Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  The DS wriggled uneasily, but his expression was kind. Poor little lass, he thought, what the chuffing hell was the dirty old bugger playing at … and him old enough to be her grandfather!

  Happily unaware of Noakes’s inner monologue, the dancer continued, ‘What we had was more passionate and more loving and more everything than most relationships.’ A love affair without scars, Markham wondered, or something destructive and deadly that had finally imploded in violence. ‘If he thought at one time that he wanted something I couldn’t give him, then by the end he knew that he did get everything … everything I had to give … the best of me.’

  ‘What about your husband?’ the DS enquired gruffly. ‘I mean, wasn’t this … er, thing with Mr Baranov a problem…? Like when Princess Di said there were three of ’em in the marriage so it got a bit crowded.’ Noakes looked rather proud with himself for drawing the comparison.

  ‘Oh, Paul was terribly hurt when he was chucked out of the company, but I think he understood Mr B’s possessiveness … how George saw my romantic involvement with someone else as a catastrophic threat to our artistic partnership. It was hard for all three of us, but Paul and I were rock solid. And deep down, I think George knew that I had never deserted him spiritually … that I was never closer in that way to anyone else.’

  Privately, Markham thought it sounded like a profoundly unhealthy set-up and made a mental note to check out Paul Gayle who, he had ascertained, was presently in Birmingham doing something with the English National Ballet.

  Aloud, he said, ‘It’s been said that Mr Baranov wasn’t always exclusively heterosexual.’

  Alexandra Fairlie took this in her stride.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if George experimented in his youth. And he had his homosexual Swiss Guard.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Oh, any number of admirers.’ She waved a hand vaguely towards the room below, which was now empty and silent. ‘Our ballet master Brian Shaw for one. Absolutely devoted.’

  At the look on the DS’s face, the ballerina burst out laughing. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Mr Noakes. That’s no big deal in the ballet world and George was no effeminate swishy queen, but his sexuality was complicated.’ You’re telling me, said Noakes’s expression. Undeterred, she persisted, ‘Mr B adored women, especially women taller than himself. “Ballet is a woman and man is the gardener,” he used to say.’ Did he now? Very convenient. ‘He was brilliant at partnering tall dancers like me and Isobel—’

  ‘Isobel?’

  ‘Isobel Kent, the other ballerina.’

  Oh yes. The snooty female they had seen earlier practising privately by herself on stage.

  ‘And was Isobel…? I mean … did he … with her?’ Noakes stumbled over his words.

  ‘You mean did they have an affair?’

  The DS nodded, embarrassment heightening his resemblance to a costive bullock.

  ‘Yes, I think so … a while back … but he was in a relationship with Marguerite Aroldingen when he died.’

  ‘And Ms Aroldingen is…?’

  ‘She retired from the company last year before taking over as ballet mistress.’

  It occurred to Markham that there were at least two women who must have been seriously put out when Alexandra Fairlie reappeared on the scene after her five-year exile. To say nothing of Brian Shaw and any erstwhile homosexual hopefuls.

  ‘What was Mr Baranov like with the company as a whole?’

  ‘Everyone worshipped him, but he could be a tyrant, no question. He’d had a tough early life – his parents were dancers who ended up working for the circus – and I think it made him emotionally detached, almost cruel at times. He drove Ivan round the twist.’

  ‘Ivan?’

  ‘Ivan Plucis. He’s the Romanian dancer I was working with down there.’

  The one with the switchblade face.

  ‘Well, George would teach us A, B, C, D etcetera and then he’d say, “I’d like A with half of D, all of E and a bit of C.”’

  ‘Bit like a Chinese takeaway menu.’

  ‘Exactly like that, Mr Noakes.’ The DS bridled. ‘But it was a lot of hard work, and then all the Bs and Fs you’d been doing for hours were out of the window… I liked it, mind. It kept me on the edge, off-balance, where I needed to be. But Ivan hated it.’ Her gaze was meditative. ‘I think, as well, he resented how the ballerina was everything to Mr B… I mean, George choreographed some fantastic male roles, but it was the women who got his attention.’

  Noakes’s sucking-a-lemon expression was back. I’ll bet, it said.

