The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (16 page)

“One thing is for certain, this was no accident. That computer remained switched on and will need serious attention from our experts!” he shouted for all to hear. “Nobody is to touch anything here, especially the computer. Understood?”

There was a general murmur of consent.

“These bloody footprints around her body and those leading out of the door must be those of her murderer. Agreed?”

Bazorov nodded. “Without a doubt. Apart from those footprints, there are no immediate clues, save from a business card found next to her body that’s being bagged and arrangements being made to follow up on it.”

Kolosov’s pipe remained unlit but never left his mouth. “The killer knew what they were doing. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Fierce, yet expert. A clean break along the vertebra. You can almost admire it… but sickening to look at… Bastard. Those bloody trainer-like tread marks could be one of millions of trainers, but forensics might be able to narrow down the make, pattern etc., and give us a few clues.” His concentration was broken by the loud ring tones blaring from his cell phone.

“Kolosov.”

“Captain Kolosov, I think your birds have flown.”

Kolosov started, recognising the hard-edged voice as that of his earlier mystery caller.

“Who is this?”

“Listen Kolosov, listen hard. Look for a red Mini Cooper, registration number 21AX 601. An Englishman, Mr. Manton, staying at the Kharkiv Hotel. You will find he can help you with your enquiries.”

Before he could answer or attempt a trace, the line went dead. For a moment he paused, but he couldn’t let any lead be ignored. He shouted out to his deputy.

“Bazorov, take some back-up and get to the Kharkiv Hotel. Pick up a Mr. Manton, he’s English, and bring him in for questioning. He may know something about all this. Be quick about it and radio me when you’ve done it. Go, for fucks sake, go!” As his man left, Kolosov fumbled for his lighter. He didn’t ignite the tobacco but continued tamping it down with the bottom of the lighter.
I’m struggling here. This is not looking straightforward. Why would a mystery caller put a finger on an unknown Englishman? I’m looking forward to meeting Mr Manton.

Outside, through the windows, came the unmistakeable explosions, lights and spluttering cascades of a thousand fireworks. Russia Day was a celebrated occasion. But, for Dr Katherine Danilovova, he thought, the last sound she’d heard was the crack of her neck breaking.

~ * ~

Manton knew that before they did anything else, they had to get out of Kharkov. Tamsin floored the pedal at speeds higher than permitted by the Russian Highway Code, snaking the Mini through the downtown traffic and ignoring Kharkov’s strict parking laws, screeching to a halt outside the Kharkiv Hotel. For Manton, the journey spanned an eternity. He knew they were up to their eyeballs in deep shit.

“Pack our bags. Just chuck everything in while I settle the bill. C’mon, go!”

Wrenching the car door open and grabbing the room key from reception, Tamsin leapt into a stationary lift up to their room. Manton began settling up with the cashier, paying with cash.

Within five minutes she arrived back in the lobby with both cases.

“I’ve checked and there’s nothing left behind.”

“Great. Let’s fly from here.”

“How do we know they’re looking for us?”

“We don’t. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that since I obtained those paintings a couple of dead people have appeared? The Brodsky connection is the big giveaway, and I don’t want to hang around to see if the police want us or not. Remember, they could have seen your email by now and know we were due there this evening.” With little time to climb inside the Mini, he heard the sound of police cars and could see the faint blue flashing of their duty lights. “This is too much of a coincidence. For heaven’s sake move it, Tamsin.”

She needed no prompting, and at maximum revs in all gears, roared away from the hotel entrance. The sounds faded away and Manton didn’t doubt they had stopped at the Kharkiv.

“Where’re we going?” asked Tamsin.

He noticed the tremor in her voice as she stared hard at the road ahead, refusing to slow for any other vehicle.

“We’re going to the airport and you’re going home.”

“I’m going home? On my own? Not bloody likely!”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Look, if anybody wants to find us, the airport is the first place they’ll go.”

“I’m swapping cars.”

“They’ll trace that easily.”

“There’re a dozen car hire agencies at the airport. We’ll pick up from another firm. It’s not hard to guess the police will think I’ve hopped on a flight somewhere. All that checking takes time. Anyway, we’ll use your name. That should complicate it for them and give me more time.”

