MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective GRETTA MULROONEY (epub e reader TXT) 📖

‘The boss left . . . text message. She’s . . . into hospital and they’ve . . . turn her phone off . . . bone infection. Osteomyelitis . . . said to tell you . . . carry on being “Lone Ranger”. Make sense?’

‘I understand. Any news about Caris Murray?’

‘Nothing . . . asking around the streets . . . CCTV . . . nobody saw anything. Quiet . . . there . . . Sunday.’

‘Is someone taking over from DI Weber?’

‘The boss? Waiting to hear.’ He sounded lost, his voice a little boy’s. ‘Concentrating . . . Caris.’

‘Could you call me if you hear any updates about DI Weber?’

The signal powered in momentarily. ‘Yeah, okay. I rang just now but they said she was having treatment and couldn’t speak to anyone. Her brother’s at the hospital.’

Swift rang off. He wanted to call the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell him anything. Spencer would be directionless without Sofia, a little lamb seeking its mother. He had no faith in the sergeant’s ability to find Caris without his boss at his side. He finished his water. He’d planned to spend longer in the cave system, but now he’d need to up the pace of his own investigation. He was apprehensive about the person who was moving silently around Tir Melys, slipping unseen into Afan’s cottage. Their behaviour suggested unfinished business.

He dragged the boat into the sea and started rowing back to Holybridge in choppier conditions. His muscles had stiffened a little but soon warmed and relaxed as he found a rhythm. To his relief, one of the staff gave him a hand with the boat up the slipway. He stopped at the café attached to the hire shop for a mug of tea and a slab of fruitcake to up his energy level. When he checked his phone, he saw that he’d had the call he’d hoped for, from Joanna Knight, Dru Knight’s mother. There was only a handful of Knights listed around Splott and he’d done a trawl of them, eliminating two young women and an older man. He’d left a message for Ms Knight, keeping his fingers crossed that he’d struck lucky. He listened to the voicemail. A cold, cautious tone.

Hello, is that Mr Swift? I got your message. Not sure how I can help you about Dru. Seems a bit strange after all this time, but I suppose I don’t mind if you want to call me back.

He washed down a mouthful of the rich cake and rang Ms Knight.

‘Thanks so much for coming back to me.’ He explained who he was. ‘I’m sorry if my contact brings back sad memories, but my friend, Afan Griffith, was murdered recently. You might have seen it on the news.’

‘No, I avoid the news, too depressing. That name’s familiar, though. I’ll never forget it. I suppose it’s the same man who caused my daughter’s death.’

‘It’s the same man who was bouldering with her at Ogmore. I’ve heard about the accident, how your daughter was injured.’

She sounded as if her teeth were clenched. ‘Accident. Yes, that’s what they said it was. It should have been manslaughter. Griffith should have gone to prison for what he did. I’m glad he got what was coming to him in the end.’

He could hear that her pain was as raw as if her daughter had died yesterday. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why should you be sorry? You don’t know me.’

‘True, but I realise it must have been very hard for you.’

‘Hard? I’ll say! Dru had got herself knocked up by some man in London and came back here with her tail between her legs. Took it for granted, of course, that I’d bail her out. She’d no right to be off climbing up rocks when she had a child. Completely irresponsible. Next thing, I was on my tod with a baby. Thank goodness I’d nagged Dru into taking out life insurance. I’d have gone under without that.’

‘Was Afan in touch with you after your daughter died?’

‘No, he bloody well wasn’t.’

‘I wondered if he’d offered you and your grandchild financial help.’

She laughed. ‘You’re joking. He sent flowers for the funeral and I binned them. If he’d offered blood money, I’d have thrown it back in his face.’

‘Does your grandchild still live with you?’

‘Trevor? Why are you asking about him?’

‘Is his surname Wright?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he still live with you?’

‘No, he’s in Penarth.’ She paused. ‘Why do you want this information? What are you after?’

He’d got what he needed. He wished he hadn’t upset her. ‘I’m just checking on a few things. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

‘So you should be. I don’t like getting phoned up like this. Oh, hang on — this money angle — did Griffith’s conscience bother him? Did he leave Trev something?’

Maybe she was one of those people who watched programmes like Heir Hunters and hoped for the letter revealing an unexpected windfall. He didn’t like to raise false hopes but it had to be done. ‘I’m not sure. But wouldn’t you regard that as blood money?’

‘That’d be different,’ she said. ‘Like Griffith paying his dues.’

Swift let that pass. ‘I’d like to speak to Trevor. Could you give me his number?’ He expected her to refuse, but she rattled it off. Despite her anger, the lure of an inheritance was a strong one. ‘Was Trevor expecting to benefit from Afan’s will?’

‘I’d have thought that . . .’ She checked herself. ‘I can’t be doing this anymore. Trev’s headstrong, just like his mother. Never listens to me. He can deal with his own affairs. Bugger off.’

It was always good to be told where you stood. Her denial concerning financial help had been genuine. Trevor had been dealing with his own affairs and accepting