‘Filling in the blanks.’
Wright pointed with a chopstick and said flippantly, ‘You think I might have murdered him.’
‘Did you?’
‘As if!’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Looking startled, Wright paused with a portion of peppers and onion halfway to his mouth. ‘Course I didn’t!’
‘Can you prove where you were when Mr Griffith was murdered?’
‘I can. Work. All. Day. Long.’
‘Okay. Let’s say I accept that. It’s helpful to hear about your contact with Afan Griffith.’
‘I suppose it’s no skin off my nose.’ Wright finished his food, burped and pushed the bowl away. ‘Afan Griffith contacted me on Facebook when I was sixteen. He told me who he was, and how he’d always regretted what happened to my mum. He said he’d like to offer me some financial help. At first, I worried he was some kinky perv coming on to me. Then I read some press cuttings my nan kept in the sideboard and saw that he’d been there when my mum had the accident. I thought, why not? If he reckoned he owed me and had the dosh to spare, I wasn’t going to refuse.’
Swift imagined what that must have been like for a sixteen-year-old. What teenager wouldn’t like the idea of money arriving in their account every month as if by magic? ‘That’s when the standing order was set up.’
‘Yeah. Griffith said I should use the money however I wanted, but he encouraged me to put it towards my education.’
Swift doubted that Wright had put the money to that use. Working in a wine shop didn’t demand qualifications. Rain was falling. Swift could hear it on the high windows, like a distant percussion. ‘Why did the money stop?’
Wright tensed. ‘I told Griffith to cancel it. I’d always been told that my mum had died in an accident. I didn’t read the full inquest report until early this year. I’d never understood exactly what had happened, how much Griffith was at fault. Nan never told me. Griffith should have done his job properly and broken my mum’s fall. Then I’d have had her in my life, instead of a cranky battleaxe of a nan.’
‘What made you read the inquest report?’ Swift asked.
‘I got to wondering . . . My girlfriend’s pregnant. I’m going to be a dad. Baby’s due any minute now. I was thinking about my mum a lot. Dreaming about her. I’ve no memories of her. I wanted to find out more about what had happened. When I read about it, all the details, I was furious with Griffith. He’d been trying to make amends with his money, and I’d betrayed my mum by accepting it. I sent him a message saying I didn’t want his payments anymore.’
‘You never met Afan Griffith in person?’
Wright picked up his chopsticks and tapped them sharply on the edge of his bowl. ‘Nope. And tell you what, I’m glad he’s dead. Makes me happy. I’ve got to get back to work.’
Swift watched him lope away, hands shoved in his pockets. He’d have had a strong motive for killing Afan. Swift didn’t want to contact DS Spencer, but Wright’s alibi needed to be checked through formal channels. He thought about how to pitch it without mentioning his arrangement with Sofia and rang the sergeant.
‘Any news of DI Weber?’
‘Not good,’ Spencer said mournfully. ‘She’s got a really bad infection and a fever. She’s not responding as they’d hoped to the antibiotics. Should I send her flowers — or maybe chocolates, do you think?’
‘Nice idea, but probably not for now. Has someone else taken over the Griffith investigation?’
‘Not yet. No one available. I’ve got to plough on.’
‘Anything on Caris?’
Spencer sounded as if he was struggling to stay awake. ‘No. It’s like a UFO beamed her up. Her mam’s in bits, keeps phoning me. So does Morgan. I’ve nothing to tell them.’
Swift could only hope that Spencer hadn’t mentioned UFOs to Ms Murray. ‘Could you do something for me?’
Spencer sounded panicky. ‘Me? What?’
‘It’s nothing complicated. I followed up some information that Gwyn Bowen gave me. Afan Griffith was involved in a climbing accident years ago. A woman died. I met her son today. He told me that Afan had been paying him money for years by standing order, by way of making up for the loss of his mother. His name’s Trevor Wright. He discovered the full details of the accident earlier this year and stopped the payments. He admitted that he was angry with Afan. He told me he was working the day Afan died, but you need to check his alibi.’
‘This guy turned down the money?’
