The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (15 page)

~ * ~

Katherine Danilovova’s third floor apartment was set back in the confines of a stone parapet supported by an encompassing balcony. She’d surrounded the area beneath her windows and around the door with an array of coloured pots standing on pebble beds.

He moved forward with the look of an ambitious bureaucrat, clutching a blue vinyl folder. A previous survey had not revealed the presence of any CCTV cameras. He rapped sharply on the doorknocker for the benefit of any neighbours watching. He knew there would be no reply. She wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. That was more than enough time.

With a deft twist of an electric pocket drill, he took less than fifteen seconds to open the door and step inside the darkened interior and switch on the lights. It was as he’d expected, reflecting the tastes of a typical, middle-class academic. On the walls hung various fake icons, modernist prints of abstract art and a selection of framed family photographs. He didn’t waste time on them. What he wanted was the computer that he spotted on her workstation. If he couldn’t get into it, he’d decided, he’d remove the hard drive. The computer had not been turned off. The screensaver was still parading through a series of her photograph albums.

The file named ‘Mikhail Brodsky 1907-1943’ opened with ease. In minutes, he scanned through the file. It provided examples of Brodsky’s work, as well as Brodsky family photographs, some of whom looked as if they could still be alive.
Well, well, that’s saved me some hours of work.
Novikov rubbed his hands together and hit the print button. While the printer spewed out all thirty pages, he looked for the drinks cupboard, found it and proceeded to pour a generous vodka. He then sat back in the chair and checked his watch. He still had at least forty minutes to spare.

He was on his fourth sip of vodka when he heard the key turn in the lock. Katherine Danilovova had returned early.

Fuck!
He sprang to his feet.
This should not be happening.
His plans had just evaporated.

He froze.

Katherine walked in laden with shopping bags from
Karavan Megastore.
He stood motionless — there was nothing he could do. In her early fifties and dumpy, she looked harmless. But he knew she would recognise him again if someone asked her to.

Her look of horrified dismay indicated that she had seen him. What happened next surprised even him. Her shopping bags fell to the floor with a thud. She roared, “My God!” and sprang at him, grabbing a heavy metal vase from a table and swinging it straight at his head.

~ * ~

Manton could feel a sightseeing weariness seep into his joints. Hours of tramping up Samsakaya Street, where most of the places of interest were located, had completed their damage of him. He’d been impressed by the sheer size of Freedom Square and its statue of Lenin. They’d strolled through Shevchenko Gardens and admired its famous sixteen-statue monument of the revolutionary poet and writer, overshadowed by the first Russian ‘skyscraper’, the Derzhprom Building. More sites and yet more walking in Gorkogo Park and he knew he’s had enough.

He checked the time. “Tamsin, I’m knackered. Let’s rest, I think you should give Danilovova a call and tell her we’ll get there about six thirty.”

“I agree.” Opening her phone, she punched in the unfamiliar number. After several rings, the answerphone cut in. Tamsin left her message and said if there was a problem to call her back when she was able. “She doesn’t appear to be in, what shall we do?”

“She lives in Zallesskata Street near Freedom Square. Let’s grab a couple of beers then we’ll walk back to the car and drive over.”

Three Baltika beers later, Tamsin found a parking space within twenty-five yards of Katherine’s third floor apartment.

“Couldn’t be better,” Manton muttered, aware of a gnawing impatience to learn what Katherine Danilovova had discovered. “Let’s go.”

The apartment block looked smart, catering toward the better-off segment of Russian society. Once in the spacious lobby entrance, Jack couldn’t be bothered to wait for the lift to the third floor. Instead, he dragged Tamsin and made a dash up the stairs until he reached the third floor hallway. His breathing remained unchanged but he could hear Tamsin gasping behind him.

She managed to say, “What’s got into you? You’re going like Usain Bolt!”

“Too right.” He held out his hand. “C’mon, quickly, let’s find number 306.”

