Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  He remembered, also, the big, clumsy bear hug that Noakes had given his terrified colleague before she was led away. That, too, spoke volumes.

  ‘What’s going to happen to Claire Holder an’ Cartwright, Guv?’

  ‘Well, you’ll have heard the saying “The wheels of justice turn slowly, but grind exceedingly fine.”’ Markham looked into the fire’s leaping flames as if picturing the future. ‘I feel sure the law will catch up with them in the end.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s sometime this century,’ grumbled Noakes.

  ‘Will DCI Sidney authorize the exhumations in that graveyard now, sir?’

  ‘Once the publicity dies down, yes, Doyle.’ Markham thought of all those Norfolk suns that had risen over Rose Seacombe’s head and set at her feet. ‘There’ll be proper funerals too for all who “disappeared”.’

  Noakes was pleased. ‘Mebbe we c’n see about tidying the place up … lay a few flowers an’ all.’

  ‘I’ll make it your responsibility, Noakesy.’

  ‘There’s going to be a joint funeral service for Hayley Macdonald and David Belcher,’ Doyle said.

  It felt somehow appropriate. Two young lives snuffed out before their time in the shadow of the Newman.

  ‘We’ll be there,’ said Markham.

  Later, after Doyle had left them for football practice, Markham and Noakes sat together, lazily disinclined to move.

  ‘I heard on the grapevine the Chief Super was seeing that psychologist bird.’ The DS paused portentously. ‘Like dating her.’

  ‘A man of excellent taste if nothing else.’

  Noakes appeared less than satisfied with this rejoinder.

  ‘D’you think she had any idea what he was mixed up in?’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ came the tranquil reply. ‘That’s a woman who cares for her patients.’

  And with that the DS had to be content, though he hummed and hawed till Markham decided to put him out of his misery.

  ‘I’m seeing Olivia later tonight.’

  ‘Champion, Guv.’ He beamed.

  Markham’s hand, unseen, caressed the mobile in his pocket with its precious message. Tonight they would talk and all the ghosts would be laid to rest.

  THE END

  Book 5:

  CRIME IN THE

  BALLET

  A fiercely addictive crime thriller

  Catherine Moloney

  Dedication

  For Jacquel, Simon and Family.

  Prologue

  PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT THEATRES were dead romantic should take a shufti backstage, thought Jake Porter, assistant stage manager of the Bromgrove Royal Court, sniffing grimly as he inhaled a pungent potpourri of smells: over one hundred years of dust; horse glue; fire-retardant spray; methylated spirits; rotting costumes; plus an all-pervading smell of sweaty feet and bodies which seemed to seep through every crack, joist and beam in the building. To say nothing of additional aromatherapy provided by the under-stage canteen whose last week’s lasagne, carrots and cabbage came wafting up through the dip-traps, where innumerable cables were plugged safely out of the way under the stage floor.

  And yet, blinking mole-like in the gloom of the unlighted theatre, Jake felt the familiar excitement. A curious sense of wonder and mystery, as though the powdery labyrinth of scenery, props and make-up boxes were the portals to an enchanted kingdom.

  He had never expected to feel like this when he applied for the job on completion of his HNC Diploma in Performing Arts at Bromgrove University. Saw it as a stepping stone to a career in corporate events management – more ‘blue-chip’, as his trainee solicitor girlfriend put it. But something about the outwardly unprepossessing little red-brick theatre behind the council offices in Bromgrove town centre had seized hold of his imagination, so that the peacock-blue and gold auditorium, its tiers rising trimly like some celestial confectionary, whispered to him of bewitched palaces, princes and princesses – a world utterly removed from the grey reality of everyday. And then came the dancers whose steps seemed to grow out of their bodies as if they had drawn them on the air.

  The theatre was home to two companies, Bromgrove Ballet and The Bromgrove Players, which shared its facilities (more or less amicably) on a rotating basis. For the next fortnight, in the run-up to Christmas, the ballet company would be preparing The Nutcracker as its seasonal offering for the good burghers of Bromgrove. It was a safe bet for the festive period, thought Jake, with all the fantasy toys and animals. The kids were bound to love it, especially the bit where the Rat King and his mice fought the Nutcracker Doll. He gave a pleasurable shudder as he recalled the sinister be-whiskered headdresses created for the production by students at Bromgrove College of Art. Harry Potter, eat your heart out!