‘He accepted it for some time, but yes, he did. I suppose if you have information on Afan’s bank account, you’ll see that’s the case.’
‘Why would anyone turn down money? Doesn’t add up to me.’
Spencer was clearly stuck. ‘That’s not the issue. Wright’s resentment is. You need to check him out.’
‘Okay. What’s his name again?’
He could hear Spencer’s brain lurching into low gear. ‘Trevor Wright. His mum was called Drusilla Knight. You can google her. Have you got those names?’
‘Hang on. Yeah.’
‘Wright works in Cardiff, at Castle Wines. You need to verify that he was there when Afan died. I suggest you get onto it straightaway. Could you text me the outcome?’
Spencer sounded cautious. ‘Am I allowed to do that?’
‘Why not? Tell you what, do a thumbs up emoji if the alibi checks out, thumbs down if it doesn’t.’
Spencer repeated the instruction. Swift pictured him drawing a thumb and shook his head as he ended the call. He’d arranged to call in on Morgan Callender, in the hope that he might have information about the nightmare situation at Tir Melys that Caris had alluded to. He retraced his route to Roath. He was alarmed at the news about Sofia Weber. He’d read that osteomyelitis was a rare, serious condition and could be fatal. He’d only just met her, but she was an ally and she’d become a friend.
* * *
Morgan Callender was wan and sickly. The blinds were still down in the flat and the air smelled unpleasantly sweet. The small space was untidy, strewn with clothes and dirty dishes. The young man couldn’t sit still and paced up and down while they talked.
‘Something’s happened to Caz. I could tell the police thought that too when they came round. How could she go missing on a Sunday morning?’
‘Did Caris get any phone calls before she left here on Sunday?’
‘No. No one phoned her.’
‘What about the call she took as I was leaving?’
‘That was her work, asking if she could do an extra shift this week.’
‘Did she seem worried about anything?’
‘No.’ He leaned against a wall. ‘If anything, she was happier than she’d been in a while. We talked for ages after you left on Saturday, and we were both more cheerful. We agreed that I needed to leave here as soon as possible, and we’d find somewhere to live together in Bristol, like you suggested. That way, Caz wouldn’t be too far from her mam. Caz was going to tell her mam the truth when she got home. We said we’d start looking for jobs and a flat this week.’ He sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. ‘What am I going to do now?’
Swift went to the mucky sink and poured a glass of water. He took it across to Morgan. ‘Here, drink this. I need you to help me, if you can.’
Tears flowed down Morgan’s cheeks. He took the glass. ‘How can I help, stuck here?’
Swift sat on a dining chair and pushed aside the remains of a takeaway Chinese meal on the table. ‘When I was leaving here on Saturday, Caris mentioned a problem at Tir Melys. She said that she wished she hadn’t got Afan involved in it. Have you any idea what she was referring to?’
Morgan said, ‘No. The only thing we ever talked about concerning Afan was this place.’
‘What about the other people in the community? Did Caris ever have arguments with any of them?’
Morgan sipped water. ‘The police asked me that. I couldn’t think of anything. She liked some of them better than others. She go
t on with Bruno and Suki . . . and Afan, of course.’ He started crying again.
Swift gave him time. He cleared the table and other surfaces of dirty mugs and dishes, put them in the sink and filled it with hot water. He found a cloth and wiped the table clean.
Morgan said dully, ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I hate mess. Indulge me. Go back to those times you went to Tir Melys with Caris. Did she clash with anyone?’
‘You reckon someone there has done something to her?’
‘No idea, but it’s worth considering. So try and remember. And could you open a window while you’re doing that?’
Morgan stood up and opened a skylight. Cool, clean air washed in. He perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘Caz sort of kept to her work when she was there. She didn’t like Kat, because she was always pestering Afan. The only other person she didn’t have much time for was Guy Brinkworth. Once when I was there, she’d been in their house, talking to Elinor. She said Guy was an out-and-out shit, far more than anyone realised.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s it. That’s all. Should I come back to Holybridge and help look for Caz?’
‘Doesn’t sound like a good idea, given your brother’s behaviour.’
