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

She didn’t like Kat, because she was always pestering Afan. The only other person she didn’t have much time for was Guy Brinkworth. Once when I was there, she’d been in their house, talking to Elinor. She said Guy was an out-and-out shit, far more than anyone realised.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s it. That’s all. Should I come back to Holybridge and help look for Caz?’

‘Doesn’t sound like a good idea, given your brother’s behaviour.’

‘I’ve been worried about him. I had a couple of weird calls yesterday, unknown number. Just a silence, then the calls ended. I bet it’s him. It’s the kind of thing that’d be his idea of fun. That means someone’s told him my number and he might have this address.’

‘Where would you stay if you came back to Holybridge?’

‘I could ask Caz’s mum.’

Swift shook his head. ‘Calvin would find out and then Ms Murray would have even more trouble at her door. It wouldn’t be fair on her.’

Morgan gave a sob. ‘What am I going to do, not knowing what’s happened to Caz?’

Swift doubted that he had the resources to act on his own. But he had to start learning, especially if Caris wasn’t coming back. ‘Tidy this place up, for a start. Then search for a job and somewhere to live. Hopefully, Caris will turn up and then at least she’ll come back to positive news.’

‘I’m not sure if I can do that, manage this stuff on my own.’

‘What’s the alternative, Morgan? Wait until you’re out on the street with no money coming in? It’s up to you, but I know which I’d rather do in your circumstances.’

‘You think I can do it on my own?’

‘I’ve every faith in you,’ Swift lied.

Chapter 18

The heavens opened as Swift cycled back to Tir Melys from the station. He’d stopped at the Bridge Arms for an evening meal. The cottage pie had been delicious, but now he regretted delaying in town. It was gone nine, the light obliterated by heavy cloud. His headlight just about picked out the road. All he could hear was the roaring rain as it pounded him, streaming into his eyes. He crouched lower and pedalled on. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been seeing Tir Melys from the wrong angle. It was like studying a photograph or a painting in a gallery. You could get too close, absorbed in the detail and intensity. If you altered your stance, you could find a different perspective, see aspects you hadn’t noticed before. He pondered the financial problems, the concert audience, the Brinkworths’ studio, random comments and the things that Caris had chosen to reveal and conceal.

Half a mile from the turning to Tir Melys, he could barely see where he was going. He’d decided to stop and wipe his face when an engine roared close behind him. He half turned, and then he was flying through the air and rolling on the ground. He landed on his back in a soggy ditch. He twisted, gasping with pain, and tried to identify the car but all he could glimpse were blurred tail lights, vanishing into the obscuring deluge. He lay still, catching his breath and moving his limbs cautiously. Everything seemed to be working. His back throbbed and he could taste blood on his tongue, salty and sharp.

He hauled himself up, staggered to the road and found his bike. It had been thrown along the verge. Miraculously, the lights were still working but the back wheel was buckled, and the front one had bent spokes. He got on and tried riding it, but the damaged spokes kept catching the brake. He dismounted and pushed it with difficulty for a couple of metres. He gave up on the seizing brake, tucked the bike into the hedgerow behind a tall oak tree and continued on foot. His legs were like jelly, his face burned and ached. He plodded on, head down.

He fell through the door of the cottage and collapsed into a chair. He sat for minutes, without the strength even to remove his sodden clothing. Then he roused himself and drank a large glass of mead. It warmed him instantly. Thanks, Afan. The stove was still glowing. He stacked it with wood, groaning as his back pulled. He rested with his hands on the warm top, noting that they were covered in grazes, and then straightened up slowly. In the bathroom, he stripped off. The tiny mirror reflected his lacerated face and a fat bottom lip. He stood under the shower, longing for it to be hotter. The stove was blazing by the time he was dressed in dry jeans and a jumper. He poured another glass of mead and sat close to it, shivering despite the warmth.

Someone had tried to kill him. He was sure that the accident had been intentional. The engine’s sudden roar and the vanishing vehicle told him that. They had accelerated. He got up and checked that he’d locked the door. He’d finished the mead and was slumped in a light doze when someone hammered at the door and he heard Elinor shout his name.

She burst in and stood trembling by the table. Her yellow oil slicker dripped on to the floor. Frankie was tucked inside her coat, peeping out from below the collar. ‘Ty, you must come. It’s awful. Please, you must come.’

‘What is it?’

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then she gulped and whimpered, ‘Caris. It’s Caris. I found her. She’s dead.’

‘Where?’

‘In the chapel. I was out in the Land Rover and I just stopped in to say a prayer. Please, please help.’

He was fuzzy from shock and the mead. He shook his head and reached for his waxed jacket. ‘Elinor, I’ve had a few drinks. Can you take me there in the Land Rover?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She was staring at