Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  As he passed DS George Noakes’s frowsy workstation, Markham did a double take.

  The old devil had swiped reception’s advent calendar and prised open the little windows to fish out the chocolate treats. Such bare-faced larceny would no doubt have Jean on the warpath before long.

  The DI grinned as he settled himself behind a desk dotted with piles of manila folders and paperwork.

  Typical Noakes, he thought as he awaited his number two, steeling himself for the olfactory assault which invariably announced the DS’s arrival with a cholesterol-laden Christmas Feast from McDonald’s.

  Better keep him well away from the DCI, he reflected. DCI Sidney – or ‘Slimy Sid’ as he was irreverently known by the troops – looked on Noakes with an increasingly jaundiced eye, having little time for the latter’s slobbishness and notably un-PC approach to modern policing which had so far proved stubbornly resistant to any amount of diversity training.

  In vain had Sidney and Superintendent Collier, like a pair of pliers, tried to bend Markham’s ear about Noakes in endless little chats. The DI could recite the litany by heart. ‘Holding you back.’ ‘Drawback to promotion.’ ‘Creating the wrong impression.’ ‘A negative image.’ Essentially it all added up to Guilt by Association.

  But George Noakes was one of Markham’s ‘non-negotiables’, his outspoken tactlessness and obdurate disregard for the force’s shibboleths somehow curiously reassuring in a world where all around him were furiously climbing the greasy pole.

  More than that, the DI felt he wasn’t complete without Noakes. As though his shambling sidekick – a copper’s copper who ‘jus’ wanted to nab villains’ – was the yin to his yang. None of which went down well with his superiors for whom the partnership constituted a big fat blot on his copybook.

  How could he explain to them that his rough diamond DS understood him at a level beyond words? Granted, the man could be unreasonable, exasperatingly capricious, boorish and rude. He had a tendency to sulk and grumble, coupled with a natural suspicion of those with a university ‘educashun’. But for all that, Noakes was instinctively untrusting and often prejudiced. He was also utterly candid and incapable of lying, qualities which Markham had learned to prize above all else. Simultaneously shrewd, cynical and easily hurt, it was as though the sensibilities of a forest pygmy were preserved in a hardbitten member of Bromgrove’s finest.

  ‘People talk about natural sympathies,’ Markham’s ethereal red-haired girlfriend Olivia Mullen was wont to laugh. ‘That’s you and Noakes. The Odd Couple!’

  Strangely enough, Olivia had taken to Noakes from the first. And he reciprocated with a tongue-tied devotion which rankled somewhat with his redoubtable wife. ‘I believe she’s cast a spell on George,’ Muriel Noakes was wont to declare at the Women’s Guild in a tone that was decidedly brittle.

  The DI had never spoken to Noakes of his childhood domestic trauma and the wasteland of his private life before Olivia. Theirs wasn’t the easy commerce of police canteen culture. But he sensed that Noakes knew, deep down where it mattered. And their many adventures had convinced him that there was no better companion than George Noakes when it came to fighting one’s way out of a tight corner.

  As far as personal grooming went, the man was naturally a walking disaster. The DCI, was recently issued a briefing note regarding ‘appropriate standards of dress’, and Markham was really quite curious to see how Noakes would rise to the occasion.

  And here he was.

  Markham had a quick peek through the half-closed louvered blinds which screened his office from the outer area.

  Oh God.

  The DS looked more like a downmarket country and western singer than one of CID’s elite; his outfit of checked plaid shirt and string tie finished off with a mustard tweed jacket and superannuated George boots. Emphatically not what Sidney had in mind.

  Markham could only imagine Mrs Noakes’s mortification. While he normally didn’t have much time for his DS’s snobbish, overbearing wife, he felt a sneaking sympathy for her unavailing attempts to smarten Noakes up. Otherwise, more or less firmly under the marital cosh, Noakes was impervious to her efforts with the result that she had washed her hands of his day-to-day wardrobe, insisting only that he did not disgrace her when they were jointly ‘on parade’. The shaky bargain had somehow held good, but Markham daily lamented Muriel’s retirement from the sartorial lists.

