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

‘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 was a man in