We go back to 1960s Brighton for murderous adventures with journalist Colin Crampton.

In the introduction I mention that you can find the books of most of my guests at your public library. If you can't find them there, simply ask your librarian and it's likely they'll appreciate your suggestion and try to get the book in for you.

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Today's Mystery Author

Peter Bartram brings years of experience as a journalist to his Crampton of the Chronicle crime mysteries. He’s has done most things in journalism – from door-stepping for quotes to writing serious editorials. He’s covered stories in locations as different as 700-feet down a coal mine and Buckingham Palace.

Peter launched his Crampton series in 2015 with Headline Murder. As of now, there are 12 books in the series with well over 120,000 readers around the world.

You can learn more about Peter Bartram, and find all his books, at ColinCrampton.com.

Press play (above) to listen to the show, or read the transcript below. Remember you can also subscribe to the show on Apple Podcasts. And listen on Stitcher.

You can also click here to listen to the interview on YouTube.

Excerpt from The Tango School Mystery

In Antoine's Sussex Grill, Shirley slammed down her knife and fork.

She'd lost interest in her steak. The blood-stained remnants lay on her plate.

Another droplet of blood formed on the ceiling. It shone like a ruby.

I glanced up at it and sighed in a resigned sort of way. I knew I wasn't going to enjoy what I had to do next. 

"I'm going upstairs," I said.  

"How?" Shirley asked.

"There's a separate front door to the apartment in the street."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, it's best you wait here. If we both rush out Antoine will think we're doing a runner to avoid paying the bill."

   Shirley grinned. "Would be great exercise, cobber."

"Not now. There are more important things to deal with."

I crossed the room and stepped into the street. Across the road, a couple of drunks lurched out of The Smugglers. A young woman with blonde hair in a beehive, tight skirt and killer stilettos, staggered by. A taxi cruised down the street looking for a fare. The driver eyed me briefly then focused on the blonde.

I stared up at the first-floor apartment window. The light was on and the curtains - tired brown numbers that hung like a beggar's rags - were half drawn. They let out a shard of light.

The front door to the apartment was at the end of the building. It was recessed into the wall in a kind of porch arrangement. I stepped into the porch and rapped firmly on the door.

Twice.  I pushed gently and it swung open. Its hinges creaked like a pensioner's kneecaps. I stepped into a small hallway which led to a flight of stairs.

The place was lit by a dusty bulb hanging from a short flex cable. The walls were covered with embossed wallpaper painted a muddy cream. A picture of a yacht sailing in a stormy sea had slipped sideways in its frame. An umbrella was propped in the corner. There was a threadbare grey carpet on the stairs. The place had a fusty smell that comes from wet clothes drying in front of gas fires. 

I moved to the foot of the stairs wondering whether this had been good idea.

I shouted up: "Hello! Is anyone at home? I've just come round to see if you're alright."

Somewhere in the house something creaked.