few locals having a drink and eating sandwiches. The barman looked as though he’d been there when the pub was built. He was red faced, with long silver sideburns and a matching, luxurious moustache.
‘Can I help you?’
Kennedy gave him his best smile, which was more than enough to demolish most men. ‘We’re looking for a guy called Rasher. Told you might know where to find him.’
The barman gave them a long look. ‘He in some kind of trouble?’
Chris stepped forward and shook his head. ‘No. We just need to ask him a few questions.’
‘Only you don’t look the types to be getting a tattoo, if you don’t mind me saying.’ He turned and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Ralph? Come here a minute.’
Footsteps sounded from behind the bar, someone running down a flight of stairs. A fresh-faced boy of around nineteen appeared and looked at the older man.
‘These people want to talk with Rasher. Can you show them where he lives?’
Ralph looked at the two detectives. ‘No problem.’ Outside, he led the way along the narrow street that went away from the seafront and turned into a cobbled alleyway.
‘Just through here,’ he said, pointing towards a courtyard that seemed to act as a service yard for several business premises that ran along the opposite side of the buildings. A rickety set of stairs ran up the side of a three-storey Victorian building. ‘That’s Rasher’s place up there,’ Ralph announced. ‘But you’ll have to shout to get his attention – the old hearing isn’t the best these days.’
‘Thanks.’
Ralph trotted off as Kennedy and Chris carefully climbed. The wind howled around the fragile steps, blowing a squall of rain in their faces and causing the stairs to sway a little.
At the top was a wooden door, one glass panel replaced with cardboard and duct tape. The yellow glow of a light shone through the remaining panes.
Kennedy looked around for a bell, but, finding none, he wound up rapping hard on the door with his knuckles. For a moment, all they could hear was the wind whipping against their ears. Kennedy rapped again, and almost instantly there was a response.
‘Keep your hair on, I’m coming!’
The sound of heavy footsteps creaked towards them and the door opened. A man looked out at Kennedy and Chris, a curious look in his eyes. ‘Whatever you’re selling I’m not interested.’
Kennedy shook his head, sending a spray of raindrops cascading down his coat. ‘No sir, we’re detectives from Harcourt Street, and we’re looking to talk to Rasher.’
The man turned his back before shuffling back inside. ‘Well, you found him. Close the door behind you and keep the bloody rain out.’
He headed back across the room and Kennedy and Chris stepped inside. They were both caught off guard having expected a younger, trendy type. He was a big man, with a head of grizzled curls, the black long ago faded to white. His age was hard to guess – he could be almost anywhere from sixty to eighty – but judging by his movements, it was likely closer to the latter.
The room was small, cozy even, just a sagging couch in front of an old TV, a green recliner, and a table and chairs over by a sink.
‘So who sent you, the bloody tax man I suppose?’
‘Not at all. We’re trying to get some artwork identified and we’ve heard you’re the man to talk to.’
Kennedy was shaking the rain from his coat, looking around for somewhere to hang it. Even though he had his back to him, Rasher seemed to read his mind. ‘There’s a hook on the back of the door.’ He found the hook, and duly hung up his coat. When he turned around, Rasher was gazing at them.
‘So then, what’s this artwork you mentioned?’ he said as he lowered himself carefully into one of the wooden chairs, and waved them over. Kennedy sat in the chair next to him, Chris across the table. Kennedy took an envelope from inside his jacket and removed photos of the angel-wing
‘Can I help you?’
Kennedy gave him his best smile, which was more than enough to demolish most men. ‘We’re looking for a guy called Rasher. Told you might know where to find him.’
The barman gave them a long look. ‘He in some kind of trouble?’
Chris stepped forward and shook his head. ‘No. We just need to ask him a few questions.’
‘Only you don’t look the types to be getting a tattoo, if you don’t mind me saying.’ He turned and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Ralph? Come here a minute.’
Footsteps sounded from behind the bar, someone running down a flight of stairs. A fresh-faced boy of around nineteen appeared and looked at the older man.
‘These people want to talk with Rasher. Can you show them where he lives?’
Ralph looked at the two detectives. ‘No problem.’ Outside, he led the way along the narrow street that went away from the seafront and turned into a cobbled alleyway.
‘Just through here,’ he said, pointing towards a courtyard that seemed to act as a service yard for several business premises that ran along the opposite side of the buildings. A rickety set of stairs ran up the side of a three-storey Victorian building. ‘That’s Rasher’s place up there,’ Ralph announced. ‘But you’ll have to shout to get his attention – the old hearing isn’t the best these days.’
‘Thanks.’
Ralph trotted off as Kennedy and Chris carefully climbed. The wind howled around the fragile steps, blowing a squall of rain in their faces and causing the stairs to sway a little.
At the top was a wooden door, one glass panel replaced with cardboard and duct tape. The yellow glow of a light shone through the remaining panes.
Kennedy looked around for a bell, but, finding none, he wound up rapping hard on the door with his knuckles. For a moment, all they could hear was the wind whipping against their ears. Kennedy rapped again, and almost instantly there was a response.
‘Keep your hair on, I’m coming!’
The sound of heavy footsteps creaked towards them and the door opened. A man looked out at Kennedy and Chris, a curious look in his eyes. ‘Whatever you’re selling I’m not interested.’
Kennedy shook his head, sending a spray of raindrops cascading down his coat. ‘No sir, we’re detectives from Harcourt Street, and we’re looking to talk to Rasher.’
The man turned his back before shuffling back inside. ‘Well, you found him. Close the door behind you and keep the bloody rain out.’
He headed back across the room and Kennedy and Chris stepped inside. They were both caught off guard having expected a younger, trendy type. He was a big man, with a head of grizzled curls, the black long ago faded to white. His age was hard to guess – he could be almost anywhere from sixty to eighty – but judging by his movements, it was likely closer to the latter.
The room was small, cozy even, just a sagging couch in front of an old TV, a green recliner, and a table and chairs over by a sink.
‘So who sent you, the bloody tax man I suppose?’
‘Not at all. We’re trying to get some artwork identified and we’ve heard you’re the man to talk to.’
Kennedy was shaking the rain from his coat, looking around for somewhere to hang it. Even though he had his back to him, Rasher seemed to read his mind. ‘There’s a hook on the back of the door.’ He found the hook, and duly hung up his coat. When he turned around, Rasher was gazing at them.
‘So then, what’s this artwork you mentioned?’ he said as he lowered himself carefully into one of the wooden chairs, and waved them over. Kennedy sat in the chair next to him, Chris across the table. Kennedy took an envelope from inside his jacket and removed photos of the angel-wing
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