The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (27 page)

Now, it looked like Manton’s innocent and inadvertent activities had caught someone’s attention, seriously so, extending to the full use of criminal acts – murder, theft and violence.

Kolosov wrote down the names of five possible suspects given to him jointly by the Art Loss Register (ALR), the Rosokhrankultural, and the Council for the Prevention of Art Theft (COPAT). To this, he added the name supplied to him by Manton.

~ * ~

The train hurtled onward without stopping as it passed planted walkways of poplars, canals, vines and chateaux, that Tamsin had always regarded as quintessential France. Her recollections of the previous day had subsided. The madman had disappeared and this knowledge had lifted her mood. Looking at Jack, she could see he had dozed off, his head lolling sideways on his shoulder. She had no idea how they would find Leonid Brodsky once in Lyon, but if he had inherited Lev’s hoard of works, he could become wealthy overnight. That he had sold two works to the Galerie Avant-Garde held the possibility that he could have had more. The big question was, did he still have the remaining paintings, and could there be more works that were unaccounted for?

Her big hope was that they would find something to make their efforts worthwhile, and get them out and away from all the intrigue and suspense. She gave a stifled yawn, moved next to him, rested her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

~ * ~

The man doubted failure. He could hear the rattle of the drinks trolley approaching as the attendant commenced serving passengers. It was part of the compensation for the cancelled TGV. Turning back inside, he dropped back into his seat to wait, hoping his persuasive powers would be sufficient not to shift to messy alternatives.

The waiter wore a white tunic with brightly polished buttons, epaulettes, and his entire starched appearance couldn’t be faulted, apart from a few stains of coffee that would often splatter from the dispenser. The shiny name badge displayed his name as Eugène. With a precision acquired over the years, he moved with attentiveness through the first-class areas. As was his custom, he acknowledged the drawn blinds of the compartment and knocked with respect on the door.

“Yes?”

“Coffee, drinks, Monsieur?”

“Okay. Come in.”

He slid the door open and in front of him slumped a tall man wearing a large straw hat pulled down low, who looked as if he had been sleeping.

“What will it be, Monsieur?”

“A large espresso, please.”

Eugène poured the drink into a small cup and offered it to his customer. “Monsieur.”

The man stood as if to pay, glancing at his nametag. “Ah, Eugène.” He enjoyed the look of bemusement that crossed his face. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Pardon, Monsieur?” Eugène’s eyes swivelled toward a large wad of Euros that waved close under his nostrils – more than he could earn in three months, including tips.

~ * ~

Manton rarely dispelled his recurring dream. In times of crisis, it returned to haunt him… a reminder for him not to forget his humanity.
His dog’s death had been swift and painless, and Jonesy, he reasoned, would not have wanted anyone else to do it. He buried him in the damp field, sat on the wet grass surrounding his grave, and opened the bottle of scotch he’d carried in his inside pocket. He stayed there until the bottle was empty. He’d been unable to prevent the flow of
tears,
together with his profound requests for Jonesy’s forgiveness.

Manton woke with a disorientated start.
Curse that bloody dream!
Tamsin stirred as he shook her shoulder to rouse her from her sleep. In spite of his efforts, she didn’t wake up, and he guessed she needed the rest. He decided not to waken her. Down the far end of the corridor, he heard the sound of clinking glass, rattling bottles and the clatter of crockery signalling the approach of the drinks trolley. He had decided beforehand that he will not open the door to anyone unless under exceptional circumstances. The drinks trolley did not fit into that category. As he suspected, it eventually came to a stop outside their door. Jack looked at Tamsin who had finally opened her eyes. There came a sharp rap on the door.

“Quiet,” he hissed at her, holding his finger to his lips.

“What’s the matter?”

He shook his head. Silence hung in the compartment. He knew whoever stood outside the door was listening.

“Whoever is out there is listening at the door.”

Manton nodded.

The next thing, she heard another more aggressive rap at the door. A soft voice spoke, but loud enough for them to hear.

