The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (22 page)

Tamsin shot a glance towards Jack, who realized what a devious bastard Kolosov was. She didn’t speak.

“Nothing to say. Now why am I not surprised by that?” He paused, lit his pipe and blew smoke across the cobwebs fluttering in the old beams, and turned to look at Jack. “Atlanta, 1996, a date for you to remember, Mr. Manton?”

“What are you on about?” He stared at the placid captain, who held a thin smirk.

“Oh, I think you know what I mean, Mr. Manton. A bronze medal in the epée fencing event for your country is, you must agree, not so easily forgotten, is it? And hey, just look at what you’re wearing.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Jack’s feet. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, those trainers of yours have to be a pair of Asics fencing shoes, Kenyutsos?”

“So what?”

“We had a nice bloody imprint of a shoe just like that beside Katherine Danilovova’s corpse.”

Manton had an unpleasant rush of bile, leaving him to think that there was going to be no simple way out of this predicament. He looked at Tamsin for a clue. She shook her head.

“I think you’d better start explaining a few things don’t you, Mr. Manton?”

“How long have you got, Captain?”

Chapter Twenty Three

B
eing interviewed at Kharkov Police HQ bore a close resemblance to the countless police interviews he’d seen on TV dramas and movies – the impassive cop standing in the corner, the interviewer, the bare table, two chairs, the CCTV, the ever-listening recording device, and of course, the interviewee. What disturbed Manton was the shade of blood red that decorated the room from floor to ceiling.
I can guess why
. Tamsin, he deduced, was being held in another room and subjected to a similar interrogation.

Kolosov outlined the intended charges; the murder of Katherine Danilovova, Nikita Brodsky and the intent to murder Maria and Ilya Bromovitchova.

Manton confirmed his personal details and looked across at Kolosov. “Shall I start from the beginning?”

“Where else would one wish to start, Manton? You will note that every so often I may pause, ask for clarification or write notes. This, in Russia, is normal. As well as being recorded, your interview is being filmed.” He pointed to a discreet camera lurking behind a conduit on the wall. It was also painted red. “Once this is complete, you may contact a lawyer or your embassy. Please commence. I want you to understand that I have little understanding of the art world.”

Manton sensed that Kolosov’s last remark was as genuine as the tooth fairy.

After two hours full of pauses, questions, and Kolosov’s assiduous notetaking, he declared the interview as finished.

As if on cue, the door opened and Eltsin walked in, whispering at length in Kolosov’s ear. He nodded with more than a hint of vigour, a look of confidence crossing his face. He could see the perplexed look in Manton’s expression.

“Mr. Manton, sir, I’ll tell you what is about to happen now. Please do not interrupt me in any way. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Firstly, the Bromovitch’s paintings by this… err, Mikhail Brodsky, will be held as evidence in police archives for the time being. When a suitable buyer of prominent Russian works appear, Christie’s or Sotheby’s here in Russia will inform us, and then the Bromovitchs may decide what to do with them,” Kolosov paused. “That leads me to wonder why a certain person has been taking such an interest in you and your partner. Professor Grigori Sidorov of the IAS is not his real identity. This person doesn’t exist. The one who posed as a postman got careless and left a few clues. Very amateurish. We found prints on a munitions clip and DNA traces from the wound he sustained in the fire fight. He is not unknown to us. His name is Vladimir Novikov, a former agent and assassin, fluent in a number of languages. For security reasons, he was protected by the state from prosecutions. He disappeared a while back but we know for a fact that he is now a hired professional assassin and thief, with a huge range of aliases and disguises. This caused me to wonder if all this is connected with recent Russian art thefts. The Molotov’s in St. Petersburg were murdered, and their Russian art collection has disappeared. Danilovova is murdered as she worked on an itinerary of Brodsky connections meant for you. Nikita Brodsky is murdered and a painting called
Girl of Peace
by his late uncle is also stolen. It is possible they’re not related, but there are too many coincidences, don’t you think? Our friend nearly killed you and the Bromovitchs. The ballistics match on every shooting I have mentioned, so we need to apprehend Novikov if we are to make progress. Therefore, you see, you don’t quite fit our picture of a killer.”

