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

and tapped out the number of the only man he knew capable of achieving what he wanted, no matter what he had to do.

Chapter Two
    Earls Court, London SW5, the same day
    B elching to a tyre-searing halt, the car driver blasted at the horn… MAAARP!
    Jack Manton leapt backwards onto the pavement.
    “You fucking idiot!” shouted a large, bald head from the window.
    “Sorry.” Manton waved a weak gesture of apology, adjusted the angle of his large, black hat, and turned his collar back up. He watched the car sprint off, with the driver’s, hand gesturing from the open window, making a vigorous ‘wanker’ sign.
    Manton’s thoughts had been occupied with the letter he’d received that morning from the bank, asking him to contact them immediately to discuss his intended financial arrangements.
    Of late, his thoughts were dominated by personal survival strategies. Two years back, he’d lost his job when the magazine he worked on, Art & Antiques , a glossy monthly, collapsed in a shower of court orders and a bankruptcy notice. He had worked there for ten years, having left Edinburgh University years before that with a First Class Honours Degree in History of Fine Art. This was followed by a Masters, backed up later by an exacting period at the Courtauld Institute, investigating modern Russian painters, until his funds withered away just short of his doctorate.
    He’d enjoyed his work reporting on the European art markets, auctions and price variations. His expertise was highly regarded. But, a job didn’t exist for such a narrow field of speciality. He was called on, but not frequently enough to merit an article or column in the newspapers, or a specialist publication like The Burlington Magazine . He knew he couldn’t endure what he called ‘proper work’. But now he realised that a change of viewpoint beckoned ominously. The financial sharks, the mortgagee, and worse still, HM Revenue and Customs inspectors, had him encircled in a glaring cone of light.
    A week before his job vanished, he had shot his nine-year old German Shepherd dog, Jonesy. Jonesy had been suffering with severe hip dysplasia and had also been diagnosed with testicular cancer. Standing had become almost impossible for him and he frequently moaned and howled in pain. He had tried to overdose him on pills, but he vomited them up and lost control of all his bodily functions. He had baulked at the thought of someone else taking Jonesy’s life.  That was his responsibility alone. Nobody else had the right to touch him.
    He’d put on his walking jacket and took down his twelve-bore shotgun from its cabinet and looked at him.
    “Walkies.” Jonesy looked up with an ashamed expression, knowing that he couldn’t walk, as if he knew what was about to happen. His tail had wagged and his head hung forlorn on his front paws. Manton remembered walking out earlier to the field and digging a large hole. When it was done, he had carried Jonesy out wrapped in his favourite blanket. As if to compensate for what he was about to do, he placed him with an exaggerated gentleness next to the grave. He gave him one of his favourite biscuit treats, and while he chewed on them, shot him cleanly through the back of his neck.
    That incident had wounded him with a depth of sorrow he hadn’t realised he possessed. Add to that the loss of his job, plus his now crushing financial predicament, he realised that his life and its terms were now flapping about like a newspaper blowing in the wind. His future looked as black as a child’s midnight nightmare. Even Tamsin, his girlfriend, wouldn’t be able to prevent him from plummeting into it, unless he had another major coup soon. That had become his fervent prayer.
    With encouragement from her, he had attempted to put his knowledge to profitable use. Using the Internet, he had turned to buying and selling paintings, but only once had he made enough to placate those pressing him to pay up. Not long after he had started, he had