Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Markham recalled Ivan Plucis’ closed-off expression as he danced with Alexandra Fairlie. He was willing to bet the Romanian hadn’t relished Baranov’s masterclasses.

  ‘The critics who leaned towards candy box ballets quibbled over him, but he was a class act. You’d see people coming into the lobby after one of his performances, their eyes bright like the ballet was champagne.’

  ‘So Bromgrove was lucky to get him.’

  ‘God, yes.’ Chester spoke with feeling. ‘It was a real coup for the Royal.’

  ‘Bit of a backwater for him though, surely?’

  ‘I think it suited him. He was still ENB’s resident choreographer, but I think he was glad of the chance to get away from ballet politics for a bit … and Fairlie came with him, so there was the chance to re-establish the connection with her away from the spotlight.’

  Markham recalled the ballerina insisting tearfully that by the end, she and Baranov had recovered their old closeness. He was surprised to find himself hoping that the choreographer had been comforted by that knowledge at the end.

  Chester’s voice obtruded on these melancholy reflections.

  ‘His place in the country’s extraordinary. There was a feature on it in one of the Sunday glossies… Like a medieval baronial hall or something out of Boris Godunov … everything so sculptured and antiques everywhere.’ He flashed a cheeky grin. ‘Be sure to give me the heads-up on the wake. Knowing the Ruskies, it’ll be done in style.’

  ‘Don’t be such a ghoul, Ned.’ But the DI’s tone was affectionate. ‘You sound just like Noakes.’

  Chester punched his arm. ‘How is the old war horse? Can’t imagine the Royal’s his ideal gig … he’d be more likely to equate ballet with pornography than high art.’

  Markham laughed so loudly that the middle-aged waitress looked over at them in surprise. When he had recovered himself, he said, ‘Actually, Noakes is fascinated by it all … though, of course, he’d rather die than admit it. Took quite a shine to the company’s wardrobe mistress … they’ll be swapping Strictly stories any day now.’

  ‘Oh, I remember her. Quite a lady. Fairlie persuaded her to come over from ENB… She was very tight with her and Baranov … a bit in love with both of them…’

  Interesting, thought Markham. Sheila Bloom hadn’t struck him as the unbalanced type, but still waters ran deep.

  ‘She was very possessive of Fairlie,’ Chester elaborated. ‘Totally disapproved of Baranov’s infatuation. You see, she knew his wife from way back … he was a married man in her book. Yeah, quite strait-laced about bed-hopping.’

  The DI could well believe it, though he had found the wardrobe mistress’s observations both compassionate and humane.

  ‘It’s a complicated cobweb of allegiances,’ he ruminated.

  ‘Well, Baranov inspired strong feelings, that’s for sure. Probably just as well you’ve heard the lowdown from me cos as far as the likes of Eddie Bissell and Brian Shaw are concerned, he was next but one to God.’

  ‘Bissell … ah yes … tall, bony guy. I spotted him at the theatre. Baranov’s fixer?’

  ‘That’s the one. With Mr B from the earliest days. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for him – running errands, dyeing shoes, taking injured dancers to hospital, supplying the vodka. You name it, he did it. Lovely fella but tight as a clam. Won’t hear a word said against the boss.’

  ‘And Brian Shaw’s the ballet master, right?’ Short, stocky, balding.

  ‘Yep. Another masochist. In love with Baranov into the bargain.’

  ‘Unconsummated?’

  ‘Oh, no question. Spent half his life yearning from afar. In the queer world, you don’t expect fidelity, but Shaw never looked at anyone else. It was Baranov or bust.’

  An evocative phrase, thought Markham. What if Brian Shaw – that unlikely-looking romantic – had indeed cracked under the weight of a hopeless passion?

  Food for thought.

  ‘Thanks for this, Ned,’ he said warmly. ‘I’m starting to get a feel for the man. As you say, quite a character.’

  ‘I’ve been a fan these many years. Was hoping to interview Baranov in the run-up to Nutcracker. Word was he’d made some really adventurous changes to the old version.’

