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

She took the keys from the ignition and adopted a milder tone. ‘That’s okay. You’ve lost your friend. So have I. It’s hard. I just wish that people wouldn’t make spiteful comments. It doesn’t help deal with the grief. I expect it was Kat, with her big wooden spoon, or maybe vindictive Guy.’

‘It doesn’t matter who mentioned it. It’s not important. See you later, at the concert.’

He left her sorting through the box in the back and went on to the cottage. He hadn’t handled that well. Suki had flinched at the memory of a lunch that, by her reckoning, had been a friendly discussion. Perhaps she’d just been uncomfortable because someone had been talking about her.

* * *

Swift drove into Ogmore-by-Sea late morning, following the line of the estuary. A thin, misty rain dimpled the River Ogmore. Dale Toft’s detached house was on a corner plot, built of brick and stone, with a sea view and a first-floor balcony.

Toft led him into a long, narrow sitting room. It was busy with ornate rugs and crammed with faux antique furniture. It was hard to move without tripping over occasional tables and standard lamps. The low ceiling was textured in whorls of plaster and the striped sofas were huge, with carved wooden arms and tassels. Large photos, converted into framed paintings, dominated the walls. They showed a hearty family. Two of the children had their father’s broad, squashy nose.

‘Coffee for you?’ Toft asked.

‘Please.’

It was ready in a silver pot on a tray and he poured it into a china cup with a daisy pattern. When Swift sniffed it, he could tell it was going to be instant and terrible, despite the posh trappings. He took a sip gamely and blinked. It tasted strongly of chicory, like the bottled coffee that his great-aunt Lily had used in cakes. He couldn’t recall the name, but the label had featured a scene from the British Raj: a seated man in a kilt and a pith helmet, with a tent in the background and a turbaned Indian servant standing by.

Toft checked his watch. ‘We’ve got an hour. The family’s at church.’

‘You don’t go?’

‘They’re RC. I’m Baptist. Different paths to the same God.’

He was in his forties with a ruddy complexion, one of those men who’d been fit in youth but become a bit paunchy. He must have still liked the outdoors, as his arms and neck had a healthy glow. Swift had spotted walking poles in the porch.

He shifted his perch on the plump, over-stuffed sofa. It was the kind of punishing furniture that resisted you. ‘I’m interested to hear what you can tell me about Afan Griffith. It sounded as if something difficult happened back when you knew him.’

Toft had sensibly passed on coffee and was drinking a glass of orange squash. ‘It was a nasty episode. It’s not easy to talk about it. I suppose Afan had his reasons for not telling you. I can understand that.’

‘Whatever it is, it can’t hurt him now.’

‘No, even so . . .’

Swift said, ‘I understand your reluctance. I’m a private investigator as well as Afan’s friend. I’m doing my best to help the police with their investigation into Afan’s background. The police might well be in touch with you soon.’

Toft pinched the bridge of his fleshy nose. ‘I can’t see what relevance it would have to what happened to him. This was years ago.’

‘It’s possible, that’s all,’ Swift said.

‘Well, then, if it might help . . . As I said to you, I met Afan through a club that offered all kinds of outdoor activities. Our main interest was bouldering. There are some great spots for it in Wales, including around here. I’d been to the East Cliffs here with Afan a couple of times, just the two of us. We were skilled, so now and again we took out small groups of people who wanted more experience. Have you ever climbed or been bouldering? Do you know about the role of the spotter?’

‘I’ve got a boat and I row as often as I can, but I’ve never climbed. Bouldering is climbing short distances without ropes or harnesses, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ Toft replied. ‘It’s more about technique and power than endurance. Some people like it because you don’t have to heave lots of equipment around. Basically, you need a crash mat and a chalk bag, to keep your hands dry. The spotter is the person who stands below the climber, by the crash mat, ready to guide them safely back down to the mat if they slip. The aim is to break their fall and protect their head from an impact. It’s an essential part of bouldering outdoors.’

‘Sounds like a hugely responsible role.’ Swift had a sinking feeling that he could predict the ending of this story.

‘It is. Crucial. One Saturday, Afan and I took a small group of four, two men and two women, just by Southerndown beach and the East Cliffs here. They had different levels of experience, so I went to one group of rocks and Afan was further along. We’d been there for almost an hour when I heard awful screaming. It seemed to go on for minutes. I couldn’t move, because I was spotting one of the group. I got him back down as quickly as I could and ran to where Afan was. The woman in his group had fallen and hit her head. It was a terrible sight. Lots of blood and she was just, well . . . crumpled. She was taken to hospital, but sadly she died a couple of days later from head trauma.’ He finished his orange squash, patted his chest and let out a deep breath. ‘Even now, it chokes me up.’

‘I’m sorry, that sounds terrible. How did it happen?’