by L. S. Hilton
‘No problem! Happy to help’ she called as I bounded up the stairs.
Yermolov was waiting for me on the second-floor landing. Even a skinny old party like Balensky must have weighed sixty kilos but he hadn’t broken a sweat.
‘In here.’ I knocked gently on the door of room 9.
*
Timothy had dressed in lederhosen for his date with Balensky. At least he was wearing the buff leather shorts and embroidered braces, but he seemed to have forgotten the shirt. His hair was combed back neatly with water, gleaming in the bronze light off the cheap pine panelling of the walls. The two men nodded to one another.
‘Put him on the bed.’
All the items from my shopping list were arranged on the bedside table. I noted approvingly that the whisky had been opened and two glasses poured. Timothy was going to turn a trick with a john who got over-excited, and be forced to defend himself. Eyeing up the objects, Yermolov got it without my needing to explain.
‘How did you know?’ he whispered.
‘I didn’t. Contingency. It might have been you.’
He looked amused again.
‘You are very confident.’
‘Thorough, as you said.’
‘Was I also to have been . . . gay?’
‘People can be surprising. Shall we get on with it?’
I unwound the cloth, exposing the base of Balensky’s skull where the anemone of his wound was finally beginning to seep. It was a rag now, the picture. A nothing.
I rearranged the props a little, removing some, placing the fossil on the nightstand.
‘Get his clothes off.’
Timothy and I did that, Yermolov standing discreetly to one side. From the wardrobe, Timothy produced a plastic bag containing Balensky’s get-up. He folded Balensky’s clothes over the room’s single chair – coat, jacket, sweater, shirt, underpants, socks, vest. There was something a bit unbearable about the vest. We replaced them with the black PVC gear. Like Yermolov, I averted my eyes as Timothy unlaced the front of the shorts to roll a condom onto Balensky’s cock. Unsurprisingly, that took a while.
‘How much are you charging tonight, darling?’
‘Two grand,’ Timothy answered. I put the cash in Balensky’s pocket.
‘OK. Lie on the bed.’
We rolled Balensky over to the wall and Timothy got into position, lying on his front, undoing the buttons on either side of the lederhosen.
‘Wait. Did you get the lube?’
‘In the bag.’
Timothy sat up, took the bottle I handed him, did the necessary and lay down again.
‘Can you reach the fossil?’
He tried with his right hand first, pushing himself up on his elbow, then the left, but the angle required to strike Balensky’s wound was implausible.
‘And if we were doing it missionary?’
Timothy unselfconsciously lay back, popped a pillow beneath his head and spread his legs.
‘No purchase. He’s old.’ We were speaking French, I could see Yermolov following with detached interest. Bizarre as the scenario was, I had a feeling it wasn’t the first time he’d staged a death.
‘How about like this?’ Timothy moved to his knees in one graceful motion. ‘If he was kneeling behind me? Then I could turn?’
‘Hold him up,’ I told Yermolov, then had a look, ‘Yes. Reach for it, right hand, turn under him, he falls – so.’
Yermolov obligingly dropped Balensky, who fell forward, his floppy, mottled arse protruding obscenely from the plastic pants.
‘Good. Get the wire. One roll in his jacket pocket. Are you ready? You’re sure?’
Timothy grimaced.
‘Ready? Do it now.’
The only time I saw Timothy wince was when he swung the fossil true at Balensky’s neck. It made a dull thwock, like a tennis ball hitting a racket. He swallowed hard. We rolled Balensky untidily onto the floor.
‘Hold it. You’ll drop it more naturally. Give me the wire.’
‘I’ll do it,’ put in Yermolov. ‘He’ll fight you.’
I had been sure I could do it, but I was grateful.
‘Go upstairs straight away. There’s a fire escape from the top floor, wooden. It comes out at the side, so your car will be round to the left.’
‘And when will I see you?’ he asked suddenly in Russian. An odd moment to ask me on a date.
‘Elena is waiting for me at the Palace. It might be a while, so you’ll have to put up with each other until I get there.’
‘Certainly.’
‘I’ll wait outside.’