  As Alexandra Fairlie escorted them back to the auditorium – she was on a break and had to get back for another class, she told them regretfully – Markham mentally reviewed what he had learned about George Baranov. From the bewildering array of impressions, one thing emerged with crystalline clarity. There had been any number of resentments, rivalries and rifts glowing patiently in the shadows, waiting for the spark that would blow them into life.

  Back in the main theatre, there was no sign of the haughty Isobel.

  Markham suddenly remembered. ‘I saw someone in here earlier,’ he said to Isobel, and described the figure he had briefly glimpsed while waiting for Sheila Bloom.

  ‘That’ll be Eddie Bissell,’ Alexandra told him. ‘Nominal title Administrator, but that doesn’t begin to cover it. Should be knighted for services to dance and dancers.’ She hopped lightly on the balls of her feet, anxious to be off. ‘Mr B’s batman. Salt of the earth… I think he carried Mr B’s heart on one sleeve and mine on the other. Taught me to drive and always looked out for me.’ She laid a hand on Markham’s arm. ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet, but he’ll be devastated about George, so you might want to give him some time.’

  Time was something they did not have, Markham thought grimly, but he dredged up a reassuring smile from somewhere and the willowy figure flitted away.

  Markham and Noakes regarded each other for a long moment in silence.

  ‘Quite a whistle-stop tour,’ observed the DI finally.

  ‘Bloody weird set-up between Baranov an’ that nice lass. What d’you reckon to the husband having summat to say ’bout all that spiritual malarkey?’

  ‘Paul Gayle’s alibi for last night needs checking, Sergeant, as a matter of priority. Then I need you to arrange some sort of incident room this end and sort a roster of interviews. Roust that smug self-satisfied stage manager from wherever he’s hiding and get things moving.’

  ‘Wilco, Guv.’

  ‘I’ll check in with Burton and Doyle back at the station and try to keep the DCI off their backs. After that, I’ll be at home.’

  ‘By way of the gym, Guv?’ enquired Noakes with an insinuating lift of his shaggy eyebrows.

  ‘Call it research into the Body Beautiful, Sergeant.’

  And with that the DI was on his way.

  They had scrubbed away down in the basement, but the stain was still there. They went deep, but somehow it went deeper, like a blemish never to be eradicated.

  3. Walpurgis Night

  IN THE EVENT, MARKHAM dispensed with a visit to the station, having satisfied himself via a call to Kate Burton that matters were well in hand and DCI Sidney was temporarily hors de combat. ‘He won’t be back from that knife crime conference till tomorrow afternoon,’ she told him cheerfully. Which meant he had some breathing space before Sidney began jackbooting all over the investigation.

  That being the case, the DI decided to swing by the offices of the Gazette in hopes of catching the newspaper’s arts correspondent Ned Chester at his desk.

  A lean languid man in his fifties with soulful brown eyes and greying hair who spoke in a light mockney drawl, Chester was only too willing to be distracted. Even more so when he learned he was being invited to ‘dish the dirt’ as part of a murder investigation.

  ‘George Baranov.’ He whistled and gave Markham a long look. ‘So that’s the Royal’s murder victim!’

  ‘Yes, and I’d be grateful if you
kept it to yourself for the time being, Ned.’ Markham glanced warily around the open-plan office. ‘Look, can we go somewhere more private?’

  Chester uncoiled his lanky form. ‘There’s the Neighbourhood Café just over the way. We can go in there. No-one’ll bother us.’

  Five minutes later they were sitting over two espressos in the peaceful little coffee shop.

  ‘Got a bit of a vintage feel to it, this place,’ observed Markham, looking about at the chintzy Victorian décor. ‘You’re full of surprises, Ned. Wouldn’t have said this was your style at all.’

  ‘Oh, I like cosy,’ the other said complacently. ‘And the buns are good.’ He patted his stomach regretfully. ‘Though not today … have to keep in shape if I’m going to stay number three on the squash ladder.’

  Suddenly, the journalist was all business. ‘Right, Gil. If I give you background on Baranov, does this mean I get first dibs on the story?’

  ‘I’ll give you the inside track, if that’s what you mean.’ Markham’s expression was wry. ‘Within reason.’

