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

‘He was probably even nastier to Elinor when they got home.’

‘Probably. She chooses to be married to him. There’s no understanding people.’

‘If you like to keep an eye on what your neighbours are doing, did you ever notice anything unusual or troubling about Afan?’

Price’s eyes glinted. He was enjoying the game. ‘That would be telling.’

Swift sipped his coffee. ‘You’ll have to answer if the police ask you that question.’

Price winked. ‘Well, that’s different, isn’t it? One has a duty to answer their questions. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the law, but I’m not answerable to you.’

‘I’ll answer my own question, then,’ Swift said. ‘There was something going on with Afan, something bothering him.’

Price tilted his head sharply. ‘Did he tell you something, then?’

‘Maybe.’ Swift deliberately changed the subject and tried hooking another line. ‘I heard that the Merchants have financial troubles.’

Price made a buzzing sound. ‘You’re as busy as one of the Tir Melys bees.’

‘I get around. If it forces them to sell up, it’ll be a major blow to everyone.’

‘You’re right there, no word of a lie. But that’s the landed gentry all over, isn’t it? Londoners like the Merchants who fancied a patch of Wales, where land’s cheaper and they could squire it over the locals. It’s been the way in Pembrokeshire for centuries, with fforinyrs coming in. They call this county “little England”. The Brinkworths are the same — they’ve chosen to favour us with their company, but Guy believes we’re backward, leek-munching troglodytes. Distinct lack of PhDs around here.’

‘You think the Merchants were lying, then, when you challenged them?’

‘Let’s say I’m surprised that Jasmine’s nose didn’t grow. I’m working on it — hold the front page.’ Price tapped his nose and folded his arms on top of his gut. ‘I’ve got lots of irons in the fire in Holybridge. My family have been here for generations. My name comes from the Welsh, ap Rhys. It means son of Rhys.’ He laughed. ‘I told uppity Guy that his name means “farm”. He didn’t like that one little bit. Far too common. It’s too easy to get a rise out of him, but I do enjoy it.’

‘How come you’re living as a tenant at Tir Melys if your family are from here?’ He saw a frown gathering on Price’s face so added, ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Messy divorce, and I do mind.’ He hummed for a few seconds. ‘If you’re fishing for snippets of gossip, here’s a morsel to go with your sandwich. Suki and Afan were in here one day. I saw them through this window as I was passing. They were having lunch and it wasn’t a comfortable conversation. She had a face like thunder, and he was staring miserably into his mug.’

‘When was that?’

‘Dunno exactly. In the spring sometime.’ He turned to Sam, who was cleaning a table. ‘Hey, Sam, I was telling Ty here that Guy Brinkworth is well up himself. Far too good for the likes of us. What’s he a doctor of again? Something phoney-sounding, like one of those qualifications you can buy on the internet.’

‘Parapsychology.’ Sam laughed. ‘It’s pretty much regarded as a pseudoscience. Maybe Guy was able to predict his grades.’

‘We had a right giggle when we found that out,’ Price said. ‘I mean, what kind of doctorate is that and what bloody use is it to anyone? I might have a bit of respect if his subject was something handy, like land management or conservation. He probably couldn’t get a proper job, which is why he pitched up at Tir Melys, hammering out his jewellery. Anyway, his PhD doesn’t seem to help him use his psychic powers to find out who killed Afan.’

He and Sam started to banter back and forth, with Sam calling, ‘I knew you were going to say that.’ Price waved a mock warning finger at him and went to the jukebox, where he selected Led Zeppelin. Swift paid for his meal, went outside and unlocked the bike. He glanced through the window when he straightened up. Price was gyrating beside the jukebox, making the peace sign, while a couple of customers clapped.

He was a braggart, but he might be a useful one.

* * *

The bike handled well with its broad tyres, but Sion Hughes hadn’t mentioned that his house was four miles from Holybridge along a series of winding, narrow roads that climbed uphill all the way. The inevitable rain arrived ten minutes after Swift left the town, but it drifted softly and he pushed on, breathing hard, finding the wind and wet exhilarating.

Hughes lived in an unremarkable modern, pebble-dashed bungalow facing a broad valley. The ordinariness of the house was transformed by the view and the front garden, which contained tall steel and bronze sculptures of spindly trees standing in a circle within a ring of white rocks. Some of their branches intertwined. Swift stood and inspected them for a full minute. They were eerie and beautiful. Kat could learn a few lessons from the sculptor’s skill and simplicity.

The knocker on the door was made from rusted iron, in the shape of a bee. Hughes opened the door carrying a phone. He looked like Paul McCartney after a couple of years on the razzle. He had the same pixie features and boyish smile, but his face was deeply lined, and a pronounced dewlap hung beneath his chin. He wore black jeans with a leather fringe vest over a pink T-shirt, and a rainbow-coloured hemp necklace. He was slim and erect, with thin, silvery hair skimming his shoulders. Swift introduced himself and they shook hands.

‘Hey, man, you’ve caught some raindrops,’ Hughes said. He even sounded like Macca. ‘Come on in.’

The living room was painted pale grey