  Come to think of it, he should check the inventory for the Sunday load-in, now that the removal lorries had disgorged The Nutcracker props and scenery through the dock doors. Better get down to the basement and crack on, otherwise it would be evening before he knew it. He didn’t much fancy the idea of being alone with the Royal Court’s resident ghost – a doorkeeper who, so the story went, murdered the young ballerina with whom he had been infatuated and would nightly haunt the upper circle to watch her perform. ‘It’s a load of old bollocks,’ was Jake’s invariable response to reports of a ‘cold spot’ or icy draughts, but he nevertheless tried to avoid late nights on his own.

  Making his way to the side door at the front of the auditorium, Jake ascertained that it was already dark outside. After the mustiness backstage, the cold crisp winter air made him feel giddy, like wine that had gone straight to his head. He took two or three deep breaths and then slipped back inside.

  Then it was round to the basement via the infamously named ‘back passage’, and along twisting corridors painted institutional green and cream, avoiding caged-in belching hot pipes, till he came to the docking area.

  Incredible to think that, from this forest of painted flats, endless wicker baskets and rail after rail of costumes, there would emerge a magical dream world of incredible effects. At that moment, the dingy subterranean space felt more like a mortuary.

  Unfortunate comparison.

  Jake was suddenly acutely aware of the silence, broken only by the hollow percussive rattling and creaking of assorted pipes and rafters.

  Clearing his throat, he squinted at his clipboard and sighed.

  God, it would take forever to work through this lot. For all that he badly wanted to impress his pernickety superior Ted Murphy, Jake’s enthusiasm took a sharp nosedive as he surveyed all the paraphernalia of the new ballet … wigs, shoes and box after box of accessories. All in marked white canvas bags, like schoolkids’ luggage at boarding school. The thought made him grin. That’s what some of the dancers were like. Big overgrown kids. He’d never forget his shock when one tiny bejewelled ballerina came off stage swearing like a trooper. ‘If your fucking boss can’t sort out that fucking scenery how I fucking want it, then him and me are gonna fall out.’ And with that she splay-footed her way crossly up the wings before floating ethereally back onstage, the perfect incarnation of a swan princess. The memory made him laugh out loud and he suddenly felt better.

  A low thrumming made him start.

  Just some black relay speakers humming quietly.

  No cause for alarm.

  Jake returned his attention to the clipboard.

  Hold on.

  Mannequins. What was that all about?

  Then his brain cleared. Oh yeah, that must be for the Land of Sweets in the second act. Life-size lollipops … Liquorice Allsorts or some such…

  But where were they, these mannequins?

  Wait a minute … wasn’t that a dummy propped up against the rail with the drapes and cloths for the masking flats?

  Jake frowned. The figure didn’t have the right headdress… It looked like it was wearing the Rat King mask…

  He felt an unaccountable repugnance creep over him at the sight of the eerily lifelike costume, coupled with
a strange reluctance to go nearer.

  Come on, lad, get a grip, he told himself. It’s a kiddies’ fairy tale, not Nightmare on Elm Street.

  And still he stood there, irresolute.

  Above, in the auditorium, he thought he heard a door slam. But he knew he was the only one left in the building. Everyone else had gone for the night…

  Bracing his shoulders, Jake returned to the matter in hand. Time to check out these mismatched props.

  One foot nearer. Two feet nearer. And then his heart stopped.

  The dummy wasn’t a dummy.

  Some bloke was sitting there wearing the Rat King’s fibreglass head.

  God, he’d kill the lads for this. Nearly gave him a coronary. Bloody stupid stunt to pull.

  ‘Okay, mate,’ he said hoarsely, looking around as though expecting a bevy of sniggering stagehands to emerge from the shadows. ‘Joke’s over. You’ve had your fun.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Take that thing off. I’ve got work to do here.’