  Of course, part of the problem was Noakes’s poundage. He was what he would himself call ‘a good armful’, being at least two stone overweight. Together with his pouchy pug-dog face, haystack shock of salt and pepper hair and high colour, he was no-one’s idea of a thrusting homicide detective. And yet, with the DS’s arrival, Markham felt an indefinable sense of well-being. The cornerstone of his team was there.

  ‘Morning, Guv.’

  Noakes plonked himself down opposite Markham, busily excavating the contents of his McDonald’s takeaway bag and tucking in with the air of a man for whom a turkey stuffing and cranberry muffin represented the summit of gourmet bliss. The DI tried not to look too closely, but the greasy booty made his stomach lurch uneasily.

  As Noakes chomped away, Markham pondered how his DS would respond to the challenge of an investigation in the ballet world. Amongst the many mysteries of Noakes’s protean personality was his passion for ballroom dancing. For a large man, he was surprisingly light on his feet and had met ‘the missus’ at Bromgrove’s Palace Ballroom. Possibly his hobby would overcome an ingrained mistrust of ‘arty types’…

  Noakes’s opening gambit dispelled any such illusions.

  ‘Hear we’ve got a dead Russian poof down the Royal Court,’ he volunteered through a mouthful of festive McMuffin.

  The DI winced perceptibly. It was a sign of things to come.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t let anyone else hear you talking like that, Sergeant.’

  ‘No disrespect intended, boss,’ the other said equably, ‘but isn’t he one of them Rusky ballet dancers? You know, like that Randolph Neveroff? At least that’s what they’re saying over in Vice.’

  ‘Then your intelligence is defective, Sergeant,’ came the tart response. ‘George Baranov was a noted ladies’ man and a distinguished choreographer.’ At least he didn’t have to explain to Noakes what choreography was, whereas that lot in Vice would doubtless take it to mean dirty pictures.

  ‘Ah,’ the DS replied thoughtfully, clearly recalibrating his mental landscape. Markham suspected, however, that Noakes would still hold Baranov’s nationality against him, such concepts as Glasnost and Perestroika being unlikely to have engraved themselves deeply on the policeman’s consciousness. No, as far as DS George Noakes was concerned, the Cold War was far from over.

  ‘Morning, Guv, Sarge.’

  DS Kate Burton’s well-scrubbed face, bare of make-up and framed by a shiny conker-brown pageboy, radiated enthusiasm for the start of a new case. In her crisply tailored pin-striped trouser suit – its severity softened by a white slim-fit T-shirt – and carrying a black leather briefcase (sardonic comment on which gleamed in Noakes’s eye), she was the epitome of an ambitious young CID officer. Newly minted as a DS, she was perennially anxious to better herself, not least because she had faced stiff parental opposition when joining the force and therefore had something to prove.

  Her degree in psychology and right-on credentials (recently burnished by an MA in Gender Studies from Bromgrove University) had initially inspired a degree of apprehension as to how she and Noakes would rub along since they were hardly natural soulmates. Indeed, for a long while Markham had felt as though he was conducting a scientific experiment, in which two substances had been placed in a test tube while he awaited the outcome of some potentially explosive chemical reaction.

  In the event, despite the twin handicaps of Burton’s university education and eager beaver ways, Noakes developed a grudging regard for the new recruit’s dogged tenacity while, for her part, the young DS became increasingly adept at taming the grizzled vet
eran.

  Unacknowledged by both was the fact that Burton had reason to be grateful to Noakes for his unexpectedly sensitive reaction to the discovery of her hopeless crush on Markham. Hopeless, because Olivia Mullen was the DI’s lodestar and ‘ever-fixed mark’, leaving him with no eyes for anyone else. With a keenness of perception which belied his lumbering exterior, Noakes saw straight to the heart of the matter but never breathed a word to his boss; nor did he make his colleague’s infatuation the butt of any jokes. Instead, he kept Burton’s secret with an impenetrable discretion which had somehow made them allies.

  Of course, now she was engaged to a DS in Fraud, that unhappy time was behind her. Gilbert Markham – the gentle, melancholy detective who was so different from every other policeman she had ever met – was still her ideal of manhood, but this was something she kept very much to herself. A career savvy young detective could not afford to go sighing for the moon…

  ‘Morning, all.’