“More time for what? Don’t you mean
us
?” She swerved the car to avoid a large container lorry barrelling across an intersection. “Shit!”

He was oblivious. “More time for me to read that file. I’m convinced that Brodsky’s paintings have a lot to do with what’s going on here. And if I’m right, we can get to the bottom of who is behind all this.”

“Is that all you can think of in a time like this. Shouldn’t the police be doing that? There’s been a murder back there!”

“I can’t let that get in the way. If I did, I’d lose every opportunity for what could be a major discovery. We killed nobody. Forget it!”

“Holy crap, what’s with you?” She went quiet for a minute and he said nothing. “Look, without me, you’ll get picked up faster than a fifty-pound note blowing across the street. I don’t like it, but I’m staying, no argument, understood? What that does to our relationship, I can work out later.”

Chapter Sixteen

T
wo hours later, a dull green Honda Civic pulled into the parking bay of the Turgenev Hotel and Bar, on the western outskirts of the city of Belgorod about ninety kilometres north of Kharkov.

“This car is rubbish,” moaned Tamsin.

“Rubbish it may be, but it’s low-key and it’s cheap.”

“And it looks like it’s been garaged here most of its life.” She pointed out of the window.

Manton looked across at the worn plastic frontage of the hotel, featuring a shabby façade of Cossacks on horseback waving swords, amid flashing neon signs.

“Oh my God, I see what you mean. Come on, let’s get it over with. We should be safe here; nobody has any idea where we’re going. We could do with a drink and I need to sit down, clear my head and read this report.”

Once inside, he ignored the nicotine-stained decor, the sticky heat and the odd smell: a combination of horseradish, Kholodets, and Russian toilet cleaner. He pointed to a vacant table, and Tamsin ordered a couple of cold Baltika beers.

Manton didn’t look up when she brought the beers over. Instead, he opened up his bright green folder with his copy of
The Vorticists
tucked inside. He began reading through Katherine Danilovova’s research with a look of intense concentration. His beer remained untouched.

“You going to drink that? I thought you said you needed one.”

“Give me a minute.”

“I’ll order two more, just in case you ever decide to drink yours.”

She went to the bar, keeping an eye and attempting to see out of the large windows that retained a permanent coating of dripping condensation.

“It says here,” Manton continued when she returned, “that she checked the Belgorod Oblast voter’s lists from 1920 to 1940.”

Tamsin scrutinised the windows and wiped them with a wedge of tissues. What loomed large in her mind was that there had been a murder. His reaction to that fact was unreal.

“The records, in spite of the war, remained well preserved. She also checked through similar records of birth and deaths and I think she found some important information.”

“Like what? Look, one minute we’re with her dead body and you’re now going on as if it never happened. That concerns me more than looking for more Brodsky paintings. We left a crime scene in a hurry and that’s not going to do us any good if we get caught. Don’t you have any sensitivity?”

He didn’t hear her. “Earlier in his life, Brodsky lived with his family in a village called Prokhorovka, not too far from Kursk, site of the famous Russian-German tank battle in World War II. In that village lived all his relatives: aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, the usual family mix.”

“Don’t tell me. We’ll be going there next?”

“Exactly. The Vkhutemas School was a major influence on his work, and he believed he needed to develop his own interpretation and to work alone. So, in his mid-twenties he moved to the area, to a village called Golovchino. He was there for several years until his capture by Nazis. Now, that’s getting more interesting.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you? I think a murder should be more on our minds. Don’t you? I’m rapidly finding out I know nothing about you at all.”

A wisp of irritation passed through him. “Look, I told you, that you should have flown home. We can’t bring her back to life, so if you don’t like what I’m attempting to do here, it would be better you went.”

“Okay, okay, I’m true to my word but when all this business turns sour, as by God, I’m sure it will, don’t say I didn’t warn you! You’ll get what you deserve.”

