The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (17 page)

A low enquiring voice answered. “Mr. Berezin?”

“I’m calling for a progress report. Why haven’t I heard from you?”

“It’s in hand. I have important information, and my two pet researchers will lead me to it.”

“What’s the information?”

“That’s difficult to explain, but they may lead me to more paintings by this Brodsky. I need to be patient, and so do you.”

“Why wait? Can’t you get it from them?”

“Yes, but it’s easier this way and more certain. When I am ready to strike, it will be done.”

“Where are they?”

“They are attempting to locate a Brodsky descendent near Prokhorovka.

“This is taking too long. I want results and I want them soon.”

“Patience is all you can have at the moment, Mr. Berezin.”

Berezin had never been a patient man. Patience was the cornerstone of the unadventurous.
Just how good is he? I need to find out fast.

“Let’s make a deal, Comrade Novikov, from which we may both benefit.”

“I’m listening.”

“You say you are good, second to none you said. I’m not convinced of that. However, I’m a fair man, so let’s put that to the test. I’m going to give you fourteen days to produce some tangible results - by that I mean paintings, something graspable. Do this and your reward will be doubled. Fail, and you get nothing and will go home penniless. As part of the deal, you will have to report to Petrovitch as and when he asks. He is under my direct orders. Do you accept this arrangement?”

Berezin paused. Novikov’s silence was what he expected. The man was an enigma and wasn’t going to panic under pressure.

“I accept,” came the expected reply.

“Excellent, my dear Vladimir. Starting tomorrow, it will be measured. Goodbye.”

The phone went dead.

~ * ~

A short tone from his mobile alerted Manton to an incoming text message. Pushing away his breakfast of cheese pancake sirniki, he opened the phone. As he suspected, it came from Moss.

Never heard of Sidorov. The magazine had a recent private exhibition open to academics/collectors etc. Slavonic Art 1920-1940. Sidorov’s name was in the visitor’s book. Attached a pic of his signature. Hope it helps. Keep me posted. Moss.

“As I thought, Moss has never met our professor, but he has his signature from their recent exhibition. He signed in representing IAS. Neither of us could find that company on the Internet.” Manton opened the file. “The writing looks familiar, but until I see it again, I can’t be sure.”

Tamsin agreed. “Whoever the professor, Toby Walker or International Art Sourcing is, they’re paying us a great deal of attention.”

“Leaving calling cards everywhere suggests they want us to know they’re about.”

“It has to be the Brodskys.”

“Of course it is. Our professor could be a murderer.”

“I think we’re being followed somehow. Wherever we are, they seem to know and then the police arrive, twice, and that’s
not
a coincidence?”

“How?”

Tamsin sipped on her Russian Caravan tea, washing down her remaining blini.

“God knows, but I can’t believe all this can be a coincidence. It’s like a movie when someone’s movements are tracked by a shady guy wearing earphones, sitting in front of a load of screens inside an unmarked van parked nearby.”

“We’ve had no contact with anybody. Do you think that burglar could have bugged my flat?”

“It’s all too farfetched.”

“Also, I can’t get my head around the professor’s visiting cards, the link between them, me looking for Brodsky paintings, and then this professor takes the time and trouble to deliver to me
The Vorticists
book he was reading… something’s very peculiar here and I don’t know what.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t see what we can do about it. I did say beware of Greeks bearing gifts. We should be putting our minds to getting up to Prokhorovka.”

“You’re right. Let’s get out of this place. Look, I’ve compiled a grid chart of all known relatives, both sides of the family, based on Danilovova’s information. Let’s study it in more detail later. There can’t be too many surviving. What d’you think?” He handed her the chart. “We’ll check through it later. Who knows, we might even find a Brodsky painting!”

She raised an eyebrow. “And how would we get it home, Sherlock?”

The closing of the door magnified the silence in their room. She stood motionless, twisting her watch back and forward around her wrist.

“There’s something all wrong about this Brodsky business. We’ve not heard the last of it.” She paused and looked across at him. Jack, for a moment, stopped grabbing clothes from the wardrobe.