  With this cheery greeting, DC Doyle – or the ‘ginger ninja’ as Noakes called him on account of his auburn hair – joined the group, his gangling six-foot three frame filling the doorway. Not long promoted to CID, he prided himself on being a snappy dresser, his ‘put together’ stylishness in marked contrast to the dishevelment of friend and mentor Noakes. Likeable and keen, though occasionally distracted by affairs of the heart (requiring frequent medicinal analysis over a pint), he was always a welcome addition to the team.

  ‘Well-timed, Doyle. Get another chair from outside, will you. One day the powers that be will give me an office fit for purpose. Until then…’ Markham rolled his eyes expressively.

  Once the three of them were squeezed round his desk, the DI filled them in on overnight developments at the Royal Court.

  ‘George Baranov…’ said Burton thoughtfully. ‘Wasn’t there a big feature about him in the Gazette earlier this year?’ She nodded her head vigorously. ‘Yes, I remember now. It was a piece about him and Alexandra Fairlie when Swan Lake was on.’ The DS looked at her colleagues’ blank faces. ‘They called her “Ballet’s first lady of sex”.’

  Bemusement was suddenly replaced by interest.

  ‘Bit of a goer then, this dancer?’ Noakes asked with heavy casualness.

  ‘Well, Baranov made her a star at the English National Ballet when she was just fifteen. Apparently, he was infatuated – choreographed loads of ballets for her, even wanted to marry her … but she didn’t care for him in that way and married a young soloist when she was nineteen. Baranov was so bitter about it, they ended up leaving the company.’

  ‘Fair dos,’ put in Doyle. ‘I mean, there must’ve been a massive age gap between her and Baranov.’

  ‘Hmm … yes, he was sixty-one when they rowed, but they made up eventually and she returned to work for him five years later. Mind you, he wouldn’t let her husband back.’

  ‘Dirty old man,’ said Noakes succinctly.

  ‘No, I don’t think it was like that,’ Burton replied earnestly, her pageboy swinging with the vehemence of her denial, button-nosed features screwed up in concentration. ‘She talked about it being a love affair without scars – said they had something special but the relationship would have been spoiled if they’d taken it to another level … the real romance was onstage, you see.’

  Noakes’s expression was eloquent in its disbelief, but Markham was intrigued by this concept of an artistic-emotional time frame which made age and carnality completely irrelevant.

  ‘That’s very interesting, Burton. See if you can look up that article for me.’

  Burton, head down, was already scribbling in her spandy new notebook.

  Noakes and Doyle exchanged looks.

  ‘A controversial figure by the sound of it,’ Markham mused, remembering the expressive, hollowed-out Slavic face under the Rat King’s mask.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Burton was on a roll. ‘He was very temperamental. Nearly ended up in court for slapping a corps de ballet girl who got in his way onstage.’ Observing her colleagues’ mystification, she translated kindly, ‘The corps de ballet are the ones who aren’t soloists.’

  ‘Like a backing group?’ Doyle wanted to be clear.

  ‘Exactly,’ Burton responded brightly.

  ‘What’s with the foreign lingo?’ Noakes enquired belligerently. ‘Why not use ordinary English?’

  ‘Oh, ballet terms are always given in French.’ Markham could see that the DS was enjoying herself. ‘That’s because ballet began at the court of Louis XIV – the one called the Sun King.’

  The only response to the impromptu history lesson was a grunt.

  Noakes returned to the attack.

  ‘Dancing’s no job for a bloke,’ he said defiantly, as though daring his colleagues to contradict him. ‘I mean, men in tights prancing around and pointing their toes… I ask you!’

  ‘Times change, Sergeant. It’s not prissy and effeminate these days. You need tremendous stamina and power.’ Markham recalled Olivia, who was something of a ballet fan, telling him that, in Russia, ballet had always been regarded as an honourable profession for a man, so much so that in the heyday of the famous Mariinsky Theatre, students rode to school in court coaches emblazoned with the czar’s personal emblem, with liveried footmen in front and behind. Since Noakes and Doyle looked as though they’d had quite enough history for one day, he contented himself with adding mildly, ‘Think of dancers as being like athletes.’

  Unexpectedly, Noakes said, ‘Our Nat had ballet lessons when she was little.’