They found it along the left of the corridor. From its positioning, he guessed it must be overlooking Freedom Square. A name plate was mounted on the wall, bearing the inscription, Katherine Danilovova, CSc. He rapped the door with the shiny brass knocker. All appeared to be quiet inside. He waited a short while, looked around at Tamsin and shrugged.

“Try again.”

He knocked louder and pressed his ear to the door.

“Not a sound.”

A bemused look crossed her face. “Once more?”

Under the pressure of his hand there came a sharp click; the door had not been shut tight. It opened.

“No wait. Give her a shout.”

In Russian she shouted out, “Katherine Danilovova, are you there? It’s Tamsin Greene and Jack Manton.”

There was only silence and the distant sounds from the Square. He edged the door open further. It was unusual for Russians to be tardy. It wasn’t in their nature.

“Strange. Didn’t she say she would be expecting us?”

He fumbled in the gloom to find the light switch. He switched it on and walked in with Tamsin behind him. Tamsin’s piercing yell made him jump. She pointed at a hand protruding from behind a sofa.

“Look! Look!”

“Fucking hell!”

“What’s happened?”

He moved over to the body and knelt down. “It must be Katherine.”

Tamsin remained motionless. “Is she alive?”

“No.” An urgent need to vomit almost overwhelmed him as he realised he had knelt into a sticky, spreading pool of blood. “Stay where you are,” he shouted at her, holding his hand to his face. Anyone could recognize from the odd angle of her neck and her splintered head that Katherine had been murdered. “My God, what happened?”

Tamsin turned her back on the scene.

“This can’t be true. It can’t. What are we going to do? Quick, I’ll call the police.”

“No. Wait. Wait. Look…” Manton bent closer to something that had dropped across the back of her outstretched hand. It looked like bits of fluff, tissue and pocket debris. It looked familiar. He reached out for it. He’d often wondered how he’d react in a drastic situation… now he knew. He glanced at Tamsin, who stood with a look of disbelief, her hand covering her mouth.

“The computer’s still on and the blood is still wet. Whoever did this can’t have left long ago. Check out what’s on that computer, Tamsin.” His voice was authoritarian yet disembodied. With thumb and forefinger, he picked up the object from the back of her hand. It was a business card. He stared at it with incredulity, said nothing and placed it back. Tamsin’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“The current view’s still on. It’s Mikhail Brodsky!”

“Print it out Tamsin, now! We’ve got to get out of here fast!”

She activated the printer. “I’m going to call the police!” Reaching for the phone, the only sound that could be heard was the printer spewing out the file. “Look, there’s an appendix. It hasn’t been printed.”

“Print it.” Jack’s hard grip on her wrist stopped her. “There’s more. I’ll explain later.”

“What’s going on?” From the printer tray, she picked up the sheets and appendix…
Mikhail Brodsky.
“Jack, tell me.”

“Shut up, will you? Listen.” He held his fingers to his lips.

She listened. In the distance came the unmistakeable wailing sound of police vehicles moving closer.

“Something tells me you needn’t make a call. Out… now!” He spoke with force and pushed her back onto the outside landing. “Down the stairs, quickly.”

As he hurtled downward, Tamsin kept pace with him. When they reached the exit doors, they stepped out into the street, close to where the car had been parked.

“Don’t run. Walk.”

“What do we do next?”

“We keep going.”

“Where to?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Within a minute, their Mini passed the police cars heading in the opposite direction from their hotel, The Kharkiv in Svobody Square. Manton’s heart pounded.
Exactly what have I put into motion?
 

Chapter Fifteen

S
ince his detective work had assisted them in recovering Levitan’s stolen work,
Doroga,
Captain Boris Kolosov of the Kharkov Regional Police Department, had been pursued by Interpol to join their ranks. They’d been impressed by his forensic analysis and knowledge of art.

He was due to start his Interpol duties the following month, but it hadn’t been that easy to join. He’d undergone gruelling interviews, psychometric evaluations, polygraph testing, security vetting at the highest level, and was also required to demonstrate computer literacy, language skills
,
artistic awareness, legal knowledge and weapon skills. It was tough, but he knew it was the type of work he was best suited for. The Regional Police Department expressed sorrow that he had to leave, even though they considered him unusual. His exploits in cutting across bureaucracy were legendary.

