The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art Read Online Free Page B

not certain of the genre, he allowed his gaze to sweep over both… without a doubt 1930s avant-garde influence with cubist elements… blocks of colour, black, red, and yellow hues split by rods of light, interspersed by straight lines of purple and shades of blue. The suggestion was of two women lounging on a sofa, smoking, drinking from bottles, one had her hand on the other’s breast. Nightly Performance had exactly the same colours, the same quality, but with more energy, depicting the same women, with the implication of interlocked arms suggesting a dance on what looked like a floating stage. Their abstracted faces suggested mechanical expressions of bored indifference.
    Manton allowed himself to be lured in by the paintings and their compelling qualities. He leant over and pulled an oversized magnifying glass from his bag. He then scoured the works like a scientist looking through a microscope, before he allowed himself to examine the signature. Craning his neck close to the lens, with one eye shut, he attempted to decipher the artist’s signature. Both appeared identical, although hard to read, nebulous. The artist had signed them in the left hand corner using a dark purple colour.
    The first initial had a small downward sweep, with a marked curve which tapered off into a sharp point. He wasn’t sure if it was a letter Ў, but the first section could be an Н or an М. The surname was also difficult to decipher, and appeared to be abbreviated. The first letter had to be a Б, followed possibly by an apostrophe, leaving remaining two letters, a р , and an г, or either an Ю or Д , followed by a С, then Ж or к, then ю, or it could be Ҹ И with a full stop.
    The paintings shouted Russian. He bookmarked the page. He knew enough about his trade to have an inkling that the paintings in front of him were not forgeries and were worth closer inspection. A few notions had already crossed his mind. Looking only at a screen, it was impossible to tell with accuracy.
    He shut down his laptop, pulled on his coat, and headed out the door, back to his spacious apartment in Philbeach Gardens.

Chapter Three
    Vasilievskii Island, Saint Petersburg, the same night
    D arkness, like a blanket.
    At 2:30 a.m. not even a boat moved on the black waters of the Neva.
    Vladimir Novikov’s objective, the large post-Gorbachev house of Alexsandr Molotov, stood silent, lit by ground-mounted floodlights. A wall made of heavy stone, four metres high and topped with razor wire surrounded the property. Its only visible entrance were two massive ornate wrought-iron gates. It looked designed to withstand a lengthy siege. From where he stood, he could see a uniformed guard wearing a black beret, matching his military style uniform. He sat in a heated cabin, with a window looking directly out of the front gates. He was reading, and propped up on the desk was the mandatory Kalashnikov.
    Novikov decided not to climb the wall. He turned the ignition key, fired up the engine and the small black unmarked van crawled towards the entrance.
    Looking suspicious, the guard had moved to the front of the gate. The Kalashnikov pointed towards him. Novikov brought the van to a halt, opened the door, got out, and at a brisk pace walked to the floodlit gates. He spoke loudly, his breath in the cold air, mushrooming skywards in a white billowing mist.
    “Sorry to startle you, comrade, but is this the house of Alexsandr Molotov?”
    “Yes, it is. Who are you and what do you want at this time of morning?” The snub of the Kalashnikov rattled across the iron railings.
    “Good news. I’ve driven all the way up from Borovichi. I’ve an important package for Molotov and was told it must be delivered immediately, whatever the time.” He held up a thick, brown envelope. “It has to be signed for by him personally.”
    “Don’t be so stupid. If you think I’m waking him at this hour, you are mistaken. Let me see that.” He stretched out his hand between the