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

for kids either and makes no secret of it. She didn’t hit it off with Branna and was short-tempered with her at times, so that was another difficulty, and it gave Ruth ammunition to aim at me.’

‘Sounds messy and complicated.’

‘It was. Branna got anxious about Nora not liking her. I can understand that Ruth would react to that and be protective, but she got so high-handed about it, egged on by Marcel, her partner, who is always quoted as a fount of wisdom.’

Mark pulled a face. ‘Ouch! Sounds like you were the filling in the sandwich. Rather you than me, mate.’

‘Yeah. It wasn’t working with Nora, but I let it drift on, so only myself to blame in the end.’ The truth was that since he’d been on his own again, his thoughts had turned frequently to Ruth, wandering down the dangerous path of what might have been. Maybe he’d been using the relationship with Nora as a distraction all along. He forked up his last portion of moussaka. ‘How’s your love life these days?’

‘Non-existent at the moment. All the women I come across are married or just about to be divorced and burdened by anger and regret. Then there are all the bewildered kids in tow and as you’ve discovered, that can be a minefield.’

‘I’ve gathered that it’s the same for women in our age group who are in search of a likely partner.’

‘No doubt. I read that the average age for a first divorce is thirty. A woman I met and liked a lot told me that she was grieving for the future she’d lost, and the children she might have had. Took me a while to work that out. Maybe I don’t really want to make room for anyone in my life. It’s a big adjustment when you’ve been on your own for a while.’

Swift often had similar thoughts himself and said so. ‘Maybe we’ll be meeting like this in ten years’ time, two middle-aged singletons, exchanging pulp fiction magazines.’

Mark grinned. ‘That’s supposed to sound sad, but actually, I find it quite appealing. Although I saw an article recently that said that people who live alone stand twice the risk of getting dementia as those with partners, who also have better physical health. Apparently, single households are also a wasteful use of resources.’

‘We’re pretty damned then on all fronts, from the sound of it. Might as well enjoy the wine while we can.’

Mark raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Mark had to dash once he’d eaten, but Swift stayed on to have coffee and read his magazine, settling into pleasurable escapism. The villain lurked in the shadows, furious at being jilted by his fiancée and plotting his revenge. He was called Galway Barth, a striking if improbable name.

When he’d finished his coffee, Swift paid his bill and stood outside the café. The wine, food and the close, humid air combined to make him woolly and inert. The suit he’d worn for court clung to him like a suffocating blanket. He shook himself. He’d take his boat out on the river, catch whatever breeze there was, and loosen his leaden muscles.

He caught a bus to Hammersmith, sitting on the top deck by an open window. The plane trees were dull and parched, their leaves dusty. There’d been no rain for weeks, just a smoky-coloured, sullen sky. Surely it would rain in Wales, with its oceanic climate, where they got precipitation even in the driest months. Once, when they were enduring a downpour in Lyon, Afan had told him that the Welsh had numerous descriptions for rain, much as it was said the Inuit had dozens to describe snow. He’d gone through them: Spotting. Big spaced drops. Short sharp showers. Pouring very quickly. Throwing it down. Fierce rain. Sheets of rain. Fountain rain. Beating rain. Bucketing rain. Maximum intensity rain. He’d added that the Welsh equivalent of ‘It’s raining cats and dogs’ was, mystifyingly, ‘It’s raining old women and sticks.’

They’d met soon after Swift joined Interpol. Afan had been a slow-speaking, private man and a highly effective criminal intelligence analyst. He and Swift had liaised on a couple of cases and had worked well together. Afan had been precise and thorough, but with a light touch. They’d become friends, enjoying an occasional meal and walking by the Rhône. Swift had learned that Afan was a fanatical walker and rambled for miles around the region. He had a great love of his country and a passion for male voice choirs, although he’d maintained that he couldn’t sing a note, which was shameful for a Welshman. He’d also been a huge fan of Motown. Sounds of the Temptations, Diana Ross and the Four Tops had drifted from his office.

He’d owned an apartment in a nineteenth-century, stone-built mansion in a prestigious neighbourhood. It had a wide balcony overlooking the river Rhône, where he’d grown fruit and vegetables in tubs. In summer, it had been a riot of bright, hot colours and greenery, with peppers and broad beans trained up the railings. He’d spoken now and again of having had enough of the pace and demands of Interpol and his yearning for a simpler, less stressful life. Swift had formed the opinion that although Afan was skilled at his job, he was too sensitive to last in a pressured work environment. He’d referred to losing his parents when he was young and being at a boarding school that he’d hated, and Swift had suspected that he carried deep scars from that time.

Afan had been transferred to Brussels to head up a new unit and although they’d been in touch now and again, the friendship had waned. Swift had left Interpol after being stabbed in the thigh during a raid on sex traffickers and had returned to London. He’d lost contact with Afan, although he’d heard from a mutual colleague that his friend had also given up