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

Not entirely true, given Afan’s email. Bruno was painting a rosy picture that didn’t quite add up. Swift observed him as he dusted the rolling pin with flour. Did he have a reason for painting that picture? Was it a smokescreen? Something had troubled Afan and he’d fallen foul of someone. And from what Swift had seen of this community, they were like a squabbling extended family with some prickly members. They were isolated, too, spending a lot of time in close proximity. That could provide fertile soil for resentment, and resentment could ripen into murder.

Bruno rubbed flour from his fingers and turned to him. ‘Was it really Afan who sent you that email, saying that something urgent had come up?’

Swift quartered tomatoes. ‘No, I think his killer sent it, to delay any concerns about him.’ So the killer knew I was visiting, which indicates that it was probably someone who lives here or has contact with Tir Melys. ‘How many volunteers come here?’

‘At the moment, just Caris Murray. She’s here at various times.’

‘What about Jasmine’s counselling and therapy — that must bring people here?’

‘That’s more her wish list than a reality. Nobody signed up for her recent course. Maybe there’s not much need around here, or maybe she’s not much good at it. I’m not sure her heart’s been in it the past couple of months, and empathy isn’t her forte. She has a thyroid problem, which saps her energy a fair bit, so I guess that’s a factor. She sleeps most afternoons, can’t make it through the day without a nap.’

‘You don’t like her much, do you?’

Bruno grunted. ‘Not particularly. She’s patronising and her grand style can be jarring. Afan and I used to laugh about it. He’d refer to her as “the chatelaine”. She’s particularly grandiose when she gives her harp concerts, dressed up in Celtic-themed gear. She sells tickets for them locally, so people come here for those. She’s a good player, but anyone would think she was a virtuoso.’

Swift reached for a bowl of cooked peas and added them to the tomatoes. He popped one in his mouth. It was fresh and sweet. ‘Did Afan know many people in Holybridge?’

‘I’m not sure. He went there fairly regularly, to the bookshop and the café, for Wi-Fi.’

‘He did a beekeeping course, didn’t he?’

‘That’s right, this April. He was going to Welsh lessons too, once a week on Fridays. He’d forgotten most of what he’d learned at school. You can chop some spring onions for that, then the couscous can go in. It’s ready in the fridge.’ Bruno cut two circles of pastry and laid them in greased pie dishes, raising and patting the sides. ‘Afan was so clued-up about the bees. I’ll be scratching my head without him.’ His voice caught and he passed a forearm across his face. ‘The police were searching the kitchen cupboards. What was that about?’

‘They make all kinds of searches. Part of their process.’

Bruno stiffened. ‘I suppose that means they’ll do background checks on everyone here as well.’

Talking about the police again had rattled him. ‘That’s right. Does that bother you?’

Bruno didn’t answer, cracked an egg into a mug and whisked it with a fork. Swift read his silence as a yes.

Homity pies turned out to originate from Devon, not America. Bruno put a mixture of cooked potatoes, onion, spinach, cream and grated cheese in each dish and then grated nutmeg on top. He covered the pies with pastry lids, crimped them down and brushed a glistening egg wash over each.

‘I reckon we might be eating late so I won’t put these in yet. That salad could use a bit of mint, if you like, and then you could make one with leaves. If you don’t mind, I’ll just work now and not talk. I’m okay with company up to a point, then I get irritable.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ Swift found him a likeable man, despite his changeable moods.

‘Yeah, I’m so subtle. I have depression. That’s not an excuse. Just the way I am. I have good, intermediate and bad days. Today’s so-so.’

Bruno switched on the radio to a Welsh station, Dragon Radio, and they worked on in silence, listening to Fleetwood Mac, Bob Marley and Katherine Jenkins. Swift found the monotony of chopping and mixing therapeutic. His mind cleared and quietened in the way it did when he was rowing.

It was just after eight o’clock when the police left. Bruno lit the candles and they all sat down to eat. There was an air of relief and exhaustion around the table.

Jasmine closed her eyes and made the Namaste greeting. ‘We gather as a sorrowful community this evening. This is a dreadful time for us all, and we have to remain strong and help each other through it. We miss Afan, our dear friend and fellow steward. We will continue to honour the land in his memory.’

Swift scanned the table. They all had their eyes closed, including Bruno, but Bryn Price spoke to Jasmine as soon as she’d finished.

There was a challenge in his voice. ‘We are continuing with our stewardship of Tir Melys then, Jasmine?’

Jasmine stiffened. ‘Of course we are. I don’t understand what you mean, Bryn.’

They were all gaping at him. He poured himself a large glass of wine, holding their attention. ‘Just checking. I heard a rumour that you might be planning to move on from here.’

There was a shocked murmur as his blustering voice carried around the table. Kat gasped and placed a palm to her heart.

Jasmine took a sip of water. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Oh, just around and about.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Peter Merchant said. He put a hand over his wife’s. ‘We’ve all had enough of a shock today, Bryn, without you worrying people