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

cent waiting, one per cent treatment. I wish they’d make up their minds about what’s wrong with me. I’m nauseous all the time now, as well as knackered. There’s been no contact from Caris. We’ve CCTV of her on the platform at Holybridge at noon yesterday, so she caught her train home. Last sighting of her was at 12.10 p.m., on camera when she crossed the bridge into town. After that, nothing. Her phone’s been switched off since one o’clock Sunday.’

He filled her in on his visit to Dale Toft and his meeting with Kat. ‘I’ve been puzzled as to why Afan tolerated Kat’s encroachments into his life to such a degree, and that explains it. Have you got any information yet about Afan’s finances?’

‘Hang on. I’ve got something from our techies but haven’t had a chance to go through it all yet. They found various online folders and they’ve confirmed that he had very substantial savings, stocks and shares. Let’s say he was a rich man living a frugal life.’ There was a pause. ‘Okay, I’m into what they’ve highlighted in Afan’s current account. He had a monthly payment to Haskin Estates in Cardiff — that’s the management company that rents out the flats for him. One to the Merchants for his rent, payment for his phone and until February this year, a standing order for three hundred a month to a T Wright. Have to follow that up. Oh, here we go, another current standing order to Ms K Glover for one hundred a month. Not big blackmail bucks, but a steady trickle of extra income.’

‘I’m not sure that it was blackmail as such, but I believe that there was emotional coercion.’

‘Not quite with you.’

‘Afan was nothing if not conscientious to a fault. If Kat turned up here and piled on the pressure about her enduring trauma from Ogmore and her subsequent leg injury, he might have decided that he owed her. He probably pitied her. If payment ensured that she didn’t publicise what had happened at Ogmore, so much the better.’

‘Yeah, I see. And if she was benefiting financially, she’d have no reason to kill him.’

‘It makes her an unlikely suspect.’ He heard voices in the background, one a low male rumble.

‘Got to go, keep lone ranging.’ Sofia rang off.

He walked back to the cottage. Afan had been generous with his money and property, funding Kat and bailing out Morgan. He might have felt pressured when Bruno also asked him for a loan. It was one thing to be open-handed, quite another to be treated like the local bank. And who was T Wright? He couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Chapter 17

Swift was a couple of miles off the coast, sculling through moderate waves in a fresh breeze. White horses foamed along the side of the boat. Tall cliffs framed the coastline to his left. The sun was fitful, but the sky was bright, all blue and white patches. He’d needed to clear his mind while he waited for a call back, so he’d hired the Seastar just outside Holybridge and launched her off the slipway there. It was a solo boat, made from glass-reinforced plastic. He liked its lightness, the way it handled and cut through the water at a pace.

It was a while since he’d navigated open waters and he was still adjusting, trying not to resist the wind. After half an hour, he was starting to relax, getting the rhythm of the currents and letting the boat follow the waves. He remembered the golden rule — don’t fight the sea. He’d read that rowing on rivers was like road biking, while coastal rowing could be compared to mountain biking, and his muscles were confirming that. He positioned his blades to make sure that he caught the deep face of each wave. The concentration and heightened state of awareness was bliss, as was that moment when the boat started to glide across the air bubbles trapped beneath. Razorbills and guillemots were whirring overhead, fellow travellers across the waves.

After nearly an hour, he saw St Madoc’s cove. He was aiming for the caves there and steered the boat inwards. The waves grew gentler as he neared the shelter of the narrow gap into the caves. He passed under a low roof and steered through the channel. Shards of light penetrated from above, reflecting on emerald-green water that reminded him of Caris’s pendant. He wondered if she was wearing it now, wherever she was. He feared that she was dead and that it might be adorning her corpse.

He allowed the boat to rock gently through a series of hollows in the rock, dipping an oar now and again to keep his course. The caves smelled of the sea and damp, rotting matter. After the rush of the waves and bird calls, this underworld was silent and cool. There were dark streaks of red oxide in some of the jagged walls and strangely shaped fissures above his head. He reached out to touch a boulder. It was slimy and smooth. He let the boat drift through caverns for some time, aware of the stillness. The weight of rock above him was like a secure shield. He was perturbed, convinced that Caris’s disappearance must be linked to Afan’s death. He was aware, too, of other vague disquiets that he couldn’t name.

A sliver of light spilled in through a gap at the end of a channel. He spotted the small sandy strip of beach he’d noted on a map. He headed for it, pulled the boat up and took the bottle of water and cheese roll that he’d brought with him onto the sand. He was hungry, his appetite whetted by exercise, and he ate his picnic in solitude, listening to the meditative hiss of the sea.

His phone rang. DS Spencer stumbled over his words. The signal was weak and crackling. Swift had