‘I’ve been worried about him. I had a couple of weird calls yesterday, unknown number. Just a silence, then the calls ended. I bet it’s him. It’s the kind of thing that’d be his idea of fun. That means someone’s told him my number and he might have this address.’
‘Where would you stay if you came back to Holybridge?’
‘I could ask Caz’s mum.’
Swift shook his head. ‘Calvin would find out and then Ms Murray would have even more trouble at her door. It wouldn’t be fair on her.’
Morgan gave a sob. ‘What am I going to do, not knowing what’s happened to Caz?’
Swift doubted that he had the resources to act on his own. But he had to start learning, especially if Caris wasn’t coming back. ‘Tidy this place up, for a start. Then search for a job and somewhere to live. Hopefully, Caris will turn up and then at least she’ll come back to positive news.’
‘I’m not sure if I can do that, manage this stuff on my own.’
‘What’s the alternative, Morgan? Wait until you’re out on the street with no money coming in? It’s up to you, but I know which I’d rather do in your circumstances.’
‘You think I can do it on my own?’
‘I’ve every faith in you,’ Swift lied.
Chapter 18
The heavens opened as Swift cycled back to Tir Melys from the station. He’d stopped at the Bridge Arms for an evening meal. The cottage pie had been delicious, but now he regretted delaying in town. It was gone nine, the light obliterated by heavy cloud. His headlight just about picked out the road. All he could hear was the roaring rain as it pounded him, streaming into his eyes. He crouched lower and pedalled on. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been seeing Tir Melys from the wrong angle. It was like studying a photograph or a painting in a gallery. You could get too close, absorbed in the detail and intensity. If you altered your stance, you could find a different perspective, see aspects you hadn’t noticed before. He pondered the financial problems, the concert audience, the Brinkworths’ studio, random comments and the things that Caris had chosen to reveal and conceal.
Half a mile from the turning to Tir Melys, he could barely see where he was going. He’d decided to stop and wipe his face when an engine roared close behind him. He half turned, and then he was flying through the air and rolling on the ground. He landed on his back in a soggy ditch. He twisted, gasping with pain, and tried to identify the car but all he could glimpse were blurred tail lights, vanishing into the obscuring deluge. He lay still, catching his breath and moving his limbs cautiously. Everything seemed to be working. His back throbbed and he could taste blood on his tongue, salty and sharp.
He hauled himself up, staggered to the road and found his bike. It had been thrown along the verge. Miraculously, the lights were still working but the back wheel was buckled, and the front one had bent spokes. He got on and tried riding it, but the damaged spokes kept catching the brake. He dismounted and pushed it with difficulty for a couple of metres. He gave up on the seizing brake, tucked the bike into the hedgerow behind a tall oak tree and continued on foot. His legs were like jelly, his face burned and ached. He plodded on, head down.
He fell through the door of the cottage and collapsed into a chair. He sat for minutes, without the strength even to remove his sodden clothing. Then he roused himself and drank a large glass of mead. It warmed him instantly. Thanks, Afan. The stove was still glowing. He stacked it with wood, groaning as his back pulled. He rested with his hands on the warm top, noting that they were covered in grazes, and then straightened up slowly. In the bathroom, he stripped off. The tiny mirror reflected his lacerated face and a fat bottom lip. He stood under the shower, longing for it to be hotter. The stove was blazing by the time he was dressed in dry jeans and a jumper. He poured another glass of mead and sat close to it, shivering despite the warmth.
Someone had tried to kill him. He was sure that the accident had been intentional. The engine’s sudden roar and the vanishing vehicle told him that. They had accelerated. He got up and checked that he’d locked the door. He’d finished the mead and was slumped in a light doze when someone hammered at the door and he heard Elinor shout his name.
She burst in and stood trembling by the table. Her yellow oil slicker dripped on to the floor. Frankie was tucked inside her coat, peeping out from below the collar. ‘Ty, you must come. It’s awful. Please, you must come.’
‘What is it?’
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then she gulped and whimpered, ‘Caris. It’s Caris. I found her. She’s dead.’
‘Where?’
