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

found in an obscure Midwest American auction house an unusual landscape work that he’d been certain was the work of Ben Nicholson, depicting St. Ives in Cornwall. The signature had been indistinguishable, but he had shrewdly believed in its authenticity. He’d placed a bid by phone and without much resistance, secured it for $1000. The indistinct signature had made it difficult to identify. Coupled with the obscure location of the work, it had been easy to overlook. Poor cataloguing and research rendered the work unknown by the auction house. As a result, there were only a few hesitant bids, and the painting became his.
    After acquiring the work, he had taken it to Christie’s for their appraisal. His guess was correct. They confirmed it as genuine. There had been no hesitation in giving it a conservative estimate of £60,000. It went for £85,000. Not bad for a morning’s work. Most of the proceeds went to paying off creditors, and the small balance left over kept his head above water for another six months or so.
    For the third day running, the sun had refused to shine, surrendering instead to a penetrating dampness accompanied by sleeting snow, fluttering down like wet moths and driven by a raw north wind. It pulled and tugged into the long folds of his riding coat, making him wish it would blow harder just to see how cruel it could be. Wet slush leaked through the tops of his shoes. Manton pushed his hands deep into the large pockets, bent his head low, and headed for his local pub, The Blackbird .
    He stopped at Dingo's, the local Australian sandwich bar, as he did whenever he was headed for the pub. He ordered a hot turkey and cranberry sandwich, pushed it into the depths of his pocket, and headed out again into the icy weather. He made his way to a nearby alleyway where he knew Mac would be. Mac had been an army paratrooper in Afghanistan. Mac sat huddled on the ground surrounded by cardboard boxes and the detritus of a homeless life. On his head, he’d balanced several sheets of cardboard and wrapped others around his body to keep out the weather.
    “Hi Mac. You okay?”
    “I’m fine, but cold.”
    “Try this, it might warm you up.” Manton dug out the sandwich and handed it over. The air smelt of cooked turkey, its aroma cut tantalisingly through the damp air.
    “You’re very kind. Thank you.”
    “See you soon, Mac.” Manton patted him on the shoulder, turned, and made his way to the pub. Giving Mac money would never be an option. It would be drunk away in thirty minutes. There but for the grace of God… I never understand why I do that. Maybe, he thought as he walked away, Mac had suffered so much more than he, and that his own future could follow similar lines. If it happened to him, kindness would be a welcome comfort.
    Pushing open the door of the pub, he walked into fireside warmth that filled the air with the scent of smouldering pine logs. He ordered a pint of London Pride before dumping aside his hat, coat, red knitted scarf, and sitting down in a worn but comfortable armchair. Faithful to his routine, he flipped open the lid of his laptop with more urgency than usual, accessed the Internet, and commenced his daily work of scouring the world art markets and auctions. He never knew what he might find. This time he had to get lucky. He became aware of a niggling inside of him, an overwhelming sensation close to panic.
    He hadn’t in the past been without small successes, plus one major event.
    That morning, Manton’s thought of being forty-five on his next birthday caused him concern. He worked out for two hours, twice a week at the gym, swam countless lengths on the same days, and on weekends gave fencing lessons down at the local British Fencing Association club. Besides a few grey hairs, for his age, he knew he was fit. But time, he understood, was already eroding away what prowess remained.
    Apart from rescuing his financial predicament, he couldn’t help craving the buzz, the excitement