Do you fancy a couple of days in Pembrokeshire? Plenty of room here and it would be great to catch up. There’s no Wi-Fi, I have to come into Holybridge for that, usually over the weekend. Although I have a phone, it’s turned off here as the signal’s non-existent, so just turn up if you can — or there’s always snail mail and the communal landline here — number below. I’m adding a link to the Tir Melys website, to whet your appetite.
Hope to catch up soon, Afan.
He’d replied, saying it was great to be back in touch and that the lack of contact was just as much his responsibility. He’d explained that he needed to get a court hearing out of the way, but then he’d be delighted to visit in August. He tried the landline number now, but it rang out with no voicemail, so he sent an email. Today was Thursday, so he assumed that Afan would pick it up in the next couple of days, in Holybridge.
Hi, Afan. The court case is over now, and decks are cleared. I’ll head your way on Monday. It’ll be good to catch up after so many years and swap experiences. Tir Melys looks fascinating. Should be with you mid-afternoon.
The door banged and Mark Gill crossed to the table. ‘Hi, so sorry I’m late — combination of a lengthy phone call and traffic.’ He pulled out a chair and wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. ‘This weather’s too much and I’m sure the heater was on in my cab.’
‘No worries. The rest of my day is blissfully free.’
‘Wish I could say the same.’ Mark gestured at the wine. ‘I hope that’s in celebration.’
‘It certainly is. Oliver lost and it’s over. Jubilation!’
‘What a relief! I shouldn’t, but I’ll have a glass to keep you company. Shall we order?’
They examined the menu and gave their order. Mark rearranged the paper napkins and shoved the stand of olive oil and balsamic vinegar to one side. He was a jumpy, intense man, who spoke, moved and acted rapidly. Even when sitting, he shifted restlessly. He talked constantly in a stream of ideas that were often hard to follow. Swift, who could be still and silent, often watched him with fascination. He’d worked with Mark at the Met, sitting at a desk near him. He’d got used to him suddenly spinning on his chair, clockwise and then anticlockwise when he was on the phone. His nickname at work had been Twitcher.
They clinked glasses. Swift reached into his backpack and handed over a magazine. ‘Here, a gift for you.’
Mark laughed. ‘Snap! I’ve got one for you.’ He took a magazine from his pocket and placed it in front of Swift.
Swift examined the copy of Detective Fiction Weekly from July 1928. It featured The Cult Murders by Alan Forsyth. The cover illustration showed a sinister man with brilliantined hair and a waxed moustache. ‘Thanks. I don’t have this Forsyth. How’s my choice for you?’
‘Terrific. I have some Front Page Detectives, but not a 1943.’ The major story in Mark’s magazine was Chinese Beauty and the Bloody Dagger, with a mysterious woman on the cover.
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, sipping wine and leafing through their magazines. They both enjoyed crime pulp fiction, although Mark was a more avid collector, and whenever they met, they always discussed their joint interest. They sourced vintage magazines from many sellers, including a shop in Soho that stocked an extensive selection. Swift had spent many enjoyable rainy afternoons in its musty basement. As well as the stories, he enjoyed the adverts: ‘Zippo, the gift that never fails.’ ‘Enjoy sundown with relaxing cocktails at Laguna Beach.’ ‘Inspire his passion when you wear Paris Nights.’
Mark put his magazine down. ‘Did you say you’d heard from Afan Griffith?’
‘That’s right. He’s living in Wales now. I’m going to see him next week.’
‘Give him my best, he’s a sound man. Thoughtful, too — he sent me a copy of a 1937 Black Mask that one time I liaised with him. He did most of the work, really, so it was generous of him.’
‘I’ll pass that on. I’m not sure why he left Interpol and headed to rural Wales. Do you have any idea?’
Mark was tucking into his mushroom risotto. ‘I heard it was something to do with bullying. Not Afan as the bully, obviously. I believe that he had problems with his section boss.’
They talked on about work, while Mark fiddled with the table settings.
‘I heard you and Nora aren’t together now,’ he said.
‘That’s right. She’s seeing someone else.’
‘You okay about it?’
Swift said, ‘I’m not heartbroken and clearly, neither is she. I’ll miss going to the Parterre. I like it there, but it’s Nora’s favourite bar so . . . best to give it a miss for a while.’ He didn’t fancy wandering in and spotting Nora and Fitz together.
Mark chased the last grains of rice around his plate and flicked a quick glance at him. ‘I never thought you went that well together, to be honest. Hope you don’t mind me saying.’
‘That seems to have been the general opinion. When it was good it was great, but the cracks showed too often.’ He gestured at the magazine. ‘Nora objected to my pulp fiction, said all the stories were sexist and misogynistic. I argued that they’re of their time and you had to read them in context, but she suspected me of chauvinist tendencies.’ And yet she’d moved on to Fitz, who made no secret of being a serial womaniser. Maybe she hoped to change him. Swift wished her luck with that. He added, ‘Nora doesn’t have much time