“You may be right, but we can’t hang around here brooding. We’ve got to get going. Here.” He threw her a small bag. “Get packing.”

The tension lifted and all she wanted was to get out on the road again. He picked up his case, but hadn’t secured it enough and the front flew open, causing him to drop his shoulder bag, stumble against Tamsin and dislodge
The Vorticists
from its envelope.

“Shit.” he cursed quietly.

“Slow down, will you? You’ll have an accident. Why are we rushing like this?”

“Don’t know, but it feels right – what’s that?” A crunching sound came from beneath his shoe. He inspected it and it looked like a slice of crushed tin foil. “Nothing much.” He picked it up and dropped it into the waste bin.

Twenty minutes later the Civic was heading toward Prokhorovka.
 

Chapter Eighteen

Russia, Kharkov, the same day

H
is office hadn’t changed since the previous occupant made changes in the early nineties. The faded, yellow-brown walls remained bare apart from two black frames; one had a severe looking photograph of Vladimir Putin glaring outwards, and the other contained a letter.

The letter, impressively embossed, was a commendation from Interpol, praising Captain Boris Kolosov for his tireless efforts in discovering the whereabouts and recovery of Levitan’s painting,
Doroga.

A clock made in the image of a French flag left by Interpol’s visit ticked noisily in a manner that didn’t help his pinched expression and the drumming of his fingertips on the wooden surface. The escape of his prime suspect in the Danilovova murder had not placed him in the best of humour. Another aspect continued to aggravate him: his mystery caller. He’d been informed of the murder, a possible suspect, the car and licence plate, and the hotel where this Manton had been staying. It was obvious that the caller had to be somehow involved.
Didn’t he?
He tugged heavily on his earlobe before producing his handmade English briar pipe and stuffed it full of his favourite slow-burning tobacco. He rarely lit it.

The mysterious call had been untraceable and scrambled. Why? It had the elements of a professional
. His mystery caller, knowing what he had told him, had to be considered a suspect also. He was either a resourceful criminal or a former government agent of some sort. His voice, native Russian as he recalled, had a northern Pomor accent, and sounded in its early forties - the normal age for security lay-offs. That was a long shot and pointless to follow up. The service looked after its own. Their anonymity, for security reasons, was protected with a wall of iron. He knew he would never be allowed to access information that could help him trace possible links with anybody connected with the service.

What interested him most were the contents of Katherine Danilovova’s computer. It revealed that she had been tracking down the descendants of a painter he knew of, Mikhail Brodsky. She’d included various locations and names of relatives and descendants, all in the Belgorod Oblast, particularly, Kursk, Golovchino and Prokhorovka. He found emails between her and an English woman, Tamsin Greene, researching Brodsky. The night of Danilovova’s murder, she and her partner, this Jack Manton, had been due to meet. From what he could ascertain, nothing had been removed from Danilovova’s apartment. He had found that the file, ‘Mikhail Brodsky, 1907-1943’ had been downloaded and printed out. This action had occurred at around the time of Danilovova’s death.

The two suspects had not so far attempted to leave the country. He had traced when they arrived and where they had stayed. The car had been returned to the airport, but where were they now? There were no flight records of them anywhere. He leant back his head, and picked up two coloured pencils. With a pad, he began his customary mind-mapping routine, the central incident, motive or possible motive, the personnel involved, and the possible locations. Did the lines and dots join up in any way?

He thought back to the theft of Levitan’s
Doroga.
The nineteenth century painter had become a favourite amongst forgers and thieves. Straightforward smash and grab had become a thing of the past. The Russian Mafia had become experts at establishing bogus institutes and companies posing as Fine and Decorative Art shippers, accredited cargo experts complete with governmental transportation and cargo insurance policies. Once the heist was completed, the company would disappear and along would come another reputable-looking fake replacement, impossible to detect without sophisticated technology. Interpol had reported the increase in art thefts.  Looking at his inconclusive diagram, he wondered if with Brodsky, he could be at the beginnings of something similar.