At thirty-six years old, standing at one metre seventy-three, with his black, cropped hair forming a widow’s peak, he couldn’t boast height or good looks. A bulbous nose destroyed that possibility. He’d become accustomed to women’s rejections, although he did have a casual girlfriend, Lydia. Otherwise, he lived alone in his small apartment on the outskirts of Kharkov.

He had three loves in his life: his dog Laika, police work, and painting. He’d taken a distance learning degree in History of Art to sublimate his desires to become an artist, which had been thwarted by his lack of skills and patience in his approach to his canvasses. Tracing stolen art was a good substitute, and he was able to get near important works.

He sat in the back of a police lead vehicle, followed by two others, heading at speed to Dolphin Apartment 306 on Zallesskata Street. They were responding to an anonymous and untraceable phone call telling him of a murdered woman there. He was duty bound to follow it up and hoped it wasn’t going to be another time-wasting hoax.

~ * ~

Novikov had returned to his hotel room. On a large coffee table, he set up his laptop. Anyone looking at it would assume it was a standard model. In reality, it was also a sophisticated listening device, initially developed by the NKVD, The People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs
.
In 1991, when the FSB, or
Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation
,
eventually superseded all other State Security organisations, they perfected it to the limit of existing technology, and issued it to their operatives. Before he left his position, he’d stolen it, believing he’d find a use for it one day.

Tuning in to the necessary frequency, an agitated frown crossed his brow. What he heard was unexpected. His phone call to Captain Kolosov had been timed for them to arrive and discover both Manton and the woman at the crime scene. Amid the static, he could hear both Manton and his woman talking. The police had not caught them. Their disconcerted voices were clearly coming from inside their rental car.

“Jack, we’re not in a movie, are we? It’s a murder, for fucks sake! What’s going on?”

“You tell me! Unless we get out of Kharkov now, we’ll be in deep shit. I need to read that research. It could change everything. There’s also something else, and I’ve got an awful feeling about it.”

“What’s that?”

“Our burglar, or non-burglar – what was on that card he left?”

“Something like he would return – his name, Toby Walker of IAS or something similar.”

“The card I took off the back of Katherine’s hand wasn’t the same, but similar. Remember that Professor Sidorov who left me that book?”

“Yes.”

“When he gave me his card, I didn’t make the connection. It’s as if he was teasing us. That card looked the same, plus the same words. But here’s the shaker… the name on the card near Katherine was Professor Grigori Sidorov!”

“What! I don’t believe it. It can’t be.”

“The man Walker could either be working with this professor, or might even be the same man. If not, then it’s a remarkable coincidence. Why would Katherine Danilovova have his card the moment she died?”

“He’s a university professor, she’s a high ranking academic, and they both work in the same sort of field…”

Novikov disconnected his receiver. His plan had not gone as he’d hoped. There had to be another time. He began reading Katherine Danilovova’s research.

Fifteen minutes later he knew from her information that he’d be travelling more.

Novikov reached for his phone and activated the scrambler.

~ * ~

Kolosov had completed his preliminary examination of the corpse. Photographers and forensics will now take charge and report back to him. The deceased had suffered a deep head wound that would have assisted in her neck breaking. But it needed more than that. It needed an extra considerable force. She remained fully clothed, and initial examination gave no evidence of sexual molestation. Death had been instant. He spoke to his second, Bazorov.

“The killer was an expert. The break in her neck is clean and clinical. Whoever did this knew exactly how. The break in the vertebra is almost surgical. Her smashing her head into the corner piece caused the head wound. One quick sickening twist and she was finished. There’s an expert on the loose somewhere. What was he looking for and what did she have that he wanted so badly. What a bastard, eh?”

He gazed around her corpse and wished for more light than that coming from a few meagre seventy-five watt wall lights dotted around the room. He snapped at a policeman guarding the door.

“Get some police lights in here, plenty of it. How can I see anything with this lighting?”

The guard sprang into action. “Five minutes, sir.”