  Markham looked at him encouragingly.

  ‘Dead good she was.’ The DS frowned. ‘But, all that jigging up an’ down was a no-no once she, well, you know…’ Awkwardly, he mimed an hourglass figure.

  Natalie Noakes’s embonpoint being one of the wonders of Bromgrove nightlife, the DI struggled to envisage her as an anorexic swan princess, though clearly her ever doting parent fondly regarded it as a major loss to the arts.

  ‘Anyway,’ Noakes barrelled on. ‘The missus belongs to the Friends of the Royal Court.’

  ‘How’s that work?’ asked Doyle.

  ‘They’re like, well, sponsors of the theatre … get to sit in on rehearsals and have meet ’n’ greets for the dancers and whatnot.’

  ‘It’ll be useful to have Mrs Noakes on the inside track, Sergeant.’

  Noakes bridled with pleasure, transparent as a child, Markham thought with amusement.

  ‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘Kate and Doyle, I need you to get things organized here and dig up everything you can on George Baranov and the ballet company. Keep the media team briefed as I’m sure the DCI will want to set up a press conference. Noakes and I will head over to the theatre and get the lie of the land.’

  Snapping her notebook shut with a purposeful air, Burton suppressed a pang. Mystified by the complicity between the DI and Noakes, she yearned to be admitted to Markham’s charmed circle but did not know how to crash the party. No room at the table, she thought sadly as she headed to the outer office, softly clicking the door shut behind her and leaving Markham alone with his thoughts.

  This promised to be an investigation unlike any they had ever experienced, the DI reflected once his subordinates had gone.

  From what he had heard, the world of ballet tended to be a claustrophobic hothouse with its own gods and worshippers – a specialist field from which the general public had always been pretty much excluded.

  And now he was about to let daylight in upon magic.

  2. An Alternative Religion

  ‘YOU LOOK QUITE TAKEN with the place, Sergeant. The theatre casts its own spell, doesn’t it? That’s why we call it the “red and gold disease”.’

  Noakes, evidently relieved that their guide wasn’t a ‘man in tights’, looked approvingly at Sheila Bloom, Bromgrove Ballet Theatre’s wardrobe mistress. Impeccably, if sedately, dressed in a neat twin set, she looked to be in her early sixties. With chalk white hair neatly parted in the middle and marcelled, there was nothing remotely bohe
mian about her appearance. More like a librarian or civil servant.

  ‘Came here to the panto when I was a kid, luv.’ The DS beamed at her. ‘Took our Nat when she was little an’ all.’

  The wardrobe mistress smiled back at him. ‘Oh, there’s a wonderful tradition of vaudeville associated with this theatre, Mr Noakes.’

  Markham warmed to the woman’s friendly, unstuffy manner. Having expected that the unsavoury Ted Murphy would be escorting them in his capacity as stage manager, it was a pleasant surprise to encounter this far more congenial companion.

  ‘Mr Murphy’ll be along later,’ she said as though intuiting the DI’s thoughts. ‘He was called away this morning… Some problem with the sets,’ she added vaguely. ‘In the meantime, I’ll be looking after you.’

  From their position in the dress circle, they looked down at the stage where a tall, haughty looking dancer in leg warmers and leotard was quivering on pointe at the far right-hand side, grinding her toes into a box with a strange grating sound.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ asked Noakes, watching in fascination.

  ‘Coating her ballet shoes with resin so they won’t slip on the stage. They use white spirit to take off any excess.’ The wardrobe mistress gave a short laugh. ‘Before a performance, you’ll see the ballerinas crossing themselves at the same time, as though they’re performing a special little divertissement for Jesus.’

  Ignoring them, the dancer moved to the centre of the stage, whipping round in a dizzying series of turns.

  Noakes was transfixed by the sight.

  ‘Now she’s practising spotting,’ came the conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s a way of avoiding dizziness during pirouettes.’ Their guide pointed overhead. ‘There’s a special blue spotting light up there for the ballerinas to focus on during performance.’

  For all her glacial beauty, Markham thought the performer had a hard and disdainful expression.

  ‘That’s Isobel Kent, the company’s prima ballerina. We’d better leave her to it,’ said Sheila Bloom with a shrug.