The Mystery Artist by Sam Spicer

Author:Sam Spicer
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Jungle Juice Press
Published: 2018-04-29T00:00:00+00:00

Bryan Ashton had suggested meeting at a pub called The Crown in the eastern suburbs of Westbridge. It was a depressing looking place only a stone’s throw from the infamous Washburn housing estate. Stepping inside we were greeted by a low-lying haze of cigarette smoke thick enough to sting your eyes and the loud clatter of fruit machines. The pub was busy considering it wasn’t much past noon on a Wednesday.

“What does this guy look like?” I asked, quickly surveying the room. Most of the clientele were men, of varying ages, sizes and shapes, many of whom noted our entrance with unfriendly looks.

“No idea,” Edward admitted. He was also looking around with his hands in his pockets and a look of mild intrigue on his face as though he was watching an interesting wildlife documentary.

“Let’s get a drink and sit down,” I suggested. My misgivings about the man we’d arranged to meet weren’t being helped by his chosen venue, and the less we drew attention to ourselves the better. The lager was flat and the barman had a sour expression and even sourer smell. We chose a table near the door. Edward reasoned it was the best place to see who was coming and going. I agreed, but mostly because it would make for a quick and easy getaway should the need arise.

Bryan Ashton didn’t keep us waiting long. He was a thin man but with the kind of sagging belly and sallow complexion that spoke of too many days spent in establishments such as The Crown. I guessed he was somewhere in his fifties but it was hard to be sure. His teeth and fingers were stained with nicotine and he had a rasping cough. He didn’t bother to check who we were, apparently sure of our identity, but then I supposed we were the only ones who looked out of place. He scraped out a chair and sat down.

“Mine’s a pint, thanks,” he said with an unpleasant yellow smile.

“Mr Ashton?” asked Edward.

“Call me Bryan,” he said, leaning back and extracting a packet of cigarettes. He looked pointedly at our own drinks sitting on the table. Edward turned and gave me a look; I headed for the bar.

I didn’t like it. As I waited to be served, I watched Edward and the man who claimed to have information about Barnabas Monk. Ashton looked supremely comfortable, lounging in his seat, wafting his cigarette around as he spoke. Whatever he was saying didn’t seem to be interesting or helpful, as Edward was frowning at him. It was a while before I returned to them. The barman seemed to make a point of ensuring that he’d served every other person at the bar before reluctantly taking my order. When I eventually returned to my seat Edward’s frown had deepened.

Ashton took the drink I put before him. “About time,” was all he said, then downed almost a quarter of the pint in one go.

“Mr Ashton,” I could hear the frustration in Edward’s voice.

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