MURDER IN PEMBROKESHIRE an absolutely gripping crime mystery full of twists (Tyrone Swift Detective

the mess it caused. He kept finding his shirts inside out, his jeans crumpled and his jackets on the floor. He was no clothes horse — his cousin Mary kindly said that his frayed look was shabby chic — and he could never fathom where buttons vanished to, but he tried to achieve a reasonably tidy appearance for clients and when needed, judges. Branna’s mother, an educational psychologist, had explained to him that their daughter understood that she was a girl, but she wanted to experiment. ‘She’s trying out being male, it’s part of her development,’ Ruth had told him. He wondered if that was reading too deeply into it. He reckoned it was pure mischief and wished that his daughter would try it out instead on Marcel, Ruth’s partner. Marcel was always so bloody tidy and ironed.

A waiter hovered, smiling, iPad in hand, for his order.

‘I’m waiting for a friend, but in the meantime, a large glass of merlot would be great,’ Swift said. ‘The sooner the wine arrives, the better I’ll feel.’

It was before him in seconds, ruby red and smelling of cloves and plums. He took a deep draught and held some in his mouth for a moment. Velvety, rich, heavenly. Here’s to us, Cedric, he murmured. He’d been in court all morning, attending a hearing about Cedric’s will, of which he was sole executor. Cedric Sheridan, his dear deceased friend and tenant, had left twenty thousand pounds to his son Oliver, a hundred and fifty thousand each to Swift and Milo, one of his oldest friends, and twenty thousand to various others. Oliver had challenged the will and then appealed a court decision upholding it. He alleged that Swift had pressurised Cedric, prevented him from seeing his son and blocked phone calls. He’d also claimed that Swift had influenced Cedric into changing his previous will, which named Oliver as the main beneficiary.

The tedious and worrying business had been dragging on for months. Today the judge had ruled that there was no evidence that Cedric had been influenced or manipulated and had upheld the terms of the will. Oliver had been furious. He’d turned up to court in a khaki artist’s smock, daubed with dried plaster. When he’d sneezed, he’d shaken free a haze of dust. Presumably, he’d thought that the judge might respond sympathetically to the I’m an impoverished, hard-done-by sculptor guise, but she’d regarded him scathingly. Her decision was final, and Oliver would have to like it or lump it. Swift was just glad it was over, and hoped he’d never have to see the obnoxious man again or have anything to do with Camilla Finley, the journalist who’d been advising and helping Oliver.

Swift stretched his long legs. His phone pinged with a text from his friend Mark Gill, saying he’d been delayed but should be there very soon. Swift scrolled to his emails. Now that Oliver Sheridan was out of his life, he could relax and attend to an invitation from his old friend Afan to visit him in West Wales. It was a good time to take a break. Branna was away in Guernsey with Ruth for the summer and when they returned, she was due to have an operation for cochlear implants. That would be a worrying time. He and Ruth had spent months weighing up the pros and cons of surgery. Branna’s hearing aids and use of sign language were helping her to work around her significant impairment. Implants might boost her hearing and confidence and open up her options to make decisions about speaking or signing. The downside was that she could lose any remaining hearing if they didn’t work well. Whatever happened, they would have a major impact on her life. They would change her.

He had no work lined up for now and he was jaded after the lengthy tussle with Oliver. His on/off relationship with Nora Morrow, a DI in the Met, had ground to a halt, leaving him saddened but mainly relieved. She’d moved on to Fitz Blackmore, a detective who’d been a mutual friend. Swift missed her humour and quick wit but not her prickliness and unpredictable temper. When he’d told his cousin Mary that he and Nora were no longer together, she’d said, ‘I won’t pretend I’m not relieved. She has a good reputation in the Met, but she’s too volatile up close and personal. I’d decided to kidnap you if you ever indicated that you were going to move in with her.’ Mary believed he had bad judgement where women were concerned. She might be right. A period of solitude would be a sensible idea.

A few days in Wales, far from personal baggage, solicitors, courts and London’s muggy August fumes was an attractive prospect. He found the email that Afan Griffith had sent in July. It had been unexpected — they’d worked together at Interpol in Lyon over ten years ago but hadn’t been in touch since. He’d been pleased at the contact.

Hi there, Ty, long time no see or hear. I meant to keep in touch, but you know how it goes, which always sounds a feeble excuse. I have thought of you and wondered how you’re doing. I see from your website that you’re now working as a private investigator. I’d love to hear more about that.

I’ve been living in this remote place for some time. I’m back in the land of my fathers, near Holybridge, in Pembrokeshire. I live and work in Tir Melys — it means Sweet Land — a community of smallholdings, and I love it here. It’s remote, peaceful and quiet. I feel that I’m doing some good. The frantic, workaday world seems wonderfully far away. It’s hard graft, growing my own food, but rewarding, and I’d never go back to the 9-to-5 daily grind. I’m also into beekeeping in a big way. Like the honey, life is mainly sweet. People here have their differences but that’s true of