Waiting again. Praying that no one would come, but it was evening in high season in St Moritz; they would all be out doing après-ski, wouldn’t they? Flinging down the jolly old glühwein? I flinched as I heard footsteps on the stairs, took out my phone and pretended to study it as a couple in heavy jackets and bright-coloured salopettes over boots came round, speaking German. I nodded at them from my position in the corridor; they returned the silent greeting as they headed downstairs. Come on. What were they doing? Come on. More footsteps, inside this time, Yermolov passing me in silence. He had removed his shoes.
I banged the door open as hard as I could, holding up my phone, recalling the rubberneckers circling Guiche’s body on the Île Saint-Louis. The modern reflex – snap first, scream later. I pressed the screen blindly as I moved forward, once, twice, three times. Then I looked. Timothy was sagged forward on the bed, doubled over his knees as though he was doing yoga. I went closer. His face was purpled, it didn’t look like he was breathing. Had Yermolov tricked me? Finished the job, with me next? Oh, Jesus. I crooked my arm under Timothy and let him down gently onto his side. I was standing on Balensky’s back. I did note that the makeshift garrotte was trailing between his wrinkled manicured fingers.
‘Timothy? It’s OK. It’s finished now. Come on, breathe. Please breathe.’
Nothing. The wire had cut his skin, there was blood on the starched Swiss pillow. I felt a slow gale of panic begin to build in me. The cotton was milky, the colour of dirty bathwater. I wanted to delve my hands into it, to pull his face free; if I could just reach down to her, I could make her safe. Not that. Not that. This is Timothy.
‘Please. Come on.’ I shook him, harder, harder. He coughed. Oh, thank you. He was wheezing, gulping for air, still choking, I supported his head until his throat cleared. He gave me a gorgeous, lazy smile.
‘Ça va?’
‘Ça va.’
‘I’ll be in touch. With the money. Take care.’
I knew I would never see him again. Whatever warmth we might have felt for one another, this had only ever been business, all along. Perhaps that knowledge was what had created the trust necessary for our brief alliance.
I kissed him once, tenderly, on his swollen, cyanotic lips.
And then I started shouting.
25
We left St Moritz that night. I had waited until the last possible second, when I heard the receptionist pounding up the stairs in response to my horrified screams, then bolted out the same way I had directed Yermolov. The concerned friend would remain anonymous. I walked down to the Palace, too high on adrenalin to notice the paralysing temperature even with just Carlotta’s smart jacket to cover me, and joined the Yermolovs in Elena’s suite. I went straight to the bathroom, locked the door and checked in with my grey hat.
*
All done. $2,000 to upload them?
Understood.
I’ll need the account. You’ll need to wait until I get to a laptop.
U R good 4 it. I know.
Thanks. Blur out the boy’s face. Wait five hours. Then viral.
Consider it done. An unusually elegant flourish, that.
U OK? No Russki hassle?
None. Thanks.
:) Sending new code now.
When the message pinged through, I sent the pictures I had shot of Balensky and Timothy in extremis. Timothy’s story would hopefully be corroborated by Balensky’
s bodyguard, more likely since I now knew he was unpaid and likely to be disgruntled. Timothy would explain to the authorities that he had arranged a meeting for paid sex with Balensky. That Balensky had wanted a little Christian Grey action, which Timothy had gone along with until the wire got too tight, when he had struck out desperately in self-defence to save his own life. He would have a rough few days, but Balensky’s age would make it difficult to prosecute a manslaughter case, while the nature of the offence would keep anyone in Balensky’s family from making a fuss, particularly given his financial circumstances. And Timothy would get his double spread, in the end, when the photos swam up from the dark web. I’d asked for his face to be obscured to preserve his anonymity, but I probably needn’t have bothered. Turning tricks was no bar to fame. He’d probably end up with his own reality show. I would give him 500K, which would allow him freedom. It had seemed a reasonable price before; since Balensky’s demise had been so useful to Yermolov, I reckoned I could get him to come in to increase it.
