friend Cedric, the deaths of others, both friends and victims and his failed relationship with Nora. He was tired and unsure, wondering if he had taken wrong turnings.
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 10