“Fine.” He wasn’t certain how to respond but carried on with the file. “Look, it says here his mother, Alena, his younger brother Lev, and their sister, Sofia, disposed of the property and moved into a separate wing of Mikhail’s house. When the Nazis arrived, Lev and Sofia had already fled. Lev was never seen again. But the mailman and a neighbour were reported as saying that after the war, he was unable to deliver several letters addressed to Mikhail with Parisian postmarks and stamps. They believed they were sent by Lev. One day, the letters stopped arriving.” Manton broke off, and looked up.

“The French connection. It would be, wouldn’t it?” she said despairingly.

“Katherine named three cousins living in Prokhorovka at the time. I think if we can trace them or their descendants, we might find something out.”

“To the village, I wouldn’t doubt?”

“You got it in one.”

“Tonight?”

“No, it’s too far. As nasty as this dump is, we can grin and bear it for a night. What do you think?”

“Okay. At least nobody knows where we are.”

“Before I do anything else, I’ll text Moss and with luck, he may be able to tell me something about our mysterious Professor Grigori.”

Minutes later he pressed the send button. He could now only wait.

~ * ~

The room came as a gratifying surprise, since they’d feared it would be a hotel best suited to cockroaches. The white sheets looked crisp and well ironed. There were ample cupboards and two wardrobes, plus a sumptuous washroom with a large bath and a high-speed shower. What the decor lacked downstairs had been more than compensated for upstairs. They had also supplied complementary toiletries and four thick white towels.

Once the curtains had been drawn, Tamsin placed her hand around her ear, leaning forward.

“Listen. I can barely hear the traffic.”

“Well,” Jack, said with surprise. “Whatever we thought, I can’t say this ain’t good.”

She looked back to him. “What do you want to do?”

“Bed.”

“Me too.”

She began unbuttoning her clothes, stepping out of them and leaving them on the floor. Unpinning her hair, she let it cascade over the tops of her shoulders and, standing there in her underwear, began brushing it with strong, downward strokes.

Her olive skin added to the softness of her body, giving her a natural radiance, enhanced by flashing brown eyes and white teeth. She carried herself with a natural confidence. He’d always trusted her and that seemed as natural as a child’s painting. Differences had surfaced, more of late, but whatever, he didn’t want to lose his lover, friend and confidante. She turned towards him, giving an enigmatic smile, reached out and dimmed the lights, leaving the room suffused in a seductive glow.

He understood, and moved next to her, wrapping his arms tightly around her as he then gently unhooked her bra, turning her head toward him and kissing her gently. He heard her warm sigh as he guided her to the bed.

He felt himself fall into her like a smooth pebble dropping downward into a deep, silent pool.

Chapter Seventeen

Moscow, June

J
osef Berezin couldn’t rise to the occasion. His intended orgasm with one of Moscow’s most expensive ‘escorts’ remained elusive.

“What’s wrong with you?” he grunted, as she slid her hand under his scrotum and began performing a blowjob on his limp appendage. He felt like a squeezed tube of tomato paste.

“It’s what’s in your mind that’s stopping what most men don’t have a problem with,” she replied cautiously, but it was not enough.

“Fuck off! Get out of here, you useless tart! I could do better on my own.” He shouted and pushed her forcefully off the bed into a scrambling heap on the floor. He threw her clothes at her. “And tell your fucking agency, I’ll think twice before using them again. Get out now, before I do something to you won’t like.”

She nervously dressed as he hobbled around the bed towards her. He picked up a heavy silver studded belt and began swinging it at her. She didn’t wait. Half-dressed, she rushed from the room.

It never occurred to him that his erectile problem was caused by his thoughts revolving around Brodsky’s missing paintings. He thought she would easily distract him, but even sex failed to dislodge his focus. Over and over he saw the scene of himself as the humble researcher, the
victurus te saloto,
the discoverer of lost heritage
.
What a magnificent prize they
would
have been, and he, Josef Berezin, was the one who had found and now owned them. That would astonish those arty types who thought there was nothing they didn’t know or understand about art.
Those stuck up fuck-pigs – how I loathe them!
He needed his fantasy to be crystallised. Picking up his phone, he punched out Novikov’s number.