*
In the next room, Elena and Yermolov seemed to be chatting quietly in Russian. I took a long shower and wrapped myself in a quilted bathrobe with a Palace monogram. When I appeared, my hair turbaned in a towel, Elena ran to embrace me as Yermolov opened a bottle of Krug. I couldn’t quite see why I was suddenly so popular, but I took advantage to order double cheeseburgers from room service. We gnawed them from our knees, mayonnaise and juice dripping down our wrists. Elena raised her glass in an unsteady toast. I clocked Yermolov eyeing her, but he said nothing.
‘Thank you! We have had such a wonderful talk, the first in months, thanks to you!’
I could see why having the chance to blackmail her husband for murder might have cheered her up, but she looked sincerely happy.
‘If only we had spoken before, explained,’ she continued, ‘all would have been so much easier! Nothing to be afraid of.’
I knew where she was coming from with that one.
‘I have told Elena that everything will be arranged properly,’ put in Yermolov. ‘She had nothing to worry about.’
‘Sorry about your Caravaggio, Elena.’
‘I think it does not matter now.’
The look she exchanged with her husband was rueful, knowing, regretful, loving. Its effect was only ruined by her rolling slowly off her chair and coming to rest on the carpet with a quarter of burger still clutched in her fist. The hidden bottle of vodka rolled out from beneath the cushion which had been assisting her impeccable ballerina’s poise. Yermolov and I looked at each other.
‘Tell me you didn’t.’
‘Tell me you didn’t.’
I turned her over and she emitted a loud snore. ‘Jesus,’ I sighed. ‘I actually thought –’
‘So did I,’ he cut in.
Then we laughed a lot, until Yermolov asked if I was ready to leave?
‘Go back to Carlotta’s? Sure. We should get this one to bed though.’
‘Not Carlotta’s. I am going now to the house in France. Did you think I was going to let you out of my sight before your little artist friends send their “installation”?’
‘What makes you think there won’t be copies of the tape?’
‘Nothing. But then I’m not planning to hurt you.’
The way he said ‘hurt’ told me how it was.
‘I haven’t got any clothes,’ I stalled.
‘Are you flirting with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you won’t need them. Do you have your documents and so on in your bag?’
‘I do.’
‘Well then. Unless you think that your friend here would mind?’
I looked down at Elena’s prone form, considered. ‘She isn’t my friend. She never was.’
He drove me to the airport naked under the bathrobe, though I waited until we were airborne before I took it off.
*
Any residue of sisterly solidarity I might have felt with Elena was banished when I saw what she had done to the ground floor of Yermolov’s villa. On my previous visit it had been too warm to stay indoors much, but now, in winter, I was exposed to the full horror of gilt on an unlimited budget. They say that you have to be a Rothschild to pull off ‘style Rothschild’, an axiom proved abundantly by Elena’s drawing rooms. We were greeted by Madame Poulhazan, immaculately suited and coiffed, although it was four in the morning. Her face betrayed nothing, but I could feel her opinion of my bathrobe. Nonetheless, when she showed me to my room, I found it full of logoed cardboard carriers.
‘I hope the size will be correct,’ Madame explained. ‘I had to guess.’
‘But how?’
‘Mr Yermolov called from the flight. He said you were – er – sleeping. He explained you would need some things, so I had some of the boutiques in Cannes open and sent the helicopter.’
‘Seriously? I’m very grateful, but it’s the middle of the night – they opened the boutiques in the middle of the night?’
‘Just a phone call, no trouble at all. I hope you will find the things satisfactory.’
As I got into bed in a pistachio silk Carine Gilson negligee, I rather thought that I did. Before I slept I texted Carlotta: Sorry to vanish. Had an offer I couldn’t refuse. Thank you so much for a wonderful stay, and love to Franz. Good luck! I didn’t mind abandoning my clothes. I’d been sick of the sight of them anyway.
She pinged back immediately ‘Who is it?’ I imagined her, hot-eyed in the temperature-controlled bedroom in St Moritz, Franz’s sickly old-man odour filling the close space, clutching her phone under the quilt. I hesitated. ‘Russian guy. No one you know, but I think you’d approve.’
