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

‘The late fruit will rot,’ Elinor said glumly. ‘And no . . . no Caris to help pick it.’

‘No, no Caris.’

‘Do you think the same person killed Afan and Caris?’

The hot cocoa stung his lip and he winced. ‘Can’t say.’

‘It’s terrible. Unbelievable. Why would anyone leave a body in a holy place?’

‘Maybe it was just convenient.’

‘How can you be so calm?’ She put a hand to her mouth and turned to him. ‘Shouldn’t we tell the others what’s happened?’

‘It’s gone one in the morning. There’s no point in waking everyone up, and we should leave it to the police.’

‘I suppose, yes.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘I don’t want to stay here now. The Merchants have agreed to sell to us, but I don’t want to carry on. Everything’s spoiled. All our plans built on shifting sands. To think of the sacrifices I’ve . . . Oh, Fwankie, what are we going to do?’

Swift’s head was aching. He swallowed a couple of painkillers. ‘You’ve had a dreadful shock. You were very fond of Caris. She told me.’

She shifted. ‘Did she?’

‘You gave her a lovely emerald pendant.’

‘Yes.’

‘Very generous.’

‘Well . . . she was helpful with our produce.’

‘Maybe she was, but I’ve been wondering if you gave her the pendant and other jewellery for a different reason. Not a good one.’

She winced, bent and kissed Frankie’s head, then stared into her cocoa.

Swift reached into the tin of biscuits and took a digestive. He was ambushed by another memory of Ruth, of lunching with her after she’d married. One of those wistful, strange meetings they used to have in London. She’d pushed aside the complimentary shortbread. Neither of us likes shortbread, we never eat it. He was burdened by thoughts of her, and wished he’d never seen the woman at Ogmore. The fire’s warmth had made him sluggish and he fought through inertia. It was as if the constant rain and damp here had seeped into his brain and numbed it. He forced himself to straighten up, aware that he was nearer to a resolution of these crimes. He spoke quietly.

‘Elinor, I’m certain now that Caris, and possibly someone else, had you between a rock and a hard place. Tell me about it.’

She caressed the dog’s head. ‘Listen to that storm building. I hope there’s no damage to our roof. It’s cosy in here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. And safe. Two people have died, Elinor. This has to stop.’

She sighed. ‘I haven’t felt safe for ages, have I, Fwankie?’ She turned to Swift, a look of appeal and despair. ‘I’ve been frightened of saying or doing the wrong thing. Like I’ve been fighting on so many fronts I can never win. I want a baby so much.’

‘Yes. But that can’t be at any price. I’ve seen the jewellery you’ve been giving away.’

‘But that’s not the only cost you’re talking about.’

‘No.’

‘Ah, if you only knew. If you had any notion of what I’ve been through. I wonder if you can spend your soul. The stories say you can sell it to the devil, so why not spend it too?’ She held her mug out to him. ‘Can I have another?’

He made fresh drinks, coffee for himself to try to stay alert, and sat back beside her, stifling yawns. Elinor shared another shortbread with Frankie. Her chair creaked faintly as she rocked. Then she started talking. Swift surreptitiously pressed record on his phone. It was a long, rambling and anguished story with much backtracking and pauses for bouts of tears. She was in a pitiful state. He listened intently, holding exhaustion at bay. He was hearing a blend of truth and lies, and he wasn’t sure how to sift one from the other. The more he heard, the more he realised how burdened Afan had been with other people’s dilemmas. The man must have been overwhelmed at times.

It was almost 2 a.m. when Elinor went home. Swift was anxious as he watched her walk away. Should he let her go? She was highly volatile, and her husband would do nothing to ease her unpredictability. Her monologue had calmed her for now. He wished that he could ring Sofia and discuss his suspicions. There was nothing more that he could do tonight. He fell onto the bed fully clothed, his head full of the complex yarn Elinor had spun him. He fell asleep instantly.

Chapter 19

A thunderstorm woke Swift at just gone seven. He’d slept deeply. The air was humid, and his clothes were sticking to his body. He made coffee and stood at the open window, studying the turbulent sky. A trellis of runner beans had collapsed, and the gutters were streaming. He felt better this morning than he’d expected. He was stiff and his back ached, but it could have been worse.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn’t pretty, with the grazes now a livid red. He decided to leave well alone and not to shave. In fact, he’d grow a beard until he got home to the luxury of hot water. He showered and ate bread and cheese while he played back Elinor’s voice, then made a copy of the recording with edits. It was hard to gauge how much of what she’d said was misdirection. He had an idea why these murders had been committed, but he was unsure about who was involved and hesitated over his next steps. This place, with its strange brew of seething emotions, seemed to be draining his energy and befuddling him. He poured another mug of coffee, mulling over what he needed to do and the best way to achieve it.

First, he drove just far enough to get a phone signal, noting that the chapel had been cordoned off and a heavy-duty padlock fitted to the door.