Murder On Bwytheney by Elizabeth. Newby (phonics story books TXT) 📗

“Oh, I don’t know about that. They’re not that good. I just write them for fun. One day…”

"Hmm, well, just make sure that day comes. You really ought to send them off to someone."

“Yeah, the girls keep saying the same. I will…soon.”

“Right shall we get this over with then?” he sat down in one of the armchairs by the log fire.

I took the seat on the other side of the fireplace and laughed, “It won’t be that bad, you know? It’ll be good for business too. Raise your profile on the islands.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m just not a fan of talking about myself.”

"I'll make it as painless as possible, I promise," I smiled. "Okay, well, maybe we could start with a bit of background. You were a carpenter before arriving here, yes?"

“Yeah. When I was little, about seven maybe, we had a school trip to the maritime museum. I think every kid in Liverpool visits there at some point. But I remember being fascinated that boats were once built from wood. Once I got a smell of wood being planed during tech lessons at school, I was hooked. Started my apprentice straight outta school.”

“I couldn’t tell you were from the ‘Pool,” I teased. Most of those on the island had a Welsh lilt to their accents despite being as near to Liverpool as they were Wales. But Pete had the higher and harsher sounds of a scouser, an accent that had developed from the melting pot of nationalities that flooded into its port.

"You may tease, but I catch the dulcet tones of the city in your voice too, now and again."

“Ha, yeah. It’s infectious. I lived there for a few years when I was at Uni. So, what was your childhood like?”

"Average, I guess. We lived on a nice estate in a three-bed semi. The same sort that you see in every town and city on the mainland. I made the most of being in the city as a youngster, acquainting myself with many of its bars. It's a great place to live. It's changed in recent years, of course, and for the better. The docks are almost recognisable. But the people have always been friendly."

“So why leave? What made you want to move on?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Fancied a change, I guess.”

“Do you miss your family at all?”

“I don’t really have any. Can I get you anything, a tea, coffee, perhaps?” Peter was now shifting around in his seat, avoiding eye contact.

"No, I'm fine, thanks. Sorry if my question upset you."

He took a deep sigh, “It’s okay. My parents died in a car crash a few years ago. It was just time to move on, you know?”

"Oh, Peter, I'm sorry. That's terrible. I should never have pried. You must miss them dreadfully."

He shrugged, "I do. They gave me a good childhood, but…"

I remained quiet, giving Peter the room to open up and talk should he wish. It was a technique I learned back when I trained as a journalist, although it tended to be used more manipulatively in that job. People don’t like uncomfortable silences and will often want to fill them. But something told me that Pete wanted to share.

"There was always something missing like I didn't quite belong somehow. It's common apparently with adopted children."

“You were adopted?”

Pete had been looking off into the distance, but his eyes snapped back to mine, "I feel guilty, even mentioning it. Like I'm betraying my parents. They adopted me as a baby, so I've really never known anyone else, and they really did give me a good life."

"I understand. I can only imagine how difficult it is. So, what do you hope to gain from Bwytheney then? What kind of life would you like to build here? Assuming you want to stay, of course…"

"Haha, yeah. I think I'll stick around. A sense of peace, I suppose. I mean, I like being near the water. I could never be far from it. But it's just more relaxed here. What do I want? The usual. A family and to live happily ever after."

Pete gave me a small smile, but there was a sadness in his eyes, an aching. It must be so hard to be alone in the world. I could only hope that these islands would give him what he wanted, and he could finally feel whole.

"Okay, final question. As you know, I like to support local businesses with my blog, and as you're sticking around, that includes you. Tell me about what you offer so I can include it in the post."

"In terms of the carpentry, anything from practical furniture to ornate wooden gifts. I've rented a small workshop and have all my tools with me. Then there are the odd jobs. I can't cover electrics but any DIY jobs, things that need fixing around the house, a bit of plumbing, that sort of thing."

“Ooh, Melissa at Beachview Campsite might need your services, then. She said something earlier about the sinks backing up.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t need my help.”

"I'm not so sure. Melissa pretends that she doesn't need help—"

Pete interrupted, “Is that it? Are we done now? It’s just I’ve got a job to get to before the day’s out.”

“Oh, yes, sure. Sorry. Are you still okay to finish my bookshelves tomorrow?”

"I'll be there at about 9 o'clock."

"Right, well, the blog post should go up in the next couple of days. I'll let you know once it does."

I stepped out the door with Shadow and turned around to say goodbye, but the door was already closed. It was like I was being shut out on something unsaid.

Chapter 4

Melissa was right. A storm had blown in and was now thrashing rain down on the island. But it had been a hectic day, and a little bit of rain was not going to put me off the Sunday night quiz at Islethorpe's village pub, The Bell Inn. It was a weekly event