  No answer.

  Tentatively, he reached out a hand.

  At his touch, the figure toppled over, the massive head piece splitting in two as it crashed to the ground.

  Jake’s gaze was riveted to the face released from its balaclava-like prison. He realized that somewhere deep inside, he had known all along he was looking at a body, not a living, breathing human being.

  George Baranov. Bromgrove Ballet’s resident choreographer. Nicknamed ‘Rat’ because of his funny habit of sniffing and twitching his upper lip at the same time, a tic which exposed his pointed front teeth.

  How sickeningly appropriate that he was dressed for his maker as the Rat King.

  Then Jake saw the paperknife protruding from the dead man’s back.

  With shaking hands, he reached for his mobile.

  1. Another World

  AS HE SAT ON his favourite bench behind Bromgrove Police Station at 6 a.m. on Monday morning, DI Gilbert (‘Gil’) Markham was feeling distinctly ambivalent about the forthcoming festive season. When he was growing up, Christmas was always the bleakest time of the year. It was his stepfather’s winter, and he froze the teenager out … except for the times when he lurched home from the pub and climbed the stairs to Markham’s room, plunging the boy into a world of abusive secrets that no-one dared acknowledge. Even now, his stomach muscles roped themselves into double knots at the memory…

  With an effort, Markham forced the malign genie back into its box and looked about him.

  Bracingly cold and still, there was something in the air that promised snow… He decided he would like it if the town turned white, transforming the blackened Victorian Town Hall and ancient terraces of St Chad’s cemetery into aerial masterpieces of delicate tracery, the familiar landmarks somehow newly baptised.

  Despite the biting chill, the DI lingered, his breath steaming in the air, thinking about the previous night’s call out and the acned thin-faced lad who had met him at the Bromgrove Royal Court.

  Markham had rather taken to Jake Porter, but felt an immediate distaste for his boss Ted Murphy – self-important, rotund and piggy-eyed with a ginger comb-over through which his balding pate shone greasily under the police arc lights. Murphy showed more concern for his own credentials as stage manager than compassion for the murdered choreographer who had met such a grotesque end. ‘How could something like this have happened?’ he rapped at the hapless Jake, his voice shrill with resentment, as though he held his youthful subordinate personally responsible. Altogether an unattractive character whom Markham was glad to consign to one of the SOCOs while he gently talked the assistant stage manager through his discovery, moving on to speak easily of general things until Jake had recovered his composure.

  There had been something oddly moving about Jake’s star-struck reverence for the dancers.

  ‘They’re ever so disciplined,’ he had hiccoughed. ‘Stamina like you wouldn’t believe.’

  Gradually, almost inconsequentially, Markham brought the talk round to the stage manager’s role.

  ‘Oh, he starts a performance and makes sure everything happens at the right time.’

  ‘And during the show?’ Markham prompted.

  ‘Then it’s all about pressing buttons and cueing in the sound, lighting, music an’ all that… I usually sit in the prompt corner and give directions through a microphone.’

  The DI was willing to bet that Ted Murphy ensured the youngster did most of the donkey work and took the flak for any pratfalls.

  As though reading his mind, Jake said apologetically, ‘Things do go wrong sometimes.’ He gave a watery grin. ‘Last year when we did The Nutcracker, one of the lads dancing a toy soldier leaned against the proscenium arch – that’s the wooden frame that goes round the stage – and an old lady in the front row reached over and tapped his knee to see if he wanted a sweet. He got such a shock he actually told her, “No, thank you.”’ The smile faded. ‘After that, Ted … Mr Murphy was dead strict about front-of-house checks. Said he didn’t want us looking like amateurs.’

  ‘Presumably he couldn’t police the dancers, though.’ Markham chuckled. ‘I mean, it must get quite busy in the wings with all the performers and stagehands.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Jake nodded vehemently. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus, but acoustics mean the noise doesn’t carry.’ He ducked his head shyly. ‘I’ve seen all sorts. Last year one bloke came off saying his partner had nearly strangled him. Another lad came off and was sick all over the girls’ shoes. And there’s lots of swearing … all down to nerves, you see.’ Markham raised his eyebrows. ‘Straight up. They may look light as a feather on stage, but you should see them when they come off – drenched in sweat and winded … almost punch drunk.’ The young man blushed. ‘I remember one time I had to help a girl by holding her hands above her head so she could breathe more easily. Otherwise she couldn’t have gone on and done her next solo.’

