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

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