Kolosov realised that asking for help from someone who had been a prime suspect and a marked man was unusual. But if he didn’t ask, he would have a problem in advancing the case and finding out if a mastermind existed behind the thefts.

“Mr. Manton, you and your partner are free to leave.”

Manton stood, ready to go.

“Sit down for a moment, please.” Kolosov waved his hand at the chair. “All my thoughts are just conjectures. I have no proof. You say there could be ten or more paintings out there by Brodsky worth a fortune. Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you think they are?”

“France.”

“That’s a big place.”

“Paris and possibly Lyon.”

“You intend to look for them?”

“Of course.”

“What if you find them or they have been stolen by the Nazis?”

“Hopefully they can be traced to their rightful owners, put up for sale or donated to museums where all can see them.”

“How noble you are, Mr. Manton. Here I am thinking that you might just want to fill your pockets. You do realise that unless we get to Novikov soon, he may get to you first and take what he wants from you, one way or another.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“We also have a copy of Katherine Danilovova’s research, but we are not in the business of tracing lost works of art. We leave that to people such as you. With that in mind, the French police, courtesy of my new employers, Interpol, have been informed of this case. We don’t know where he is but he seems to know where to find you. You, unfortunately for your peace of mind, attract him like magnet. Therefore, whether you like it or not, we will be watching you as closely as we are able. He finds you – we find him. Make your own arrangements and I wish you good luck. Goodbye, Mr. Manton.”

~ * ~

He abhorred unknown equations. A cold rage smouldered in him.
Fuck! Shit! Fucking amateurs!
His meticulous planning had disintegrated into a farce caused by the police.
Those bastard pigs! How did they know?
How did they get there?
He’d had two priceless works of art in his grasp. Now, he had nothing.

Aagh!
Pain seared down his arm. He wrenched the steering wheel to one side and pulled the car into a secluded area.

Blood had begun to congeal damply down his chest and shoulder. He removed his jacket and shirt; cutting fragments of cotton from the bottom half before removing his right shoe and dislodging an adhesive and medicated leather strap. He carried them for these sorts of emergencies.

After staunching the wound, he dressed again, but had been unable to stop the pain. He needed medication from a pharmacy, fast. A maximum-strength pain-killer like desomorphine, or
Krokodile
, its known street name. Dangerously addictive, it had claimed numerous lives, but was openly on sale in any pharmacy. He was willing to take that risk.

An hour later, the drug had kicked in.
Pain gone
. But another pain remained. The pain of failure and the sight of his own blood had awoken his dormant dragon.

It was all so clear.

He thought it was all buried and behind him. It could never be so.

The falling aircraft. The screams of dying passengers. Aaaaah! Insensibility… Blurred hospital images…

The transfer to Moscow Orphanage and, after three months, a couple in their late thirties took him as their adopted son. Something in their ways and manners disturbed him from the start and made him uncomfortable. At first, he thought they were trying to be kind, but soon they began to touch and stroke him sexually
.
Being touched on his groin… Wet kisses from male and female…Unable to resist…

They then forced him to do the same to them, with dire warnings never to tell anyone or he would be forever on the streets. Afterwards, he would rush to the bathroom and be violently sick. The man, who insisted he call him Papa, began to sodomise him and forced him to fuck his new mamma.

The desire to kill awakened.

In secret, he recorded everything they said and did in writing, logging in dates, times, places and the weather.

He knew how he would do it.

Early hours suited him perfectly. When they were sound asleep, he had stripped naked and entered their bedroom carrying a wood axe.

They never even woke up.

Swinging the axe high, he mustered all his strength and split their heads open like oranges, sending blood and brains spouting out in all directions
.

