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

fine cheekbones would have been irritating. ‘I don’t understand why you thought Morgan and Caris were “on the take.” Volunteering doesn’t seem a very lucrative occupation if you’re out to exploit people, and there’s nothing valuable here to steal.’

She sniffed. ‘That sort always have an agenda. There was definitely something going on, I could tell.’

Swift got up and fed logs into the stove. Given that Kat was a woman with her own agenda, she’d been right in spotting that something was going on. It sounded odd and difficult to fathom. Afan had been unfailingly kind and generous, but he’d never been a walkover. Swift was miles away and then realised that Kat was issuing an invitation. She’d got up and moved towards him, her hands clasped behind her back.

‘I’ve got a proper kitchen at mine, Ty. You’re staying for a bit, aren’t you? Why don’t you come round for supper Friday evening?’

‘I’m not sure of my timetable yet.’

‘Oh, okay. Well, I hope you can. I’m making lamb tagine and it’s pretty good, if I say so myself.’

No doubt it was another of Afan’s favourites. When she’d gone, Swift tidied up and put the rest of the chicken and the lemon cake outside in the compost bin. He locked the door behind him with relief. Kat’s visit had been useful, if hard work. He decided he’d like to visit Caris Murray on her own territory.

Chapter 9

Swift was back in Holybridge the next day. He cycled in against a strong head wind, wondering how many times Afan had made the same journey. It was strange, following in his footsteps, talking to the people he’d lived among, shadowing his absence. At seven that morning, Swift had been woken by a sound at the front door and, dazed from sleep, he’d imagined for a few moments that Afan would appear, asking why Swift was sleeping in his bed. When he’d drawn back the curtain, he’d seen that it was Bryn Price, leaving a box of freshly laid eggs on the doorstep.

He stopped at the bookshop to see Gwyn Bowen. The place was empty, and she was taking books off shelves and dusting them. He had the impression that she was occupying herself with busywork and supposed that she had to do something to fill the hours. It would be disheartening to spend all day in a shop few people frequented. She gave him the details of the customer who’d met Afan. His name was Dale Toft and he lived in Ogmore-by-Sea, about twenty miles west of Cardiff.

‘I hope he can help you,’ Gwyn said.

‘We’ll see. Are you friendly with the people at Tir Melys? You said that you haven’t been there often, but maybe they come in here to shop.’

She gazed at him with her limpid eyes like pale crystals. ‘I don’t know them that well, been there a couple of times. I was at one of Jasmine’s concerts several years back. Bryn comes in sometimes, usually to gossip rather than to buy.’

‘Have you seen Caris since she heard about Afan?’

She wiped a ledge and squared off a couple of paperbacks. ‘We spoke on the phone. She’s gutted. It’s hard to find the right words when someone’s so upset.’

Gwyn seemed muted today and disinclined to talk, so he left her to her cleaning. His next stop was Blasus café, where he ordered home-made lemonade from Sam. He chose a random selection on the jukebox, pressing odd numbers. He was rewarded with Dionne Warwick, the Everly Brothers, the Hollies and Chris Montez.

He sat at a computer and started a search. He’d decided that the only way he could work alongside Sofia Weber was to operate as if he was conducting his own investigation. If there were crossover points and information to trade, that was fine and mutually beneficial. As Sofia had said, a victim’s life often explained their death and he wanted to track back in Afan’s life, following the thread that had led him to Tir Melys. In Lyon, Afan had been close to Amira Brodeur for quite a while and must have shared details about his life. He’d never told Swift why they’d parted, but he’d indicated that his move to Brussels had caused a fracture. She’d worked as a personnel officer for the national police in the city and when Swift found her, he saw that she was still with them, as a communications manager. He switched to Facebook and sent a friend request. He contemplated the message he should send. It was difficult, informing someone about a death at such distance and Amira might have forgotten him. She and Afan might have stayed in touch but for all he knew, they’d parted on bad terms and Amira wouldn’t welcome the contact. He stared at the screen for a moment, then started typing.

Hi Amira, I hope this finds you well. I might need to jog your memory. We met when I was working for Interpol. I was friendly with Afan and the three of us had a drink a couple of times. I’ve been back in the UK for a while now and I work as a private investigator. I regret that I have some very sad news concerning Afan. He has been murdered. I found his body on Tuesday. I’d like to talk to you. I’m adding my email address if that’s more convenient, and my phone number although at the moment, I’m staying in a place with no signal.

I’m sorry to contact you in this way. I hope to hear from you.

Kind regards, Ty Swift.

He drank the sharp, refreshing lemonade and googled the Holybridge Beekeepers Club. The contact was a Sion Hughes. He rang the number and spoke to a wistful-sounding man, whose voice dropped when he explained who he was.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Hughes said. ‘That’s an awful shock for you, coming all the way from London and finding