MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective by GRETTA MULROONEY (ebook reader for laptop txt) 📕

Swift drove into Holybridge late in the morning, and parked near the bookshop, Holybridge Preloved. He checked his phone and saw that the news of Afan’s death had been released to the press, with a head-and-shoulders photo of him that must have been copied from his passport. It was the clean-shaven, urbane Afan he used to work with. That meant that the police had either found next of kin or established that there was none. He skimmed a report.

Murder has taken place in a peaceful coastal setting in the beautiful Pembrokeshire countryside. The body of Afan Griffith was discovered yesterday on the coast path, three miles from Holybridge. Mr Griffith, 45, had been stabbed. He lived and worked at Tir Melys and was familiar to the community in Holybridge. Mr Griffith went missing some time after mid-morning on Monday.

DI Sofia Weber has appealed for information from anyone who spoke to Mr Griffith recently, saw him on the coastal path or saw anyone acting suspiciously in the area.

Swift strolled around, getting a sense of the market town. It was thriving and prosperous, a popular holiday destination with the middle classes. That explained the organic grocery, wholefood and herbal remedy shop, upmarket outdoor clothing outlet and artisan bakery. There was also a market running the length of the main street, and Swift could see at a glance that there was no tat for sale.

The bookshop was double-fronted, painted a faded green and cream, with a striped canvas awning that had seen better days and a bright, busy window display. One window was full of community notices and posters for parent and baby groups, allotment holders, church meetings, craft workshops, book clubs, Holybridge historical society, an over-sixties club, a walking group, and one which caught Swift’s eye.

Welsh classes, all levels

Don’t be shy, get started or brush up on what you’ve forgotten

Ask in the bookshop for details

He also spotted a poster with the Tir Melys logo.

Harp Concert by Jasmine Merchant

24 August, 7.30 p.m., the Bivium, Tir Melys

Refreshments available

Tickets £5 from Holybridge Preloved or on the door

All proceeds go towards the stewardship of the Tir Melys community

Inside, the shop was crammed with floor to ceiling shelves of second-hand books. Near the door stood a scuffed pine table holding a thermos jug of coffee, a tray with milk and sugar and a wooden tree of mugs beside it. A narrow bench like a church pew sat next to it, below the window. A young woman wearing square black glasses, and with her hair tucked into a bandana, was unpacking a box of books and examining the spines. She greeted him when he entered. She had an engaging smile.

‘Hi there! I have to go through this box carefully. I got it as a job lot at a car boot sale and some of the books are too knackered to price up. Just browsing, or can I help?’

‘You might be able to help. My name’s Ty Swift. I’m a friend of Afan Griffith. Have you heard the sad news about him?’

She froze, a book in her hand. ‘Oh yes, just this morning! I’m so sorry. I was really shocked. He was such a lovely man.’

‘I’d arranged to stay with Afan at Tir Melys, but he was missing when I arrived.’

‘Oh, gosh! When did you get there?’

‘Monday afternoon.’

She put down the book she was holding. ‘How awful for you. What will you do now?’

‘I’m staying around for a bit. I want to see his murderer caught.’

‘Of course. Let me just get this out of the way.’ She bent and moved a box to one side. A lock of black hair fell onto her forehead and she swept it back under her bandana as she straightened up.

Swift found her fluid movements attractive and wondered if she’d had the same effect on Afan. ‘Were you close to Afan?’

She came towards him. ‘As friends, you understand. One of the lovely things about running this shop is that some customers become friends too. He bought quite a few books here and sometimes we’d chat about local history, and particularly medieval Pembrokeshire. He was very erudite, really knew his subject. Did he have any family around here? They must be in bits.’

That answered one of the questions he had for her. ‘Not that he ever mentioned.’

‘Oh, I see. That’s sad. I suppose the people at Tir Melys were his family in a way.’

‘I expect so. Have you had much to do with the community?’

‘I’ve been there a couple of times.’

‘Afan seems to have been very involved there.’

‘He waxed lyrical about the bees and mead making. He brought some of his apple mead to our Welsh class for a tasting session once. It went down a treat. Just as well we saved it until the end, or we’d have learned nothing!’

‘Were you in his class?’

She pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘I’m the teacher. We meet in my flat upstairs. Afan came to my class on Fridays, although he didn’t attend regularly anymore.’

‘Why was that?’ Bruno had said that Afan came to lessons every week.

The woman went to the door, checked that there were no other customers on the way in, and came over to the service desk. She moved confidently, dusting her hands on her jeans. Her light verbena scent was pleasant. ‘Would you like a coffee? It’s free.’

He didn’t want the conversation to stall. ‘Maybe in a minute, thanks.’

She perched on the desk edge, swinging a leg. Her pretty, sapphire earrings danced as she talked. She had extraordinary eyes, deep-set and a pale blue grey. He found them mesmeric. ‘Just help yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s freshly made. My name’s Gwyn, by the way, Gwyn Bowen. Afan was vague about the lessons. He just said that he was a bit busy