  Chester grinned. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  The DI sighed. ‘My eager beaver DS’ll have a folder of press cuttings ready for me by the time I get back to base, but I wanted to chew the fat with you first.’

  ‘Oh God, I remember her from that do in the summer … eyes the size of big brown lollipops and ever so earnest.’ He gave Markham a sly sidelong glance. ‘Seemed to think you were the bee’s knees.’

  Another sigh. ‘Oh, she discovered my feet of clay soon enough.’ Impatiently, Markham prompted, ‘Baranov, Ned? Top spot on ballet’s Unpopular People list? C’mon, I need to get a handle on the man.’

  The other chuckled. ‘I’m not sure anyone ever got a handle on Baranov… Where d’you want to start?’

  ‘Love life… I get the impression maybe he swung both ways…’

  Chester pursed his lips. ‘Baranov loved all the smart talk of the gay world, but take it from me, he was straight, Gil… When he was younger, he played at being camp, agonizing over various infatuations – relishing the emotional pain and drama of it all. But I don’t think he saw himself as homosexual and I don’t think he tried sex with men.’ He grimaced. ‘Not that he was above playing sexual power games … to keep ’em all on their toes.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘What you’ve got to understand, Gil, is that most dancers’ careers are incredibly short. Late thirties, early forties if they’re lucky – earlier for the blokes cos of all that lifting. So they fawn on creative types like Baranov – see him as special … someone to be indulged. Their careers depend on him.’

  ‘And presumably he enjoyed all the adulation.’

  Chester shrugged. ‘Who wouldn’t? Enough to turn anyone’s head. Yeah, he was into sexual favouritism big time. Everyone knew the stories about girls saying no to him and never getting another role.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Coition as virtually a compulsory first step towards stardom. Not an attractive scenario.

  ‘Lots of folk were besotted with Baranov and went almost demented cos he treated them so badly.’

  ‘But he didn’t have it all his own way with Alexandra Fairlie?’

  ‘Ah, she was the one that got away. For a time, anyway.’ Chester waved to a plump befrilled waitress. ‘C’n I get another one over here, luv?’ The journalist turned to Markham. ‘You want another, Gil?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’ The DI leaned forward eagerly. ‘What’s your take on that?’

  ‘Baranov’s pash for Fairlie?’ His brows drew together. ‘God knows. It was like Svengali ’n’ Trilby … technically she was brilliant, with the same sort of feeling for music that he had. But he got too intense – gave her an engagement ring – and she freaked out … ran off and married someone else.’ His espresso arrived and he stirred the steaming brew thoughtfully. ‘Fairlie’s a Catholic so it was always going to be a no-no… The irony is that Baranov was devoutly religious himself – Russian Orthodox. Probably believed Fairlie had been sent by God as his perfect instrument.’

  ‘There were no recriminations on Fairlie’s part when he had her chucked out of English National Ballet?’

  ‘No.’ Chester took a long appreciative sip. ‘That’s the strange thing. Five years later she pops up again here, and the two of them pick up more or less where they left off.’

  ‘What about the husband Paul Gayle?’

  ‘Well, his dancing career was killed off thanks to Baranov’s jealousy. Other companies were afraid to touch him. But he’s back with ENB as ballet master and away on tour quite a bit… The arrangement probably suited Baranov cos that way he could pretend Fairlie wasn’t married. Out of sight, out of mind.’

  Markham wondered how Paul Gayle felt about that.

  ‘I remember Baranov and Fairlie gave a joint interview not long ago … you know, after they got back together. I pushed him about their relationship, but he shut me right down. “You don’t ask a rose to explain itself,” he said or something equally poncey, bowing and clicking his heels in that weird way he had, while she looked up at him adoringly all doe-eyed… Pass the sick bag.’

  ‘You think they’d genuinely made up their differences, then?’

