A sudden commotion onstage heralded the erection of screens around the corpse in anticipation of the pathologist’s arrival. Meanwhile, SOCOs, fanning out across the auditorium with spools of crime scene tape, began to cordon off the auditorium.
‘Thank you, Mr Shaw. There’s nothing more we can do for Ms Bloom,’ Markham said quietly, ‘so we’ll continue with interviews in the Academy as you suggest.’
With the unfussy elegance which seemed to characterize all his movements, the ballet master led his troupe towards the side door. Noakes eyed the retreating figure approvingly.
‘Got a sound head on him that bloke. ‘No hoo-ha, he jus’ gets on with it.’ Clearly good NCO material.
Noticing Kate Burton and DC Doyle waiting at the back of the auditorium with the ashen-faced Jake Porter and Ted Murphy, his pudding features for once wiped clean of all bombast, the DI gestured his two subordinates forward.
‘I need checks on them all, Kate – movements for the last forty-eight hours.’ Glancing towards the stage manager, he added firmly, ‘No exceptions.’
‘On it, sir,’ she said quietly.
‘No-one to leave until everyone’s been seen.’ He pivoted on his heels, scanning the tiers. ‘Have you located an up to date map yet?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Excellent. Doyle, I want you to check the building’s secure.’ He frowned. ‘Take the assistant stage manager with you … more likely to co-operate, if you get my drift.’
The young DC cast a sardonic look in Ted Murphy’s direction. ‘Understood, sir.’
‘Noakes and I will take Eddie Bissell, Brian Shaw and the male principal…’
‘Ivan Plucis,’ Burton prompted.
‘That’s him. After that, Kate, I need you there when we tackle Isobel Kent. From what I’ve seen of the lady, I don’t think she’d be above crying police harassment, so I want her interviewed by a woman.’ A brief pause, then he added casually, ‘Plus all that research gives you authenticity as a balletomane, whereas Noakes and I…’ With an eloquent shrug, he left the sentence unfinished.
A rush of colour streamed into Burton’s cheeks so that she looked almost pretty.
‘Thanks, sir. I’ll do my best.’
‘I’ve no doubt of it, Kate.’ Markham’s smile was kind.
‘What about Ted Murphy?’ the DC enquired.
‘Hmm.’ Markham thought for a moment. ‘Get him to round up all the technicians, stagehands, domestic staff and what have you. They need relocating to the Dance Academy round the back. Murphy’s to … supervise them until you’ve had a chance to take statements.’ The DI’s mouth quirked. ‘That should satisfy his Napoleon complex.’
Doyle grinned broadly. ‘He said we can use his office for the incident room, boss. It’s a bit basic, but,’ he glanced at Noakes, ‘it’s got the essentials – fridge, kettle, biscuits…’
‘An army marches on its stomach,’ Markham said caustically. ‘Once the SOCOs have finished in there, we’ll get set up.’
Some time later, after the removal of Sheila Bloom’s body, they sat in the windowless galley-cum-kitchenette where three sagging armchairs had somehow been squeezed into the narrow space. A faint odour of turpentine jostled uneasily with other food-related smells.
Altogether an unpropitious venue for interviews, but Markham was anxious to be away from the auditorium and forensic teams. Equally, he was keen to remain within the theatre in the hope that any vibrations from the scene of two murders might serve to unsettle their killer.
Having assigned Doyle to act as a ‘runner’ between the theatre and neighbouring Dance Academy, the DI impatiently awaited the company administrator.
There was a gentle knock and the man Markham recognized as Eddie Bissell appeared at the door. High-shouldered, bony, ungraceful and sallow-complexioned, with eyes that seemed to have dug themselves a cave to hide in, he appeared a far cry from the classical dancer he had once been.
‘Come in and take a seat, Mr Bissell,’ Markham said. Observing the man’s shattered looks, he added, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ the other replied softly.
Introductions were duly made and Bissell’s movements noted: alone in his terraced house Saturday night; back in the theatre Monday and Tuesday, drifting in and out of rehearsals or, as he put it, ‘getting in the stagehands’ way’.
‘I wasn’t much use in terms of raising morale,’ he said sadly.
‘Tell us about George Baranov,’ Markham prompted.
The other’s face twisted so violently, the DI feared he was about to break down. But the spasm passed.
‘George was a genius, Inspector.’ A gleam animated the exhausted eyes. ‘His life was a rollercoaster of success and disappointments, loves and losses, but the centre of him was unshakeable, not a tremor. He had no doubts. He knew himself.’