He would never forget the noise of their agonized, guttural grunts, the last sound they ever made. He had washed himself and every trace of blood, including footprints. The axe he cleaned and returned to the woodshed. Then, he slipped back into his pyjamas and went back to bed. In the morning, he called the police.

From that moment on, he knew a life of subterfuge and killing would go a long way in making him whole again – give back to him a purpose to live. His recollections never varied.

Pain would always give him these visions.

A delicious euphoric state of consciousness infused his being ...
drifting through blankets of pain, gave redemption and ultimate peace.
His head swam with a new found clarity. He was able to think clearly. He would not fail. The English pair were representative of his pain, and vital to the success of his mission.

To start with, he needed a disguise. It would make it easier to follow them.

Chapter Twenty Four

Moscow, Belorussaka Station, June

T
rundling, as if reluctant to leave its resting place, the train began to edge away from the platform. People were beginning to walk alongside it, some waving hands, others handkerchiefs. Through open windows, a few held hands with the passengers, jogging to keep up as the train picked up speed. Eventually, they were left behind, standing forlornly at the end of the platform.

Manton swayed along the narrow corridor, pulling Tamsin behind him, trying to locate their compartment. He hauled the sliding door open and staggered inside. Tamsin didn’t hesitate to draw the thick blue curtains. The cabin’s comfort exceeded her expectations. Fat, matching blue seats, rolled mattresses and duvets, blue shaded lamps mounted on panelled walls, sparkling-white sheets and crisp pillows gave them a warm welcome.
This,
she thought,
wouldn’t look out of place on the Orient Express, and nowhere near as expensive.

Once their luggage was stored, they sat in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts. She knew what Manton must be thinking. Tamsin found herself examining the risk that she and Jack now faced. What had been a genteel academic research project had corkscrewed into a bizarre panorama of murder and mayhem. She held no illusions that they were both under a death threat, whether they continued or not. He sat opposite her, looking exhausted. She’d never known him to shirk from a task, but for the first time, she sensed hesitation in him. If not for himself, then for her safety and protection. He cancelled their flight and opted for the long rail journey to Berlin to throw Novikov off their tracks. He believed Kolosov’s suggestion. Novikov had to be working for someone who desperately wanted the Brodsky paintings.

Tamsin couldn’t help thinking that being exposed on such a long journey, in a confined area, also presented risks. Every waiter, every ticket inspector, or railway functionary, gave her cause for concern. She could see that Jack wrestled with his nerves too. When he turned to speak to her, she heard the strain in his voice.

“Do you want to call it a day? It’s not too late to get out of this mess.”

“It’s too late. I’m too involved now and yes, as I’ve told you before, I want to get out of it. I hate it and I hate what it’s doing to us, but I’m not leaving you here alone. I’ll tell you what I think.”

“What?”

“You have a self-preoccupation and blinkered disregard to what’s
really
happening here. One minute it’s like nothing else exists apart from Brodsky, never mind the murders. Then, the next thing, you’re trying to work out where and who Novikov is. Brodsky’s paintings have nothing to do with us. I know I said we owe Katherine and Brodsky our commitment, but I’m sure they wouldn’t want us to die in the process. The paintings are going to get us killed. Don’t you see that? You’ve got two, and they’ll see you safe and secure for the rest of your days. Isn’t that enough for you, for God’s sake? It seems I’m well down on your list of priorities. That maniac knows we’re the only people who know where to look next. He also knows what we look like, where we live, and no doubt knows about everything we do. One way or the other, he’ll get the information he wants from us. You could say, we’re fucked in more ways than one.”

“Like how?”

“I mean us.” Her eyes flicked upward and she saw the uncertain look pass across his face. He leant forward to grasp her hand. She snatched it away.

“What?” His voice cracked, lacking its former confidence.

For that moment she couldn’t look at him and turned her head away.

“Look at me, Tamsin.”

Turning her head with reluctance, she forced herself to stare back at his face, now drained of colour.

“Are you joking? Am I being dumped?”