MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective , GRETTA MULROONEY [books to read now .txt] 📗

‘I checked it just before supper, because I was worried about Afan. The answerphone was on and there were no messages,’ Kat replied. She nodded at Swift. ‘That’s a good idea of yours. I’ll drive you, if you like. Then you can scan the roads for any sign of Afan as well as checking your phone. I’ll just get the keys to the Land Rover.’

Bryn chuckled, and Jasmine eyed Kat shrewdly but said nothing. The others donned their coats while Jasmine allotted them each an area to search. They all had torches in their pockets, used as they were to walking through the country darkness. Swift put his waxed jacket on and watched them file out. Jasmine’s ringing voice was still issuing orders as she opened the outer door.

Suki was bringing up the rear and turned. ‘I’m sure Afan’s okay, Ty.’ She smiled up at Swift, touching his arm lightly, but he glimpsed concern in her dark eyes.

* * *

Kat Glover was a terrible driver, the kind who clutched the wheel too hard and used the brake erratically. The rain was driving hard against the windscreen, and she had the wipers on at full speed. This weather fitted Afan’s description of throwing it down. He glanced across at Kat as the Land Rover lurched. She was mannish, with a dumpy, muscular shape and although she must have been in her late thirties, she wore her hair in two juvenile pigtails tied with dark red ribbon. He’d observed that she had a slight limp and a built-up left shoe as he’d followed her to the car park. She’d had to pull her seat as far forward as it would go so that her feet could reach the pedals.

‘What’s that place?’ Swift pointed to the low stone building near the entrance gate.

‘That’s St Finnian’s chapel, believed to date from the fifteenth century. It’s not used for formal worship these days. It has another name locally — the Serpent’s Chapel. Local lore has it that it was once used for satanic worship or rituals of some kind. I’ve no idea if that’s true. We patch the place up as best we can, as it’s ancient and part of this estate. People from around here call in occasionally and tourists visit. The windows need repairing. We discussed it at a colloquy, but the summer months have been a bit busy. Can you hop out and do the gate?’

Swift pulled his hood up and ran to the gate when Kat stopped. The wind stung his face as he gripped the cold metal bars. The headlights illuminated the silver needles of rain and he glanced up at Kat, hunched at the wheel, a cushion wedged behind her back. She was like a child who’s taken her parents’ car for a joy ride.

She drove slowly to the road, concentrating on the track. Now and again, she took the end of a pigtail and sucked it. Swift stared out at the wild, hostile night. A line of hawthorn trees were swaying, their branches dancing and dipping, illuminated and then cast back to dark shadow as the Land Rover’s lights caught them and moved on. Afan could be lying in any of these hedgerows and you’d never see him. He kept recalling Afan’s first email: there is a sour note that troubles me and plays on my mind. Nobody would be out in this weather without good reason. It was a night to head for home. He held his phone in his hand and as the road started to climb towards Holybridge, he saw that he had one bar of a signal, creeping up to two. He had no text messages, but he was relieved to see an email from Afan.

Hi Ty, I’m really sorry to do this, but something urgent has come up and I’ve got to head off and deal with it. Please accept my apologies and can you tell them at Tir Melys. Hopefully, you can enjoy a couple of days there anyway. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Again, so sorry, Afan.

He checked the time it had been sent: 2.15 p.m. He rang the phone number, but it went to voicemail. He left a message, saying that he’d received the email but was concerned, and hoped that everything was okay. He asked Afan to get in touch, via the landline at Tir Melys if possible. Kat slowed, bumped the Land Rover onto the verge and yanked the handbrake. She turned to him, anxious.

‘You’ve heard from Afan?’

‘Yes.’ He read her the email.

‘Hmm. Very strange, but I suppose at least he’s left a message. I wonder what could be so urgent. I don’t understand why he didn’t say anything to me, reach out about this problem, whatever it is.’ She lifted a pigtail and licked the end of it. ‘He’s okay, that’s the main thing.’

‘Are you and Afan close?’ Swift wanted to pull the hair out of her mouth. It was a revolting habit.

‘Well, we get each other. We’re on the same wavelength, we share things,’ she said.

He wondered if she was indicating that they slept together. He couldn’t imagine it. In Lyon, Afan had had a partner called Amira Brodeur, a dark, slim woman, pretty and very feminine. Kat seemed to be expecting him to enquire further and when he didn’t, she wiped the inside of the windscreen with the back of her hand.

‘I’ll head back, shall I?’

‘Fine, yes. Has Afan seemed worried about anything recently?’

She tapped her stubby fingers on the wheel. ‘I don’t think so. We talk pretty much every day and he hasn’t mentioned anything. He had some leaf spot on his early tomatoes and that bugged him, but I don’t suppose that’s what you mean.’

‘No, it isn’t. Would Afan go somewhere and leave his door and a window open?’

‘Oh, we don’t lock