She sent back a kiss, and an emoji of a diamond ring. Dear Carlotta.
*
Lots of people confuse sex and love, which is not so damaging as confusing love and understanding. Sex and understanding together though are a potent combination. In the five days that followed, Yermolov and I took care of business in the mornings and spent the short winter afternoons in my bedroom. I had Jovana DHL the old-school videotapes of Death of an Oligarch from Belgrade, and Yermolov consented to wire the fee as well as contributing to Timothy’s part in the Balensky solution.
On a borrowed laptop, provided by Madame Poulhazan, I checked my bank accounts and went through the backlog of emails to my now-defunct gallery, responding that Gentileschi was closed. I finally began reading Dave’s book, when I wasn’t following the online progress of Balensky’s spectacularly scandalous demise. Dave’s spook had done us proud. The pictures had broken on social media and been picked up immediately by hideous Russian anti-gay vigilante groups. Hashtags spawned, human-rights activists twittered, the Swiss police merely said that they were investigating the death of an 86-year-old man. The Russian press splashed the story, complete with thundering editorials on decadence in the conservative papers, which Yermolov translated for me. The source of the photographs was given definitively as an undercover Russian journalist working to end corruption, propaganda that swiftly became truth. I didn’t worry about Timothy. A call to Panama had moved his money into a trust that he would be able to access when he returned to France. The password I chose for him was ‘Edouard’. I made it 750K. Timothy would get his front-door key to the Playboy mansion, in the end.
‘What are you going to do about Kazbich?’
Yermolov and I were sitting up in bed. The fire was lit, the shutters open. Outside, the sky above the sea was a soft dove grey threaded with sudden, surprising phthalo blue. We were drinking Lapsang and munching blinis with black-cherry jam. The smokiness of the tea and the sweetness of the jam tasted of my lessons with Masha.
‘I let him know the picture was sadly destroyed when Balensky attempted to recover it. A tragedy on a tragedy. He doesn’t know I know. He’s in Belgrade. I didn’t want him running. He’ll be dealt with.’
‘Effectively?’
‘Indeed.’ He kissed my temple, trailed his mouth over my cheekbone and along my jaw.
&nb
sp; ‘So Yury will be looking for a new boss?’
‘Maybe. Or shall I deal with him too?’
‘Ever the professional. Yes. I’d like that.’
‘Revenge?’
‘No. Just fair.’
‘And what about you, Judith? What are you going to do?’
‘Go back to Venice, I suppose. When the delivery arrives from Belgrade.’ Not that my flat held much appeal.
There was a moment then, when I thought Yermolov might ask me to stay, but it dwindled along with the blue light beyond the cliffs, and we dozed until it was time to dress and go to look at the pictures. Each evening, before dinner, we went over to the gallery. We watched the pictures differently – Yermolov would choose one of his collection and stand still before it, for twenty minutes or so, while I, I think I swam, like a diver who has dared the black lip of an underwater cavern and emerged in a hidden lagoon of colour. I hadn’t looked at pictures like that for so long, not measuring or assessing, calculating what I remembered and what I needed to know, but simply looking, looking with my whole body, my senses entirely deconcentrated. Nothing we had done in my bedroom, not anything I had ever done with anyone, came close to that. The right word is ecstasy. And then we would walk back, hand in hand through the dark towards the house glowing before us, and eat dinner as Yermolov told me about the works, how and why he had acquired each one, fetching books to compare illustrations and read passages aloud, until the table was cluttered with piles of images and we put our abandoned plates on the floor to make more room.
‘I knew you knew,’ said Yermolov, on what turned out to be my last evening.
‘Knew what?’
‘When Balensky called me – we hadn’t spoken since that thing disappeared – and he said he’d talked to Elena, that Kazbich had had a message and that you would be in St Moritz with the painting. I knew you knew it was a fake.’
‘How?’
‘Come here.’
He didn’t take me in his arms as I expected. Instead he led me to a small cubicle under the main staircase, the triangular wall banked with screens. He flicked one into life – it showed the gallery, the camera moving every twenty seconds from one angle to another, the pictures glowing and dissolving.