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

‘. . . message but I’m . . .’

Swift said, ‘Are you still at Tir Melys?’

‘No . . . need to see . . .’

‘Where are you?’

‘Forensics . . .’

The signal faded and the call died. Swift swore and reversed back up the road. He saw that he had one bar on his phone and texted Spencer. To his relief, it ticked sent.

Urgent. Come back to Tir Melys.

He drove on fast through sheets of water, hunched over the wheel, barely able to see the road. At Tir Melys, he drove past the car park into the community. No one was out in the sweeping rain. The gardens were forlorn. Elinor was right, the fruit would rot. Yet even under this lowering sky, he could appreciate the remote beauty of the place and see why it could inspire a passion to cling to the land.

He slowed and parked outside the Merchants’ house. He eased from the car, catching his breath as his back spasmed, and stood for a moment in the deluge. All was silent except for the rolling thunder.

He knocked on the door, waited and then knocked again. Jasmine opened it. She was in a man’s tartan dressing gown with the belt drawn tight and she had the fuddled eyes of someone who’s just woken. He was taken aback to see her without a hat. Her thin hair was white and cropped. She put a hand to her head in embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry. Did I wake you?’

She leaned against the door. ‘I’ve just got up. It’s been exhausting, having the police here again. So many questions, so much upset. We’re all deeply shocked at Caris’s murder. And to think that it happened on our land, in a holy place! Elinor is in a dreadful state. It’s as if we’ve all been hit by a steamroller with these two terrible deaths. If you don’t mind, we’re really not up to visitors.’

‘I don’t want to intrude, but it’s important.’

She said with a pleading catch in her voice, ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

She shrugged and waved him in. Peter was sitting in the willow armchair to one side of the fire in the kitchen, listening to Mozart and conducting with his hand. He wore another fusty fawn cardigan and backless slippers. A grey sort of man, the kind you’d hardly notice. He glanced over at Swift and carried on conducting. It was warm and snug in the room with the glowing fire. Condensation clouded the windows. An empty casserole dish stood on the table, still smelling savoury and delicious. It would be hard to give this house up.

Jasmine shifted the kettle onto the hot plate of the Aga and threw teabags into a pot. ‘Well, what is it?’ She had to raise her voice over the music.

Swift pulled a chair out and sat at the table. ‘Afan knew about the plan to sell Tir Melys.’

He wasn’t sure that Peter had heard him. Jasmine stood with her hand on the kettle.

‘What do you mean? How?’ Her regal manner had vanished, replaced with anxiety.

‘Bruno told him the week before he died.’

Jasmine turned to her husband. ‘Peter, did you hear that?’

He didn’t respond. The Marriage of Figaro played on, and his hand swept from side to side. She switched off the music. Peter went on conducting. The kitchen was silent, apart from the hiss of the kettle.

Swift repeated himself. ‘Afan knew about the plan to sell Tir Melys the week before he died.’

‘Why did Bruno tell him?’ Jasmine asked.

‘Because he wanted to see if Afan would loan him some money to buy you out.’

Jasmine rubbed her forehead, moved the kettle off the hotplate and sat down opposite Swift. ‘Well . . . so what? Why have you come here to tell us that?’

She had no inkling. He stared across at Peter Merchant’s defeated expression and understood that he’d reached the right conclusion. ‘Ask your husband.’

She turned in her chair. ‘Peter? What does he mean?’

Peter got up slowly and threw another log on the fire. He watched the flames lick it and then straightened a cast iron skillet above his head. From the back, he could be mistaken for an old man, but beneath his fogeyish clothes, he was sinewy from his yoga practice. He started across to the table, his slippers flapping on the flagged floor, and then stopped. He swayed a little. Swift rose and pulled a chair out for him, gestured for him to sit. A small kindness never went amiss at a time like this.

Swift sat back down. ‘I believe that Afan spoke to you, Peter, after Bruno had told him about your plan to sell, and the plot that he and Bryn were hatching. Afan disliked all the underhandedness, on both sides. He realised how much you genuinely loved Tir Melys and longed to stay here. I’ve seen you looking heartbroken over the prospect of losing it. Afan understood that you’re more approachable than Jasmine and likely to listen, more open to negotiation. He said that you needed to be honest with your tenants so as to find a way forward. I’m not sure that you intended to kill him.’

Jasmine gazed at her husband. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Peter could never harm anyone. Tell him, Peter. Tell him this is nonsense.’ Her voice faltered and died as he shook his head. He reached out and patted her hand.

‘Quiet, now, Jasmine. You’ve always done most of the talking but this isn’t your show. I’m tired. Tired of listening to you and tired of all the subterfuge and worry. And for what? We’re losing it all anyway. You see, Ty, I’m counting on the peace and quiet of a prison cell. Sounds odd, I know. Will they let me weave willow? It’s