  The journalist’s face was suddenly downcast, his tone serious. ‘See you get whoever did this, Gil. It’s a real loss to ballet. Baranov was going to kick and push our fuddy duddy lot into a new era. It would’ve been really exciting.’ His voice still lower, he added, ‘He was no saint, but seemed like he was finally getting the personal side on an even keel. Aroldingen sort of absorbed him into her life – her ex is a nice easy-going businessman and they’ve got a daughter. They became the closest he ever had to a family of his own… He was just getting comfortable when…’

  Markham was touched. ‘Don’t worry, Ned. I’ll see Baranov gets justice.’

  It was dark when the DI finally emerged from the Neighbourhood Café, having lingered with Ned Chester setting the world to rights.

  Too late to head for Doggie Dickerson’s Gym in Marsh Lane where Bromgrove Police Boxing Club had its unofficial headquarters. Besides, he felt weary now, almost light-headed, his head whirling with impressions of their murder victim and possible suspects.

  Markham decided to head back to the apartment he shared with Olivia Mullen at 56, The Sweepstakes, a complex of upmarket flats and townhouses overlooking Bromgrove North Municipal Cemetery.

  As he let himself in, he wondered where the Russian would be laid to rest … perhaps in that little cemetery at the back of St Cyril’s, the Orthodox Church just outside the town centre. With its blue onion-dome chapel, silver birch trees and elusively poetic atmosphere, George Baranov would be at home there.

  The welcome smell of something savoury greeted him and, in what seemed like no time, he was sitting opposite Olivia at the round dining table in the bay window of their sitting room, curtains drawn tight against the encroaching night.

  As he tucked in to beef bourguignon accompanied by a hearty red Burgundy, Markham felt energy come flooding back.

  Olivia listened, rapt, as he described his tour of the theatre and meeting with Ned Chester.

  ‘I remember the Baranov-Fairlie business,’ she said. ‘Poignant and slightly queasy-making at the same time. When Paul Gayle and Alexandra Fairlie began dating, Baranov stopped casting Gayle in solo roles. It was only when friends and some of the other dancers intervened, that he relented. But after the marriage, he told Gayle not to come to the theatre anymore, though he didn’t officially fire him. Things finally came to a head when Fairlie and Gayle discovered he’d been left out of an ENB gala programme; the role he’d created had been given to another soloist. All pretty humiliating. Fairlie gave Baranov an ultimatum – said she’d resign unless her husband was included. Baranov accepted the resignation and pfft she was gone! Gayle never returned to the company, but Baranov accepted her back later and the dream team picked up where they left off.’

  ‘I should have come to you first, my love,’ Markham said fondly, admiring the iris-like delicacy of her features. ‘Your intelligence is second to none.’

  ‘The gossip columns had a field day and no-one came out of it well. Especially not Baranov, with his jealousy and loss of self-control… Fairlie and Gayle were just kids, but he ought to have known better.’ Her tone sombre, she said, ‘He’d be called a sex predator today, Gil. Fairlie wasn’t the first. D’you know, he was such a control freak, he even assigned ballerinas specific perfumes so he could easily identify their presence and keep track of them.’ She sighed. ‘Yet he was a genius, and dancer after dancer queued up to talk about “trusting him with their life”.’ Suddenly, Olivia grinned. ‘How’s our Noakesy finding this brave new world?’

  ‘I think he’s having to abandon some of his cherished prejudices. The dancers’ self-discipline made quite an impression.’

  ‘He doesn’t know the half of it.’ She speared a mushroom with unnecessary vigour as though to emphasize her
point. ‘When I took ballet classes at the university, I remember our teacher – who’d danced with ENB – saying that first thing in the morning when she got out of bed, after all those hours on pointe, she couldn’t even put her heels on the ground and had to wear high heel shoes until long after she had her shower.’ Another jab at her plate. ‘And oh, the state of her toes, Gil! She showed them to me once … blisters and bunions like you wouldn’t believe. Apparently, she even used to wrap her toes in slivers of raw meat—’

  Abruptly, Olivia broke off, blushed and giggled. ‘Sorry, Gil, I’ll be putting you right off your supper.’

  ‘Not at all. I hadn’t realized just how much dancers suffer for their art.’

