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

and had a picture window with cream and grey wooden blinds looking over the verdant valley and Hughes’s extensive apiary. The floor was white oak. Two Eames lounge chairs in brandy leather with matching footrests faced the window, separated by a low walnut table. One wall was covered with a canvas print of a section of a beehive, crowded with worker bees. Opposite it sat a sleek black home entertainment system. Built-in bookshelves framed the recessed, log-effect electric fire which flickered on a low, comforting flame. Swift caught the sharp whiff of marijuana.

‘Sit down and chill,’ Hughes said. ‘Would you like tea? I don’t have coffee — bad for my blood pressure.’

‘I’m okay, thanks. I’ve just come from Blasus, in town.’

Hughes gave an approving nod. ‘Good food and service?’

‘Yes, and great music.’

‘Glad to hear it. I own it.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Yeah. I based it on my favourite hangout in San Francisco back in the day. A Haight-Ashbury/Holybridge fusion but with better service and no hash in the brownies — more’s the pity. Young people are far more clean-living than in my day. You have to move with the times, even if your bones creak while you’re doing it.’

His allusion to the birthplace of 1960s counterculture explained his hint of Californian drawl and the hippie-themed Blasus. The whole time, he was fiddling awkwardly with the back of his phone.

‘Hey, could you fix this for me? It’s fully charged but it keeps dying. They told me to take the SIM card out and put it back in. I get how to do it, but my arthritic fingers won’t cooperate.’

The fingers on his right hand were gnarled and curved inwards. Swift took the iPhone, checked that it was switched off, removed the SIM and then replaced it. Hughes hummed while he did it, in his light, faded voice. Swift turned the phone back on, and the screen lit up.

‘There you are, good as new.’

‘Brilliant, man! I wish someone could get my circuits moving again so easily. Thanks a bunch.’

‘That’s okay. I see you get a signal here. There’s none at Tir Melys.’

‘Yeah, I couldn’t stand that. I like to know I’m connected, especially here on my own, with my seized-up hand and creaky hip.’

Swift pointed. ‘You have a great view to compensate for the isolation.’

‘Yeah, isn’t it? I spend a lot of time just sitting here. Afan called in once and we shared a joint and gazed at the wonders. He said it was heavenly. I’m very sad about what’s happened. He was one of the good guys.’

‘Did you ever visit him at Tir Melys?’

‘Not at his cottage. I went to one of the harp concerts last year, at his invitation. Jasmine played well, although I find the harp a bit samey when it’s played solo — after a while all the melodies start blurring. I prefer it when it’s used with vocals, like Queen did, and the Beach Boys and Eurythmics. I worked as a studio technician in the music industry, so I’m probably a bit of a stern critic. The medieval-themed evening wasn’t really my scene, although I enjoyed the mead and nibbles. But I made the effort. They’re doing good stuff at that community. There was some butch chick following Afan around all evening, making sure she sat very close to him.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘I saw him in Blasus a couple of times. We get regular custom from the people at Tir Melys. They all need their internet fix, even if they pretend not to. Then he enquired about beekeeping courses. He came to one earlier this year, about natural beekeeping. We had a lecture on using horizontal hives, which was fascinating — explaining how we can try to mimic bee behaviour while we manage them. Afan was particularly interested in successful wintering.’

Hughes became energised as he spoke about winter preparations: strengthening colonies, leaving as much honey as possible for the bees, the importance of varroa floors, pollen supplements, pest treatments, insulation, mouse guards, use of Gas-Vaps and feeding fondant and syrup. It went over Swift’s head, he got lost in Hughes’s ramblings and suspected that he could talk for hours on his favourite topic. He half-listened, reflecting that this was the kind of handsomely designed and furnished living space that he’d have expected to find at Afan’s home. Luxuriously simple and relaxing. The chair was the most comfortable he’d sat in since leaving London. Hughes must have seen the bewilderment on his face because he trailed off.

‘I’m going on too much about my pet passion, aren’t I? Verbal diarrhoea is one of the pitfalls of old age and living alone. Sorry, man.’

‘You did lose me there. I can tell you live and breathe it. I imagine that it must be an incredibly demanding occupation.’

‘It’s wonderful, because you get so much back from the hard work. Afan and Bruno used to bang on about bees almost as much as I do!’

‘Bruno said he’s going to miss Afan’s expertise.’

‘He will, but I got the impression he’s no mean beekeeper himself. He has his troubles and working with bees, you have to be focused and calm.’

Swift gazed out of the window. A watery sun glinted on the washed vista spread out below. ‘Did Afan ever seem worried about anything? Tir Melys is a small community — there might have been tensions or arguments.’

Hughes was sitting with one skinny ankle resting on a stool, the other leg straight out. ‘He never mentioned any falling-out and he always seemed in good spirits. I suppose he must have had an enemy — someone took his life.’

‘It’s unlikely to have been a stranger.’

‘Yeah, I guess. The police were in touch earlier, asking which computer Afan used at the café. I passed them on to Sam, my manager.’ He rubbed his hip. ‘It was odd, mind