MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective by GRETTA MULROONEY (free reads .txt) 📗

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 stopped 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