“
Madame, Monsieur, rafraichissements, aimeriez-vous boire quelque chose? Café, jus de fruits, biers, bière blonde?
”

Without a second thought, she unclipped the long hairpin with a brooch that held her hair up. It tumbled out in disarray.

“
Madame, Monsieur, rafraichissements s’il vous plait?
”

Manton rose and reached out for the suitcase. “No, thank you,” he shouted out before hissing at Tamsin. “I don’t like this Tamsin, get the Brodsky out!”

With frantic speed, and still gripping the large pin, she reached deep inside the case, located the frame and hauled it out. “I’ve got it.”

“Unwrap it. If it’s Novikov, I’ll destroy it in front of him.”

He never let his gaze wander from the straining door and heard Tamsin gasp out aloud as the lock broke with a hefty crack, splintering the doorframe. It burst open to reveal a man wearing standard SNCF waiter’s attire, and a triumphant sneer on his face. For the briefest fraction of time, Manton inhaled the death-dealing silence, aware that both he and Tamsin had their eyes locked as if by a magnet, on the man he recognised as the postman from the Bromovitch’s farm, Vladimir Novikov.

Manton pushed Tamsin behind him, stood upright in front of
Girl of Peace,
holding in his right hand a Swiss army knife opened up with the saw blade exposed and pressing into the canvass.

“One step closer and I’ll rip this thing to shreds.”

Novikov hesitated, one foot inside the compartment and one foot outside with the drinks trolley to his right. He made a lunge forward, but before he could reach them, the train made an unexpected swerve to the left and he was unable to prevent himself from rolling backwards to collide awkwardly with a thick-set and heavily built man who had moved unnoticed behind him, as if to squeeze past.

Novikov went sprawling to the floor, his legs and arms splayed out half inside the trolley and half outside. As he fell, Tamsin stabbed at his face with the steel pin and punctured his cheeks and jaw. Manton dropped the painting and forced Novikov further down, causing the boiling hot coffee urn to crash over, drenching Novikov with its contents followed next by bottles and a cascade of crockery. He didn’t make a sound even as the scalding liquid mingled with the blood from his face and seeped through the numerous cracks, seams and crevices of his clothes.

He was unable to get up as a large black boot pressed with considerable power on the back of his neck.

Jack looked at Tamsin, her face contorted into a furious grimace. Neither of them could move. They stood as if frozen in time. The man had not removed his foot from Novikov’s neck and had knelt down, forcing Novikov into a viscous arm lock - unable to move, grimacing in pain and entangled with the trolley.

Agent Platonov looked across at them. He spoke in Russian. “
Ty v poryadke?
”

“
Da
. We’re ok,” replied Tamsin, noticing the look of surprise on Jack’s face.

The man gestured with a sharp sideways jerk of his head towards the front of the train.

“
Ubi’rajsya ne’medlenno
.”

“
My budem don volnuites
!”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s telling us to get out of here and I’ve just told him not to worry, we will.”

“How long before Lyon?”

“About thirty minutes.”

“Wrap up the painting, grab the luggage and let’s get the hell out of here.”

“What’s happening with these two?” He indicated the Russian’s boot still pressing hard into Novikov’s neck.”

“I don’t think that’s our immediate concern. Let’s just go. Now!” She pushed hard into his back as they stepped over Novikov and headed out faster than a coursing hare.

Tamsin looked back at whom she guessed was a Russian agent and thanked him. “
Spasibo balshoye
.”

He nodded back before she saw him begin to haul Novikov back into their carriage and close the door. They moved as fast as they could to the furthest exit point and stood fearfully waiting for the train to come to a halt.

In between gasps, Jack spoke. “I’ve seen that man before. If I’m correct, he’s been sticking close to us since we left Russia.”

Her terrified expression said it all. “What the fuck do we do now?”

“I don’t know, except to put as much distance between us and this train once it stops.”

“We always seem to be running.”