  ‘And Mr Baranov?’ Almost imperceptibly, Markham had brought their conversation round to the murder victim.

  Jake swallowed hard. ‘Mr Murphy dealt with him mainly.’ No doubt there was a clear division of labour, thought Markham grimly, big shots receiving Murphy’s personal attention while lesser mortals were palmed off on his deputy.

  ‘Mr Baranov split his time between us and ENB – that’s the English National Ballet – and he went abroad to work for other companies as well,’ the assistant stage manager said with touching pride. ‘It’s like everyone wanted a piece of him.’ His eyes suddenly bright with tears, he hiccoughed again. ‘“Don’t rape me. Everybody rape me. I must have cup of tea first.” That’s what Mr Baranov used to say when folk were pestering him… He could be really funny… Someone said he’d trained his cat to do jetés and jumps … all kinds of stuff…’

  The DI knew delayed shock when he saw it and swiftly summoned the paramedics.

  ‘People said he could be really difficult, Mr Markham.’ Jake Porter almost whispered the words, as though guilty of some appalling heresy. ‘But it was just cos he cared so much… He was always telling the dancers, “Every time you perform, you must give your lifeblood.”’ A disturbing analogy in the circumstances.

  Markham dragged his thoughts back to the present, feeling the familiar rush of adrenalin that always accompanied the start of an investigation.

  The ballet’s moonlit atmosphere of love and enchantment wouldn’t blind him, he vowed, wouldn’t stop him revealing whatever festered in the shadows beyond the spotlights. Sometimes he felt that the souls of all those violently snatched from life danced at his heels, as though he was the Pied Piper of Death. And now there was one more added to their number. If he could track down Baranov’s killer, perhaps the Russian maestro would reconfigure the pattern – transpose the mournful music to a different harmony and set Markham’s ghostly pursuers free…

  The DI shivered. Wouldn’t do to start getting fanciful, he told himself. This case had the makings of something very nasty. There had been something deeply personal – something m
ocking and insulting – in the way the corpse had been posed with that macabre headdress. Passing for normal amongst his or her neighbours, the murderer nonetheless marched to the beat of a different drummer. Which could mean that this was just the beginning…

  Markham shivered again.

  Jake Porter’s sketch of George Baranov, slight as it was, had brought the dead man momentarily to life. A quirky temperamental character so devoted to his art that even his cat was a performer. No doubt such a man had his enemies.

  There had been affection and admiration, as well as genuine grief, in the assistant stage manager’s broken little tribute. Markham was glad of it, being in no doubt that before the day was very much older, his investigation would likely be swamped by a tidal wave of gossip, innuendo and self-serving tittle tattle. Jake’s self-important boss certainly looked the type to dish the dirt, the DI thought with a spasm of disgust.

  He recalled Baranov’s face. Handsome, delicately boned and slightly oriental with high cheekbones and a hawk-like nose, thinning silver hair and a bald spot. The choreographer’s expression was shuttered, peaceful, as though he had travelled deep inside himself to another country. Markham hoped that it might be so.

  The cold was getting to his bones. Time to make a move.

  There was nothing particularly Christmassy about the station entrance foyer, unless one counted a few forlorn tinsel streamers and a miniature, gaudily decorated tree sitting at a drunken angle on the reception desk. Jean, the motherly front counter clerk, gave him a cheery wave as he headed for the lift which would take him up to CID.

  At least it was toasty warm, Markham thought with satisfaction as he walked through the open-plan outer office to his own glassed-in corner cubicle with its unrivalled views of the station car park. The temperamental heating system which no-one seemed able to turn off spring or summer, with the result that the place felt like some sort of tropical rain forest, undoubtedly came into its own at the fag end of the year.