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

‘What train was that?’

Hughes fingered his rainbow necklace. It was incongruously youthful against his crêpey, puckering skin. ‘I was at the station. I’d just come back from visiting a friend in Tenby. I saw Afan heading onto the platform for the Cardiff service. I mentioned it next time I saw him, but he said it wasn’t him, I must have been mistaken. He seemed kind of embarrassed when he denied it.’ He shrugged. ‘Other bits of me are flaky, man, but my eyesight’s sharp. I didn’t push it — none of my business if he didn’t want to share and it was no biggie.’

A trip to Cardiff sounded innocuous enough, but why had Afan wanted to keep it secret? ‘Do you recall when that was?’

‘Sure, it was my friend’s wedding anniversary. It was a Friday, beginning of June.’

When Afan was supposed to be attending Welsh class but had said he was too busy at Tir Melys. ‘And you’re sure it was him?’

‘Oh yeah. No doubt at all. He kind of hunched forward slightly when he walked. I’d have recognised him anywhere.’ Hughes sighed. ‘His death is so senseless and such a waste of talent. I hope the cops get whoever did it. His bees will miss him, they’ll sense his loss.’

Swift was surprised. ‘Bees recognise their keepers?’

‘Sure. I believe so, and lots of beekeepers reckon so too. There’ve been studies that show that bees recognise individual humans and use the same techniques as us to distinguish faces. Although they probably do most of their detecting from our personal odours — they have an acute sense of smell. I’ve read articles in scientific journals about honeybee behaviour. There’s some evidence that they use mechanisms that could be employed by computer programmers for use in facial recognition. How neat is that?’

Swift imagined Afan’s bees having their own mourning drone, unremarked by human ears. ‘I had no idea. My knowledge of bees is sadly lacking. I like their honey, that’s it. At least the bees at Tir Melys still have Bruno for continuity.’

Hughes insisted on giving Swift a jar of honey as he was leaving. It was a bit like taking coals to Newcastle and he said that there was a supply at Tir Melys, but Hughes laughed.

‘You’ll find that my honey has an entirely different flavour, because my bees harvest pollen from masses of dandelions in this valley. See, man, honey’s a catch-all term that doesn’t do this wonderful nectar justice. Each batch of honey is unique, with different aromas, colours, flavours and viscosity. Spend some time with it. Stick your nose in the jar before you eat some.’ He laughed. ‘Okay, okay, I can hear myself switching to bee autopilot again. Nice to meet you, swing by any time.’

Outside, Swift checked his phone and saw that he’d had a text from DI Weber, asking if they could meet at the Bridge Arms in Holybridge at around half six. Dale Toft had returned his call, saying that he didn’t mind speaking about Afan. Swift rang him back.

Toft had a deep, serious tone. ‘I was sad to hear about Afan. Gwyn Bowen rang me and said you’d been asking about him. I hadn’t seen him for a very long time. What happened was dreadful.’

‘How did you know him?’

‘We were members of an outdoor activities club in Cardiff. It was called MOVE. It’s gone now — there’s a gym there. That was back in the mid-nineties. I knew him for a couple of years.’

‘Gwyn said you seemed surprised when you found out that Afan had come back to Wales. Why was that?’

There was a pause. A painted lady butterfly landed on Swift’s handlebars, flexed its wings and fluttered away.

‘It’s rather difficult. Delicate. I’d rather talk about it in person, if that’s okay with you.’

‘That’s fine. I can come and see you.’

Swift agreed that he’d visit Toft in Ogmore on Sunday morning.

He cycled away into the afternoon sun, glad that he’d brought his sunglasses. The bike hummed through muddy puddles. The sides of the narrow road were thick with tree mallow and wild marjoram. The payoff for the previous climb was that most of the route back to Holybridge was downhill. Swift let the bike choose its own pace and went over what he had learned so far. There were tensions at Tir Melys, but as far as he could make out, none that centred on Afan. Dale Toft knew something that was too sensitive to discuss on the phone. The significant detail for now was that from May onwards, Afan had lied to three people — Bruno, Gwyn and Sion Hughes — about what he was doing on Fridays. Finding out why was important, but Swift suspected that it wasn’t going to be easy. The train from Holybridge to Cardiff stopped at a number of stations, any of which might have been Afan’s destination. Maybe Sofia Weber would have come up with something after her contact with Afan’s solicitor.

Chapter 10

Swift was drinking a bottle of pale ale called Rockhopper, while Sofia Weber glumly circled a glass of orange juice on the table. She told him she couldn’t have any alcohol in case it reacted with the strong painkillers she was taking. She hadn’t bothered undoing her coat, which was still held together with an elastic band. Strands of hair had escaped from the grip at the back of her head, giving her a rakish air.

She said, ‘No booze, no fun. And it’s not as if the painkillers are that effective.’ She was haggard, as if she was about to keel over.

‘Bad day?’

‘Crap — and I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘Do you want something to eat?’

‘Nah, I’ll grab a bite when I get home.’ Her phone buzzed on the table and she reached for it.

Swift sat back and read