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

‘It’s nothing. Have you told anyone else?’

‘No. I came straight to you.’

‘Good. I want you to fetch the Land Rover and drive it down to the Bivium. I’m heading there now to ring the police. I won’t be long.’

She was trembling, leaning against the table for support, but she roused herself and left the cottage. He put a torch in his pocket, locked up and hurried to the Bivium. He was stiff and his back hurt like hell. By the time he’d finished his call, Elinor was waiting outside in the Land Rover with Frankie asleep in the back. They drove to the chapel in silence. Swift had never been privy to a mute Elinor before. The rain was still full force and the windscreen wipers swished ineffectually. Swift wondered what she’d been doing in the chapel late on such a night. It was an unusual time to pray. He also wondered if she’d tried to run him down earlier.

‘It’s best if you stay here, in the Land Rover,’ he said. ‘It reduces contamination of the crime scene.’ And if you killed Caris, it doesn’t give you the chance to cover any traces. ‘Are you okay with that, Elinor? The police won’t be long. Keep the doors locked.’

Elinor whispered, ‘Caris . . . she’s in the hermit’s hidey-hole. Sort of scrunched up. It’s horrible.’

Swift slipped gloves on and opened the chapel door. He lit his way with the torch to the hermit’s hidden chamber and stood at the entrance. Caris was on the floor in a dark pool of blood, curled up with one leg bent, her hair falling over her face. She wore a denim jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. He approached her carefully and checked that there was no pulse. When he played the torch beam around her neck there was no gleam of an emerald. There was a lack of ritual to this death, no grave goods. She’d been concealed, dumped, not displayed. Perhaps there were two killers at work here. He was bitterly angry, even more so than at Afan’s death. Caris had been so young, so burdened with responsibilities, and he now believed that she’d got out of her depth with someone in this community.

He stepped back into the body of the chapel. The cold snaked beneath his clothing. Morgan would despair when he heard this news. He went back to the door to check that Elinor was okay. She was sitting with the engine running, her eyes closed. He envied her the warmth in the vehicle.

He was numb with cold and shock by the time the police arrived — DS Spencer, bleary-eyed, with two uniforms.

Swift explained what had happened. ‘Do you mind if Elinor and I go home? I can’t see that we can contribute anything else right now.’

‘That’s okay,’ Spencer said. ‘I’ve got to wait for the crime scene manager anyway. Have you been in a punch-up?’

‘Someone ran me off the road earlier. How’s DI Weber?’

‘Bad, apparently. That’s all they’ll say. I can’t believe it. One minute she had a broken arm and now she’s . . .’ He sounded tearful.

Swift went back to the Land Rover. Moving was an immense effort. Elinor still had her eyes closed. He walked around the vehicle, shining the torch on the front and left side. There was no obvious damage.

‘Did you see her?’ Elinor whispered when he climbed in. Frankie was on her lap, his eyelids flickering.

‘Yes. We can head back now.’

Elinor put a hand on the gear lever. ‘I had a row with Guy after supper. He’d written another sarcastic letter to social services behind my back. I was so upset I just took off for a drive around the coast. Then on the way back, I decided to visit the chapel.’

Swift put his hands in front of the warm air vent. ‘What made you go into the small chamber?’

She hesitated. ‘This is embarrassing.’

‘You don’t have to tell me, but the police will ask.’

‘I was thinking . . . maybe I could hide in there. Guy would worry and he wouldn’t be able to find me. If I hid until tomorrow, he’d be so frightened, he’d stop all this destructive behaviour. But then I realised that I couldn’t do that tonight, because Fwankie was with me and it wouldn’t be fair on him. I could come back on my own another day and hide, so I stepped in to see how it might feel . . .’ She glanced at him. ‘I suppose you’re sitting there worrying that I’m completely mad. Unhinged.’

He wasn’t sure what to make of her. He said nothing for a while. The rain thudded and the engine purred. He drifted sleepily, and then forced himself to stay alert.

‘You’re sad and desperate, Elinor. Let’s go back.’

* * *

He invited Elinor to have cocoa with him and she accepted readily. He was exhausted and didn’t want her company, but she was at a low ebb and he needed to exploit that.

He asked, ‘Do you want to tell Guy where you are?’

‘No. I expect he’s fast asleep. Nothing ever disturbs Guy’s sleep. Anyway, I don’t care if he’s not and sitting up worrying. I hope he is. He deserves to be.’

‘I’ve not heard you speak in that way about Guy before.’ You’re usually busy making excuses for him.

She stared at the floor. ‘No . . . well . . . every worm turns, or so they say.’

They sat by the stove with mugs of cocoa and biscuits, in a soft pool of light from one lamp. Frankie was cocooned in one of Elinor’s arms, accepting bits of shortbread. She was in the armchair and rocked him like a baby. Swift had given her a towel and she’d draped it around her shoulders. Her hair straggled down in damp