  ‘God, yes. It’s hard on the women in particular. They’re never allowed to grow old. They’ve got to keep dancing teenage virgins and fairies and childlike courtesans. I mean, I think it’s crazy for a forty-year-old to dance Juliet, but there’s no choice if a ballerina wants to keep on working. And then there’s children—’

  Olivia swallowed hard and an odd flush burnished her cheek.

  Markham reached across and took her hand.

  She took a gulp of wine and continued. ‘Pregnancy changes the stomach muscles and takes a dancer away from the stage for too long. So they don’t have children … or they have abortions.’

  It had emerged in the aftermath of his last investigation that Olivia had herself undergone an abortion and was unable to have children in consequence. The secrecy and mistrust surrounding this episode in her past had very nearly shattered their relationship, so he knew what it cost his girlfriend to talk with such apparent casualness of the unholy bargain which underpinned a dancer’s career.

  He wondered if any of Baranov’s women had undergone an abortion at his behest. That might well provide a motive for murder…

  Lightly, he turned the subject. ‘Kate Burton’s sure to be nose-deep in a bulging file of press cuttings as we speak. You know what she’s like when it comes to research.’

  Following his lead, Olivia laughed. ‘She’ll be the nonpareil of balletomanes… I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t set you up with a subscription to the Dancing Times!’

  ‘God forbid,’ Markham replied in tones of mock horror. ‘Can you imagine Noakes’s reaction to that!’

  They sat in companionable silence sipping their wine.

  ‘It’s been a strange sort of day,’ Markham said finally. ‘I feel as if I’m learning another language … not just all those strange new words … entrechats, port de bras, fouettés and all the rest of it … but as if I’m descending into some mysterious netherworld.’

  Olivia smiled. ‘There’s a story that after seeing Baranov’s version of Faust, a man in the audience commented, “If that’s hell, I want to go there.”’

  Their meal ended with shared laughter, but all through the evening Markham’s mind kept running on the same themes, like a record jammed in its groove.

  Hell. Death. The Devil.

  And outside the darkness waited…

  4. Beyond the Footlights

  WHEN MARKHAM ARRIVED IN CID on Tuesday morning, he found Kate Burton – as predicted – knee-deep in reference books, magazines and folders of press cuttings.

  ‘Oh God, look at Anna bleeding Pavlova,’ DC Doyle muttered to Noakes as the two men contemplated her overflowing desk. ‘Shoot me now.’

  Suppressing a smile, the DI looked at the evidence board, with its array of pictures and arrows, erected on one side of the office. In the middle was a striking black-and-white picture of George Baranov in his younger days.

  What an imposing man, he thought, taking in the penetrating eyes and aquiline profile. Even the slightly beaky nose, rodent-like front teeth and hair receding to a widow’s peak could not detract from his charisma. From beneath haughty eyebrows, his gaze met Markham’s with an implacable challenge. Find my killer, it seemed to say.

  Amongst the other pictures, one which caught his attention showed a woman in dance clothes, like a hesitant gazelle, with blue-black hair coiled over her ears and large plaintive eyes.

  Burton moved to stand beside him. ‘That’s Marguerite Aroldingen,’ she said. ‘She was Mr Baranov’s … er … she was closest to Mr Baranov when he died.’ Noakes and Doyle were paying attention now. ‘That’s a publicity shot taken when she was still performing. She’s the ballet mistress.’

  Noakes cleared his throat. Markham noticed that he was looking somewhat more dapper, dark flannels, sober blue shirt and jacket having replaced the garish square dancing outfit of the previous day. Perhaps exposure to all those finely honed athletic bodies was the kick-start he needed….

  ‘I’ve set up a meeting with Miss Thing, the ballet mistress at 10 a.m., Guv.’ The DS’s mutinous expression clearly conveyed he was having no truck with unpronounceable surnames. ‘The rest of them will be available after the rehearsal.’

  ‘Any luck with Paul Gayle?’

  ‘He was at some workshop event in Birmingham most of Saturday. I checked it out with the organizers. All kosher. It finished around 8 p.m.’

  ‘So Gayle’s off the hook, then?’ Doyle sounded disappointed.

  ‘Actually, no, he isn’t.’

  Three pairs of eyes were riveted on Markham.