‘In the chapel. I was out in the Land Rover and I just stopped in to say a prayer. Please, please help.’
He was fuzzy from shock and the mead. He shook his head and reached for his waxed jacket. ‘Elinor, I’ve had a few drinks. Can you take me there in the Land Rover?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She was staring at him. ‘What’s happened to your face?’
‘It’s nothing. Have you told anyone else?’
‘No. I came straight to you.’
‘Good. I want you to fetch the Land Rover and drive it down to the Bivium. I’m heading there now to ring the police. I won’t be long.’
She was trembling, leaning against the table for support, but she roused herself and left the cottage. He put a torch in his pocket, locked up and hurried to the Bivium. He was stiff and his back hurt like hell. By the time he’d finished his call, Elinor was waiting outside in the Land Rover with Frankie asleep in the back. They drove to the chapel in silence. Swift had never been privy to a mute Elinor before. The rain was still full force and the windscreen wipers swished ineffectually. Swift wondered what she’d been doing in the chapel late on such a night. It was an unusual time to pray. He also wondered if she’d tried to run him down earlier.
‘It’s best if you stay here, in the Land Rover,’ he said. ‘It reduces contamination of the crime scene.’ And if you killed Caris, it doesn’t give you the chance to cover any traces. ‘Are you okay with that, Elinor? The police won’t be long. Keep the doors locked.’
Elinor whispered, ‘Caris . . . she’s in the hermit’s hidey-hole. Sort of scrunched up. It’s horrible.’
Swift slipped gloves on and opened the chapel door. He lit his way with the torch to the hermit’s hidden chamber and stood at the entrance. Caris was on the floor in a dark pool of blood, curled up with one leg bent, her hair falling over her face. She wore a denim jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. He approached her carefully and checked that there was no pulse. When he played the torch beam around her neck there was no gleam of an emerald. There was a lack of ritual to this death, no grave goods. She’d been concealed, dumped, not displayed. Perhaps there were two killers at work here. He was bitterly angry, even more so than a
t Afan’s death. Caris had been so young, so burdened with responsibilities, and he now believed that she’d got out of her depth with someone in this community.
He stepped back into the body of the chapel. The cold snaked beneath his clothing. Morgan would despair when he heard this news. He went back to the door to check that Elinor was okay. She was sitting with the engine running, her eyes closed. He envied her the warmth in the vehicle.
He was numb with cold and shock by the time the police arrived — DS Spencer, bleary-eyed, with two uniforms.
Swift explained what had happened. ‘Do you mind if Elinor and I go home? I can’t see that we can contribute anything else right now.’
‘That’s okay,’ Spencer said. ‘I’ve got to wait for the crime scene manager anyway. Have you been in a punch-up?’
‘Someone ran me off the road earlier. How’s DI Weber?’
‘Bad, apparently. That’s all they’ll say. I can’t believe it. One minute she had a broken arm and now she’s . . .’ He sounded tearful.
Swift went back to the Land Rover. Moving was an immense effort. Elinor still had her eyes closed. He walked around the vehicle, shining the torch on the front and left side. There was no obvious damage.
‘Did you see her?’ Elinor whispered when he climbed in. Frankie was on her lap, his eyelids flickering.
‘Yes. We can head back now.’
Elinor put a hand on the gear lever. ‘I had a row with Guy after supper. He’d written another sarcastic letter to social services behind my back. I was so upset I just took off for a drive around the coast. Then on the way back, I decided to visit the chapel.’
Swift put his hands in front of the warm air vent. ‘What made you go into the small chamber?’
She hesitated. ‘This is embarrassing.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, but the police will ask.’
‘I was thinking . . . maybe I could hide in there. Guy would worry and he wouldn’t be able to find me. If I hid until tomorrow, he’d be so frightened, he’d stop all this destructive behaviour. But then I realised that I couldn’t do that tonight, because Fwankie was with me and it wouldn’t be fair on him. I could come back on my own another day and hide, so I stepped in to see how it might feel . . .’ She glanced at him. ‘I suppose you’re sitting there worrying that I’m completely mad. Unhinged.’
MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective Book 8) Page 23