  ‘Seemed to have done, though he was still clearly gaga about her.’ Chester chuckled reminiscently. ‘It was all too saccharine for words, but great copy nonetheless. Apparently, cats were a great bond between them. Mr B was a great cat lover, always telling them in class how much they could learn from watching kitties. When they were doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream with ENB, she was having trouble doing the romantic scenes with Bottom, the character who’s turned into a donkey. Mr B asked her if she didn’t have an animal at home that she could play with or talk to. She burst into tears. “No, Mr Ba-ra-nov.” “Oh, that’s too bad, you should have one,” he said. So she went off and bought a moggy on her way home.’ He pulled a comical face. ‘Told us the only time she ever saw Baranov nervous before a performance was when he put his cat through its paces.’

  ‘So no emotional undercurrents that you could detect?’

  ‘Not with the two of them, no. But then, who knows what was going on beneath the surface. I mean, she’s got to have resented the way he behaved when she got married, unless she’s some kinda saint. Must’ve been lonely out in the wilderness … she had to go abroad for a while.’ Chester ran his hands though his hair distractedly. ‘I didn’t understand the half of it. But for her and Baranov … well, somehow I felt their real life was onstage … on a different astral plane from the rest of us.’ He gave an exasperated laugh. ‘I mean, he’d lived a hundred different lives in ballet before she was even born, and it was like he desperately wanted her to pass through his past and catch up to him so they could meet in the same place.’

  ‘But the age gap was too great?’

  ‘In physical terms, yes. He wanted her more than she wanted him. But I think the ballet was a safety valve for all that pent-up emotion between them… Baranov said something about the stage eliminating sex, and maybe he was right.’

  Sheila Bloom had said ballet for Baranov was a question of serving something bigger than himself. Curious that Ned Chester too had felt the choreographer was in pursuit of some higher ideal. Remembering the dead man’s remote, enigmatic face, the DI hoped that he had found it.

  ‘Hey, I’m starting to sound like a shrink here.’

  The journalist tried to lighten the mood. ‘Baranov was an amazing guy.’

  ‘Tact not his strong point, though?’

  ‘God, no.’ A broad smile. ‘He could be a holy terror. Years ago, when ENB had some Danish bloke over conducting the premiere of one of his own compositions – very modern and atonal, lots of clashing percussion, that sort of thing – Baranov didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was laughing his head off. At the end, he hissed really loudly, “Thank God that’s over. I wanted to light a cigarette but worried if I scratched a match, someone would think it was part of the performance.” Went down like a lea
d balloon.’

  ‘Plenty of enemies, then?’

  ‘Well, Fairlie’s return, and the fact that Baranov welcomed her back with open arms, had obvious repercussions for the other dancers. She was a threat to the other female principals, no question. There was a lot of grumbling about them having to make do with her “leavings”.’

  ‘Fairlie’s persona non grata, then?’

  Chester was clearly weighing his words. ‘I think there’re people in the company who felt she was like a hot and cold faucet with Baranov – caring and attentive one minute, then cold and reserved the next. She never gave him her body, except in dance… Mind you, at some level, that was probably exactly what he wanted – not a wife or sexual partner, but some sort of muse he could worship through his choreography. If he’d had her, the spell would’ve been broken.’

  It was almost an echo of Alexandra Fairlie’s own verdict on the relationship.

  ‘You’re saying he had trouble forming relationships…’

  ‘He wasn’t someone you could get close to, by all accounts, though he could be generous to a fault. There was some sort of insecurity there … stuff from his childhood … so maybe he wasn’t really capable of love.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a mistress on the scene?’

  ‘More a companion really.’ Chester’s eyes narrowed. ‘Marguerite Aroldingen. She’s the company ballet mistress… But I’m not sure it was the same as with Fairlie. She was definitely the one… They say he was a real “stage door Johnny” – always waiting outside her dressing room to see if she’d have dinner with him or if he could walk her home. Her … elopement … well, it had to have hurt him badly.’

  The DI felt increasingly intrigued. The Baranov who had chased Alexandra Fairlie, as though he was striving to win the Holy Grail, sounded almost sweet and boyish. On the other hand, there was the egotistical master manipulator who had everyone dancing to his tune.

  ‘I can see you’re hooked,’ the journalist laughed. ‘Baranov had that effect… A real Russian personality. One of those marvellous, sharply drawn faces. He had a wonderful body even in his sixties – lean, trained, flexible … he just exuded elegance and energy. Sensational at partnering too. Never tired of showing the male dancers how to hold and handle a woman.’