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

He was going to clean and tidy the cottage before he left, but there was something he needed to do first. He drove to an address on the far side of Holybridge, near the warehouse where Caris had worked. He examined the car parked outside the rundown semi and noted the scrapes on the passenger side. He took out his Swiss Army knife and slashed the four tyres. When he rang the bell, a beefy man eating a chicken wing opened the door.

‘Calvin Callender?’

‘Yeah.’

Swift pushed through the door, barging Callender backwards. The chicken wing flew through the air. Callender stumbled and Swift moved in fast, pinning him, face against the wall, with an armlock. The force made his back throb but Callender was hurting more.

‘You need to listen. If you say anything, I’ll break your arm. I might break the other one too, just to give you a matching pair. Nod.’

Callender nodded. Swift wasn’t an aggressive man but if he was pushed far enough, he didn’t mind using the techniques he’d learned in Police College. Bullies were always cowards, which was just as well, as Callender was twice his size. He pressed on the arm just to cause some pain. Callender moaned.

‘I didn’t like you driving your car at me. You’ve damaged my handsome face. Who gave you my name and Morgan’s number?’

‘What’s it to you?’

Another twist of the arm.

‘S . . . Seth did.

‘Seth who?’

‘Ouch! Howard.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A cleaner at the cop shop.’

‘How did he get them?’ He forced the arm a bit higher.

‘Christ! Don’t! He was just earwigging. Why are you—?’

Swift leaned in. Callender smelled awful — sweat, chicken grease and something rancid. ‘I’ve appointed myself Morgan’s guardian angel. If you go anywhere near him, if you even turn his way, I’ll send people to do you horrible damage. You’re messing with London bad boys now, Calvin. Ever heard of the Krays?’

‘Y . . . Yeah.’

‘This lot makes them seem like teddy bears at a picnic. You’ve no idea who I do business with. Nod to tell me you understand.’

Callender nodded.

‘Say, “I’m way out of my league.” Nice and loud.’

‘I’m w . . . way out of my league.’

‘Good. Now go and have a shower. You stink.’

Back in his car, he took a breath. He doubted that Afan would have approved of the violence but on this occasion, he’d surely have turned a blind eye.

* * *

Afan’s funeral was at the end of the second week of September, a day of blustery, intermittent showers. After the brief humanist service at the crematorium, about twenty people adjourned to Blasus. Sofia Weber wasn’t at the service, but she was in the café, resting in a chair. She was pale and gaunt. She’d drawn her hair back in a tight pleat that emphasised the hollows of her face. Swift was shocked, she must have lost a stone in weight.

‘I’m just making a guest appearance. Can’t stay for long, too much to do,’ she told him. She was still wearing her long coat and patterned DMs, but she’d made an effort to smarten up with black trousers and a navy shirt.

He could see that the stuffing had been knocked out of her. ‘I’m not sure you should be here at all.’

‘Well . . . on the plus side, my ankle’s better, so I no longer need the stick. I suppose that’s progress. I wanted to pay my respects. Spence was at the crem, wasn’t he?’

‘He was there. He has a good voice. He and Bryn belted out “Bread of Heaven”. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Please, nice and strong. And a biscuit. Can’t face much solid food but that would go down nicely.’

He helped himself to a glass of mead and fetched coffee and chocolate biscuits for Sofia. On the way back to her, he made a Motown selection on the jukebox: ‘The Tracks of my Tears’, ‘Baby Love’, ‘It Takes Two’ and ‘My Girl’.

Sofia sniffed the coffee. ‘Ta. Have you been at Tir Melys all the time?’

‘No. I didn’t want to stay around the community. I’d had enough of it. They needed space to absorb what had happened and I craved hot water, so I went back to London.’ He’d been relieved to get away and put the miles between himself and the blighted place.

‘Glad to see you’ve shaved, and your face has mended. Now you just look as if a cat scratched you. You resembled Myrddin the Wild when you came to see me in hospital. You alarmed one of the nurses.’

‘And he is?’

‘A medieval bard and prophet.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. I picked up Amira at Cardiff airport on my way back yesterday. She’s staying at the Bridge Arms. I’m heading home tonight.’

Sofia glanced across at Amira, who’d been cornered by Kat. ‘She’s got a good face. Characterful. I’ve always envied that kind of bronze complexion. Truth is, I hate French women. They’re always sleek and comfortable in their own skins.’

‘You strike me as a woman who’s content in herself.’

She wriggled her eyebrows. ‘I will be, once I’ve got a functioning arm again. It was good of Amira to come. She and Afan must have parted amicably. She deserves better than Pippi Longstocking bending her ear.’

‘Amira can hold her own.’ In the car, she’d said little, taking in the scenery and asking a few questions about the funeral arrangements. He saw her put a hand on Kat’s shoulder, a kind but deliberate parting gesture before she moved away to speak to Bruno. He said, ‘Caris’s funeral next.’

‘Next week.’

‘I won’t be back for that. I need to stay in London to see my daughter.’

She smiled and said, ‘I bet you’re a