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

away. The chicken hotpot wouldn’t fit in the fridge, so he’d have to eat it tonight. He opened the lid and sniffed. It smelled good, but he wondered if Afan had really liked it. He doubted that he’d have thrown it away but pictured him eating it reluctantly, possibly under Kat’s watchful, intense gaze.

He was hungry now, so he ate the club sandwich from its box and checked the time. It was three o’clock and he’d noticed a young woman working on the communal allotment alongside Elinor. He decided to check if she was Caris Murray. When he opened the door, he saw her coming towards him. She wore jeans, green wellingtons and an old sweater that hung loosely, exposing one rounded shoulder. Her thick, bobbed hair was streaked with blue and swayed as she walked.

‘Hi, are you Mr Swift?’

‘That’s right. My name’s Ty.’

‘I’m Caris Murray. Elinor told me you were here. She said you found Afan. What’s happened is so awful, I still can’t believe it. You must be in bits.’

She took off a gardening glove and they shook hands. She wore a pretty silver thumb ring, shaped like a feather. Her manner was rough and ready, but she seemed shy, catching his eye fleetingly.

‘That’s right, I found Afan on the coast path.’

She had wide, chiselled cheeks and was remarkably pale and strained for someone working in the open air. Perhaps it was the shock of hearing about Afan.

‘He told me you were coming. He said it had been a long time — too long.’

‘It had,’ Ty said. ‘I was looking forward to our catch-up.’

She rubbed the heel of a wellington along the ground, dislodging a chunk of mud. ‘Afan showed me a photo he’d found of you both. He said it was taken in France.’

‘He’d left the photo on the table. That’s where we met, in Lyon.’

‘Yeah. He said you were both at Interpol, when he was working in criminal intelligence.’

‘That’s right.’ It was interesting that Afan had told this young woman information that he hadn’t shared with the members of the community. He must have trusted her. ‘Did he tell you that in confidence?’

Her eyes were dark, thick-lashed and hard to read. ‘Yes. I loved listening to him talking about it. I never expected to meet someone who’d worked at a job like that.’

‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’

‘No, I don’t have time, thanks. I’m . . . I’m really sorry about Afan. I liked him a lot. What will . . . What will happen to his things?’

‘You mean the things in his cottage?’

She shifted from foot to foot. He had the impression that she was taut with tension and might bolt at any minute. ‘Yeah, his possessions.’

‘I can’t say. Why, is there something of yours in there?’

‘No, no. I just wondered, like. I suppose the police will deal with all his personal stuff.’

‘It depends. They were asking if Afan had any family or next of kin.’

‘He didn’t, he had no one,’ she said quickly and then grimaced, as if she’d revealed too much.

‘Afan told you that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have the police spoken to you yet?’

She stiffened. ‘The police? Why would they want to speak to me?’

‘They’ll be speaking to anyone who knew Afan, especially people with an involvement here. Afan might have appointed a solicitor as his executor.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Someone who carries out your wishes when you die, sorts out your estate. Were you close to Afan? You seem to have been, from the things he told you.’

‘Oh . . . well, we’d chat when we were working the crops. Sometimes I helped him with bottling the mead. He was an easy person to get on with and so interesting. Well, I’ve got stuff to finish before the rain starts again.’

‘I met a friend of yours this morning.’

She’d turned to go but halted, and the little remaining colour drained from her face. ‘Yeah?’

‘In the bookshop. Gwyn Bowen.’

‘Oh, Gwyn. Right.’ She relaxed and gave a nervous laugh.

What had she been expecting him to say? ‘She mentioned that Morgan, your boyfriend, was missing and you’ve had a difficult time.’

She stared at her feet. She seemed to find her wellingtons fascinating. ‘Yeah, I’ve been better. Morgan and me were kind of on/off though, not exactly devoted. More like mates most of the time, really. But I’m sure Morgan’s gone to London. He talked a lot about living there. He left a note in his bedroom saying that’s what he was planning.’

She was lying and she wasn’t much good at hiding it. ‘He went away without telling you and he hasn’t been in touch since? Doesn’t sound much of a relationship, even just for mates.’

He’d intended to goad her, and it worked. She looked up at him quickly, but he could see fear rather than anger in her eyes.

‘It was what it was. You can’t hold someone back from what they want.’

‘Did you meet through volunteering here?’

‘No, we knew each other before that, we were at school together. I’ve got to go. If you want to harvest what you want for now from Afan’s garden, I’ll collect any other ripe stuff another day and process it for the kitchen.’

She walked away quickly, and he watched her rigid shoulders. What had that been about? Caris had come for information, but he’d no idea why. She was well informed about Afan yet didn’t want to admit it, and she was deeply worried. When people were moved to share personal information, those confidences were usually a two-way street, and he was curious about what Afan might have learned from her.

He found a wooden bowl in the dresser and picked tomatoes, raspberries and some late strawberries. The wigwams of runner beans were heavy with ripe pods. Caris had several