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

‘Sounds okay. Just to make it clear — you might be ex-Met and, according to your own publicity, a gold-standard PI, but you’re a suspect until I rule you out. No special favours.’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t expect any favours,’ he said.

She levered herself up, using the stick. ‘I’ll speak to Jasmine Merchant next. Can you ask her to organise coffee and then to come through — oh, and ask her to get two chairs brought in, otherwise I’ll be carried out of here on a bloody stretcher.’

Chapter 6

It was late afternoon. The weather had settled into watery sunshine followed by sharp bursts of rain. Swift couldn’t go back to Afan’s yet, but he was restless and frayed. He walked up and down the veranda, gazing out at the saturated land. Suki was in her garden, ignoring the showers, picking runner beans and throwing them into a wicker basket on her arm. She moved slowly, halting now and again, staring into the mid-distance. As soon as the rain stopped, birds started calling and singing in a loud chorus. Wrens and robins darted to the ground for worms and insects. A vibrant rainbow shimmered to the west, lighting the sky. It was a peaceful, pastoral scene and at any other time, he’d delight in its loveliness. But today, he couldn’t take any pleasure in it. Sadness weighed on him and he was conscious of the years that had gone, years when he could have seen Afan. He’d let them pass, caught up in the workaday world.

Someone had planned and made a ritual of Afan’s murder, placing him in an ancient burial site with grave goods he’d need for his journey to another world. Was it done in mockery, or as a gesture of solace and respect, or maybe as a form of sacrifice? The fact that his cagoule had been zipped up over his wound indicated a kind of care, affection even.

He grew tired of pointlessly tramping the veranda, so he went inside and offered to help Bruno with preparing supper. The man must have known Afan as well as, if not better than, anyone here. Bruno had caught his hair into an elastic band. He’d just taken a bowl of pastry covered in clingfilm from the fridge and didn’t seem keen on help but accepted grumpily. Then he made a rueful face and pointed an imaginary gun at his temple.

‘Sorry. I’m being crabby. Talking to the police was exhausting and it put me on edge. So many questions, and this horrible sensation that they’re trying to trap you. You’ve had a crap time today, finding Afan, and none of us have exactly sympathised. It’s terrible for you.’

Innocent people could feel cornered when faced with a police enquiry, but Bruno’s reaction seemed excessive. ‘Thanks. It’s not the meeting I was expecting with Afan. I’d anticipated laughter and the pleasures of catching up. It’s not the first time I’ve found a body, although it’s a different kind of shock when it’s a friend.’

Bruno was startled. ‘Wow, really? How many dead people have you dealt with?’

Too many. ‘I don’t keep count. If you’re a detective, you have to expect that it might happen.’ He remembered his girlfriend Kris Jelen. He’d found her body in her flat, where she’d been killed by a man who’d been paid to harass him. Then there was Ben Ramsay, the young man who’d been suffocated and left in Swift’s house. Ruth had had Branna in her arms when she found his body. She still used it as a stick to beat him with. He couldn’t blame her. He could hear her now. ‘It’s a dirty job that you do. Doesn’t the taint of it bother you? I worry about it impacting on Branna as she grows up and finds out about some of the things you’ve been involved with.’

Bruno said, ‘Yeah, I guess. Afan didn’t do that kind of work in Interpol, did he? No way can I imagine him dealing with violence and the dead.’

‘No, Afan was a senior officer in criminal intelligence. He dealt with information about the people who traded in crime. He examined and liaised on international data about criminal activity: times, locations, backgrounds, activity in sex and drug trafficking and illicit markets, stuff like that.’

Bruno unwrapped the pastry. ‘Amazing, the things you find out about folk. It’s all a long way from beekeeping in rural Wales. I had no idea. He didn’t talk about what he’d done before he came here. Mind you, neither did I.’ He sprinkled flour on the worktop. ‘Jasmine asked for us all to eat together tonight, but I’ve no idea if anyone will have an appetite. The pies will keep for a few days if they’re not eaten. Well, if you want to lend a hand, you can prepare a couscous salad. The ingredients are on the counter there.’

Kat was still sitting at the table, staring down, alternating the pigtails to her mouth. Now and again, she groaned softly.

‘I wish she’d go home,’ Bruno muttered, glancing at her. ‘I asked her if she wanted to help with the food, but she didn’t reply.’

‘She’s in shock.’

‘Yeah. We all are, but chewing her hair isn’t going to help any. I’m amazed she hasn’t got stomach trouble. I googled it. It’s a kind of OCD thing, called trichotillomania. I’m not one to talk, I have my own problems, but I wish she’d get therapy.’ Bruno was rolling out the shortcrust pastry with deft movements. ‘I just don’t get it. Afan was the sweetest, gentlest guy. Why would anyone want to kill him? I mean, if his wallet wasn’t taken, it wasn’t a robbery.’

‘No, that wasn’t the motive. Had Afan had any disagreements with anyone, here or locally?’

‘None that I heard about. He just kept bees, made mead and grew vegetables. A steady, trouble-free, day-to-day routine. It’s