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

The dog heard its name and started yapping loudly and turning around in her lap. Guy Brinkworth tutted with irritation, picked him up and dropped him on the floor with a firm ‘Stay!’ His wife bit her lip but didn’t say anything.

Jasmine stood. ‘Well, we need tea and coffee while we wait for the police. This has been a terrible shock for us all. Peter, can you help me? And can someone give Kat some clean tissues. Kat, dear, try to calm yourself.’

There was a bustle of activity. Suki found a box of tissues and put them in front of Kat. She sat beside her and patted her arm, but Kat flinched away. Suki made a little helpless gesture to Swift.

They sat in silence for a while with their hot drinks. The only sounds were the chink of crockery and Kat’s shuddering breaths. Bryn was drinking gooseberry wine and had shoved a glass in front of Kat, muttering that she should drown her sorrows.

‘I wonder when the news will get out locally,’ Jasmine said.

‘Worried it will be bad for business?’ Bryn stared down into his glass.

‘Of course that’s not what I mean. It’s just that there might be reporters or other nosy people to deal with. It’s going to cause a stir, that’s for certain. Ty, what’s your view, from your police experience?’

‘Hard to say. The local police will decide when to make it public. It won’t be a priority, but they won’t sit on it either.’

Elinor held her mug to her chest, cradling it. ‘Afan was so happy here. He once said he’d found his own Garden of Eden.’

‘The snake’s arrived here now all right, and we’ll all be suspects as far as PC Plod’s concerned,’ Guy said. ‘We can say goodbye to the quiet life for a while. They’ll be traipsing all over the place and sticking their noses into our business.’

‘I’m sure that Afan would have been more considerate and gone further afield if he’d realised he was going to cause you inconvenience,’ Suki snapped.

Kat gasped and covered her face with her hands. Silence fell again and Bryn, who was on his second glass of wine, started to sing softly in a pleasing tenor:

‘I don’t ask for a luxurious life,

The world’s gold or its fine pearls,

I ask for a happy heart,

An honest heart, a pure heart.

A pure heart full of goodness

Is fairer than the pretty lily . . .’

The door banged open and DI Weber strode through, with DS Spencer and two constables in tow.

‘Great song, Calon Lân, and that’s a good voice you have there,’ she told Bryn.

She introduced her team and checked that everyone who lived at Tir Melys was present. DS Spencer wrote down all their names. He stood very close to his boss, glancing at her nervously with thick-lidded, sleepy eyes. He had full red lips, floppy fair hair and a face that still held traces of puppy fat. His suit was too tight, straining across his shoulders. DI Weber informed the group that Mr Griffith had died from a stab wound and his body had been left near the coast path. His wallet was in his pocket but there was no sign of his mobile phone.

‘I understand that you must all be very shocked, but we have to ask questions and make a nuisance of ourselves, and we have to work as quickly as we can. We’ll try not to be too intrusive, but a man’s life has been taken, so I’m sure you’ll all bear with us.’

Kat started to cry again. Ignoring her, the inspector said that the police needed to search Mr Griffith’s home and speak to everyone. She asked them all to stay where they were for now and told Swift that she wanted to talk to him first.

‘You can use the Parley room if you wish,’ Jasmine informed her, on her dignity. ‘Ty can show you where it is.’

DI Weber spent a few minutes with her team. Then Swift led her through from the kitchen. She stared at the name on the room door.

‘Parley as in Native American parleys with fork-tongued white man?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Hmm.’

Inside, she poked at a low stool with her stick. She was nearly six feet tall, rangy and slim with a spatter of freckles on her cheeks and a mane of caramel brown hair caught up in a clip. With her trousers tucked into DMs, the little satchel slung across her chest and her walking stick, she might be taken for a shepherd rather than a detective. She propped her stick against the wall and sat down gingerly, muttering verdammt! She stretched out her feet. Her boots were patterned with red and green flowers.

‘These stools are ridiculous. What’s the point of furniture you can’t get comfortable on?’

‘Perhaps they’re intended to stimulate discussion,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to get you a chair?’

‘No, it’s okay for now.’

‘How did you get injured?’

She frowned at him. She had mobile, expressive eyebrows. ‘None of your biz, but I fell a couple of weeks ago, broke my arm badly and sprained my ankle. The ankle’s still dodgy. The stick helps me to balance.’ She undid the elastic band and shrugged off her coat. She wore a baggy navy T-shirt over black jeans. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. Very hard on you to find him like that. Talk me through how you come to be here.’

Swift explained his background with Afan, how they’d met in Lyon and the invitation he’d followed up. He detailed events since he’d arrived.

She eyed him appraisingly. ‘So, you hadn’t been in touch for ten years?’

‘Yes, just over ten.’

‘You don’t have information about any family we can