‘Made enemies, though.’
‘Of course he did, Sergeant.’ The uninflected monotone gave way to eagerness. ‘He had his streaks of pettiness like all of us. But he was such a great man, that if he revealed jealousy or small-mindedness, you’d want to deny it, walk away, tuck any criticism of him in the bottom of the drawer and forget it.’
His face crumpled. ‘Sheila always made allowances for him.’
‘She knew him well.’
‘Oh yes, Inspector … loved him even.’
The haggard features softened with remembrance. ‘On Christmas Eve last year, she brought him a small tree encrusted with hanging fruits. She remembered him speaking of his struggling Russian childhood and how they hung fruit from the branches of their trees because they had no ornaments.’
‘Didn’t approve of him being a control freak by all accounts.’ The beady stare with which Noakes favoured Bissell was worthy of Lady Bracknell.
‘It’s true, Sergeant, Sheila was disturbed by all of that, and yes,’ he sat more upright in his seat, ‘it was disturbing.’
‘What did you make of it all, Mr Bissell?’ Markham’s tone was curious. ‘After all, you knew Mr Baranov better than anyone else.’
A deep sigh, then the words came out in a tremulous flood.
‘There’s no denying George longed to be the sole sculptor … resented his muse going off to study with other teachers or being influenced by other choreographers, and ballerinas were uncomfortable having boyfriends or husbands hanging round the theatre. It was unspoken but understood. He didn’t want his favourites running off after performances to another man, husband or child. No distraction. Only his ballets and him.’
Noakes made a sound halfway between a snort and a growl but said nothing.
‘It disturbed George, his muses having another man. Apart from anything else, motherhood would have affected the shape of their bodies and deflected attention from their art and him.’
Bissell’s voice rang with conviction.
‘He was inspired by the image of the aloof, elusive woman. If she was married or already had children, he felt hobbled. He needed to believe and hope that he could attain the muse and wooed her through his ballets. If they had married, it would never have worked. At home, an ordinary woman would be revealed and the spell broken…’
The DS was unimpressed. ‘But Baranov did get married, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did, Sergeant, and it was pretty much a disaster … curtains for his creativity … at least until they split.’
‘So, he jus’ went on chasing pretty young lasses who thought he was an old perv.’
Bissell flared up, an angry flush staining the lank cheeks. ‘It wasn’t like that at all.’ Clearly despairing of Noakes, he fixed his gaze on Markham. ‘In his own realm, George was peerless. But competing with another man in the bedroom … that was another matter altogether… He was supremely confident wooing his muse in classes, rehearsals, and through his choreography, but when it came to courtship rituals, it was almost like he needed a surrogate – could be the male dancer, could be me… He used to ask me to supper with whoever wa
s the latest idol…’
‘As a foil … because he feared rejection?’
‘Something like that, Inspector.’
Markham was intrigued and oddly touched by the narrative of Baranov’s eternal quest for a May to December romance.
‘You make him sound quite vulnerable, Mr Bissell.’
A muscle leaped next to the bony jaw.
‘In many ways, he was, Inspector.’
‘Alexandra Fairlie eluded him.’
‘George used to say, “She’s a witch inside me. I’ve got to get her out.”’ Bissell’s voice was the merest thread. ‘But he never did exorcise her.’
‘“Exorcise.” Strong language, Mr Bissell.’
‘Oh, George was a passionately religious man, Inspector.’ Again, an almost tender smile of reminiscence. ‘Once, when the conductor turned up in his white tie and tails, one of the stage crew said, “Great, the wine waiter’s here. Now we can start.” George thought that was very funny, but afterwards he turned quite philosophical… I’ll always remember what he said. “I am like that. I’m God’s waiter. He’s told me to teach and make them dance, and nothing could prevent me from doing what He wants me to do. But as soon as He says Fini, that’s enough, then I will go.”’ A pause. ‘So God took him away.’
Not God, thought Markham fiercely. Another agent entirely.
But seeing the ravaged expression on Bissell’s face, he let the epitaph stand uncorrected.
‘I can see this has hit you hard, Mr Bissell, so I won’t keep you much longer.’ The DI was calmly reassuring. ‘Can you remember when you last saw Ms Bloom?’
‘Yesterday afternoon, I think … just for a minute. There was a problem with one of the costumes…’
‘How did she seem to you?’