  ‘I have it unofficially – unofficially, you understand – that time of death was somewhere close to midnight on Saturday night. Plenty of time for Gayle to get to Bromgrove after his show.’

  ‘What was Baranov doing in the Royal at that time of night?’

  ‘You have to remember theatre folk don’t keep regular hours, Doyle.’

  ‘But there wasn’t a performance or anything…’ The young DC was bewildered.

  ‘That wouldn’t have mattered,’ Burton piped up. ‘Apparently, Baranov was in the habit of going to the theatre alone at night and rehearsing moves by himself. Had his own pass key and everything.’

  ‘But how could the killer know he’d be there on that particular night?’

  ‘I think he met his killer by appointment, Doyle,’ the DI said quietly. ‘Dimples,’ this was the pathologist Doug ‘Dimples’ Davidson, ‘thinks Mr Baranov was killed onstage and the body then moved to the basement.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a bloke, then?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Noakes. A strong woman could’ve done it.’ The DI looked thoughtfully at the choreographer’s picture. ‘Mr Baranov was as lean as most of his dancers … gaunt almost.’

  ‘Apparently he’d been losing weight for a while too, boss,’ Burton chipped in again. ‘They were all quite worried about him. Reckoned it was the fall-out from the break up with Alexandra Fairlie … deep down, he couldn’t accept that she was married.’

  Markham’s gaze shifted to a picture of the young ballerina, stunning in repose with her waterfall of red-gold hair, coltish grace and lambent eyes, the minor imperfection of an overbite only serving to enhance her charm. Was she the key to all of this?

  The DI smiled at Burton.

  ‘Right, Kate, I’ll have a look at some of those press cuttings. In the meantime, I’d like you and Doyle to get down to the Royal—’

  He broke off and turned to Noakes. ‘Have we got an incident room set up at the theatre?’

  ‘More like a cubbyhole.’ The DS’s face darkened. ‘The smarmy stage manager made a right to do about it. Grade A creep that fella, and dead shifty with it.’

  ‘I didn’t care much for him myself,’ Markham admitted. ‘But the young lad, Jake Porter, looked decent enough. Have a word with him, Kate, and see if you can get hold of a map … the Royal’s a warren, so I need to know where all the nooks and crannies are.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ She looked at the evidence board, wide-eyed. ‘They’re so, well, glamorous and other-worldly … to think that one of them could be a murderer seems all wrong somehow…’

  Her gauche reverence reminded Markham of Jake Porter’s star-struck fervour. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  ‘Oh, I think we�
��ll find a few fissures in the fairy tale,’ he said grimly.

  Forty minutes later, Markham sat back in his chair, ruminating on what he had read.

  He felt an odd sort of kinship with George Baranov. The man had encountered lots of adversities, uprootings and rejections, including semi-starvation and TB in his youth, with the result that, as one correspondent put it, he was ‘absent as a tangible personality when not labouring, on stage or in rehearsal.’ Working to outpace the phantoms. Markham knew all about that.

  There was something almost frightening about the choreographer’s belief in woman as the goddess, the poetess, the muse. ‘Everything man does, he does for his ideal woman,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘You live only one life and you believe in something and I believe in that. It has worked so far. It will last me.’ The DI felt unspeakably sad when he thought of the outcome of Baranov’s defiant manifesto. The choreographer’s story also struck uncomfortably close to home, since Markham’s deep-rooted need to place Olivia on a pedestal – the result of his own dislocated childhood – had distorted their relationship for a long time and, the previous year, come perilously close to destroying it altogether.

  In the event, there had been nothing ethereal or – what was Burton’s word? – other-worldly about Baranov’s pursuit of the unattainable Fairlie. Their complex relationship had apparently tormented the ballerina so much, that she once woke up screaming in physical pain from a nightmare where she felt herself being dismembered. ‘He was unrelenting,’ she told a sympathetic interviewer. ‘He was determined to possess me physically, timewise, every which way. I worried if I didn’t get out, I was going to end by doing something drastic.’

  Something drastic.

  How far would Alexandra Fairlie have gone if pushed? To what extremes might her husband have resorted?

  Markham exhaled deeply. There was something deeply troubling about this case.