She said no more, constantly glancing back at their compartment. Nothing… only a menacing silence that folded around them as the train began its slow trundle into the smartness of the Gare de la Par-Dieu. She couldn’t help thinking that at the end of the day, it was still a terminal and all the connotations that word possessed: journey’s end for travellers, art researchers, agents and murderers.

Chapter Thirty

Covent Garden, London WC2

Moss was excited about the headlines he had constructed and proposed to use them for the next edition. His usual unalterable writing style embraced major auction events, sensations, discoveries in provincial and country auctions, fashion and trends in the market, as well as who happened to be buying or selling.

This time it
was
different.

He leant back into the Chesterfield and tugged on his goatee. His unease became replaced by a momentary buzz of excitement. What he had written had beaten the tabloids and broad sheets, and paved the way for greater investigations. If they didn’t bite on this, what would they bite on? The story had all the ingredients of a thriller, complete with good and bad guys. Next Tuesday’s edition had to be special. For the first time in his career as a journalist and reporter, he now knew how it felt to uncover a really big story – a scoop!

Vol.10 issue 27 6 July 2016

Art Auctions & Art Dealers

The International Voice of World Art

Russian Art Thefts plus Murders

Major International Investigation

It has been reported that Russian authorities, in conjunction with Interpol, are actively investigating the disappearance and theft of numerous works of Russian art, not only from Russia, but also worldwide.

In their wake has occurred a spate of murders and attempted murders. Recently, the Russian billionaire banker, Alexsandr Molotov, together with his wife, were found brutally murdered and locked in their vault after their entire collection of Russian art had been removed.

Sources report other killings and attempted killings from Australia through to Europe, France and Russia. There are rumours that the attempts are related to the suspected existence of paintings by the now renowned Soviet artist Mikhail Brodsky (see Biography p.3), which if true, would command unprecedented prices.

It is suspected that an as yet unknown and shadowy Russian art collector could be behind the spate of thefts over the last few years, employing an illegal enforcer or assassin in an attempt to bolster what has to be a highly secretive operation and possible collection. It is also known that a respected English Art Historian who has been leading attempts to locate Brodsky’s missing works, has been subjected to murder attempts on more than one occasion… (
Full report & pics. p.3
)

Clicking on the mouse, he turned to the full story he’d positioned on page three. The full colour photograph of the
Girl of Peace
looked outstanding, and if that didn’t grab attention, he thought, nothing else would. He read through his copy and he knew he’d included everything Manton had told him. He refrained from mentioning names but he’d be happy to pass them on to the press and the police. Whoever the Russian Kolosov happened to be, he had all the information he had, and knowing Manton, he didn’t do anything without good reason.

Once this issue had been put to bed, he would be sending copies to all the dailies. Again, he checked it through and once more decided it looked good and ready to go. Unable to prevent a smile, he emailed the draft copy direct to Manton with a short message.

~ * ~

“Tamsin, we’re not hanging around here to see what happens.” Manton leapt from the train, making sure he had hold of her hand and they had their entire luggage. “Let’s get out of here and work out where we go from here.” He could see she needed no further encouragement as with heads bent, they headed at a brisk pace for the exit before stepping out into streets of Lyon, the second city of France and its gastronomical capital.

Tamsin looked hurriedly around like a hunted criminal. “We need to get as far away from here as fast as possible.”

“Agreed.” For thirty minutes, they crisscrossed through various streets not knowing where they were or where they were going, and constantly looking behind.

“Let’s stop over there.” Tamsin pointed to a simple looking bar named ‘Boire’.

Walking in past the heavy wooden doors, the first thing Manton noticed was the large and signed black and white photographs of Hollywood legends and writers adorning the oak panelled walls – Bogart, Hemmingway, Hayworth and Kerouac, to name a few. He ordered two Desperado beers.

“Let’s sit down and see if we can unwind and make sense of this.”

“I’m still shaking.” She held out her trembling hands. “I’ve never injured anyone in my life before… ever! How did he know we were on that train?”