~ * ~

Prokhorovka, Russia, the same day

Nikita Brodsky wiped trickles of sweat from his brow and heavily lined cheeks, before pulling into the small yard and switching off the engine of his ageing Belarus tractor. It had been a hot morning and he’d been out in the fields since sun up. He ran his hands through his white hair, drew in a large lungful of air and from behind the driver’s seat, he hauled up a small cool box. Reaching inside, he extracted a tightly wrapped muslin cloth containing cold meat slices and sausages, together with the spicy dumpling he’d cooked the night before. To finish off, he’d prepared a few slices of Circassian cheese, plus an apple, and to wash it down, a small bottle of Baltika beer.

He ate without haste, enjoying the warm silence, broken only by the birdcalls and the wheat crop rustling in the wind. It reminded him of the days when, as a very small child, he would sit with his father, Anatoly, ploughing this same field. It had been after the time the Nazis suffered defeat. Anatoly, disabled, unable to work fully on the Collective, had died several winters later, and his relatives and friends had cared for Nikita. He regretted that he’d never
really
known his father, or anything of his father’s brother, Uncle Ivan, who had died years before he was born. The days of the Collective had passed, and now he owned his farm. He remained unmarried, although he was aware that women would smile at him – too often at times. He had become wealthy. Anatoly had left him everything he owned; money, house, furniture and paintings. He didn’t care much for any of these things apart from his tractor, the harvester and his wheat.

Looking across the dusty track leading down to the main highway, he could see a small cloud of swirling dust heading his way. Minutes later, a black VAZ sedan, covered in dirt, slowed to a halt outside his farm gate. The door swung open to reveal a tall man with dark, swept back hair and pallid features, wearing a crumpled suit. He carried a worn-out leather briefcase. Around his neck hung an ID tag, identifying him as an official of the Federal Tax Office.

“Excuse me, sir.” The man stepped from the car and his flat voice sounded like it had never expressed human passions. “Do you know where I can find Nikita Brodsky?” He looked down at his clipboard to ensure he’d got the right name.

“You’ve found him. I’m Nikita Brodsky.”

“It’s you?”

“It is. Who are you and what do you want?”

He produced a blue handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat streaking down his cheek.

“I’m from the FTO, here to discuss your recent returns. Shall we talk inside?”

“As you wish,” Nikita replied uneasily.

“The reason for my visit is that your recent tax returns appear to be irregular, and I’m here to ask you some further questions about your declaration.”

“Nonsense!” he answered. “Nothing irregular in my returns. How can that be?”

“I have all the paperwork here and your records fail to account for what we discovered in your tonnage on wheat and corn sales receipts. Now, don’t you think we should step inside?”

“Okay, okay, but I don’t believe a word of it.”

“I’m not here to argue, sir, just to get to the bottom of this and collect what is due.”

Nikita noticed the man’s voice now had a steely edge, inconsistent with his scruffy appearance.

“Collect what?” he said, pushing open the door and entering the main living room, blooming with the aroma of boiled cabbage. He heard all about corrupt inspectors before.

Tarasov’s eyes scanned the room. “What we believe you owe the state.”

“Well, how much am I supposed to owe?”

“We calculate 360,000 roubles.” He waved a bunch of official forms at him.

“I don’t owe anything, and besides, I couldn’t pay anything like that.”

“That’s what you all say. If you wish, we can take you to all the way up to the Supreme Court. It’s been done before. You won’t be the first nor the last.”

“I need to see your figures.”

Nikita sensed Tarasov pause, guessing what came next.

“You’ll have plenty of time to see these in court. However, you may like to make a gesture of good faith. Often we can lose paperwork; goodness knows where it gets.” Nikita had hoped his past deceptions would go unnoticed. They had up to now.

“What do you want?” He saw the look of mild surprise cross Tarasov’s face.

“Who can say? Why don’t I take a look around?”

Tarasov moved around the spacious room, making notes on a pad as he did so. The house wasn’t lavish or indulgent. It was the room of a peasant who had made money but had little education or culture. There were glass objects, rustic furniture, two well-worn Caucasian rugs, decorative iron works and certainly nothing from Faberge or Tiffany.