‘Subdued. Turned in on herself.’ The very bones in his face seemed to tighten. ‘I should have checked that she was all right … but I was in a bad way myself.’
‘Did she strike you as suicidal?’ Until the PM, cause of death wouldn’t be precisely established, but Markham wanted some insights into the dead woman’s state of mind.
Bissell looked wretched. ‘She seemed depressed, Inspector. But she and George went way back. He used to call her his good luck charm.’ He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing almost painfully beneath his skin.
‘Chuffing hell,’ was Noakes’s verdict afterwards. ‘Talk about loony tunes. All that guff about muses an’ charms… He and Baranov sound a right pair.’
Brian Shaw was a very different proposition, but in his own way no less impressive, thought Markham when the ballet master joined them. Like Bissell, he paid homage to the choreographer’s genius.
‘His musicality and creativity were extraordinary, officers … he seemed to be inventing worlds outside the ordinary, as if he had conjured up other moons outside of our galaxy.’
Observing the DS’s boot-faced expression, he chuckled. ‘Oh, I know, Sergeant. He could be jealous, devious and vindictive too.’ Another rumble of laughter. ‘I remember when Paul Gayle first asked to be a principal, he rattled off a number of ballets he wanted to dance. With that leprechaun expression of his, Mr B told him, “Why don’t you make a list of things you want to do … and you can add to the list, l Leave The Company!”’ [caps for emphasis – Mr B is making a point]
Paul Gayle again. Markham looked at Noakes. We need to get hold of him.
‘Sheila Bloom sided with Gayle when it came to Baranov’s obsession with Alexandra Fairlie?’
‘Oh undoubtedly, Inspector. Being relegated to Mr B’s limbo could be very painful, and she knew he was being unjust.’ His face was troubled. ‘She tried to be a friend to them all, but it was hard for her.’
‘One hears such differing accounts of Mr Baranov that it’s difficult to know what to think.’ Markham weighed his words carefully. ‘There’s that story about him giving female dancers specific perfumes so he could track their whereabouts…’
The ballet master’s habitually mild face was indignant.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ he expostulated. ‘Mr B gave them scents to match their personalities. You know, “This one is elegant or gentle. Good for Isobel.” That kind of thing.’
Noakes looked far from convinced.
‘Look, gentlemen, believe me, Baranov was essentially a fine man. He rose from the ashes of dozens of missed opportunities, a failed marriage, broken love affairs, disappointments, unrealized dreams… He was what you might call gutsy.’ A quick rising light and fire crossed Shaw’s features. ‘And he never worried much about money and royalties. Not tight-fisted like some of them. The god of dance touched him. He was blessed, so he gave. “You diminish yourself by putting a price tag on your work,” he used to tell me. “One does not own dance.”’
As with Bissell, it was clear that they had in front of them a devoted adherent.
Or something more, Markham wondered…
‘In many ways, Mr B was such an unworldly character. Almost childlike,’ the ballet master continued to reminisce. ‘I’ll never forget when Ralph Henze, the young German choreographer, died on a transatlantic flight from Philadelphia to Berlin. Mr B had fallen out with him big time over his work on Eugene Onegin – couldn’t bear the way he’d messed around with it. Well, when we heard that Henze had died mid-flight, Mr B insisted, “Tchaikovsky got together above with Pushkin and Stravinsky and yelled BANG! They stopped him!” It was no good telling him Henze had choked on a sleeping pill … he wasn’t having any of it … as far as Mr B was concerned, his mates in heaven had fixed it!’
‘A religious man, then.’
‘Definitely, Inspector, in his own inimitable way. Told Sheila he read the Bible a lot. He found it entertaining, what with all the wars and prophesies.’ Shaw looked down at the ground before concluding, ‘I’ll miss listening to him, Inspector… When we had the local children in to work as extras, he held them spellbound with stories about Nijinsky. How in Russia, after his performances, fans would crowd round the stage door to wait for him and unhitch the horses from his carriage so they could take the reins themselves and pull his carriage through the snow to honour him…’
‘Clearly Mr Baranov was an acquired taste.’
A wry smile greeted this observation.
‘Yes, Inspector. He had enemies and fans in equal measure.’
‘What about Sheila Bloom?’
‘A gentle cultivated woman, Inspector.’ He shook his head helplessly. ‘It makes no sense at all.’
‘How did she seem to you after Baranov’s death?’
‘Shocked. Preoccupied.’
Preoccupied. An interesting word. Preoccupied with what? the DI wondered.
‘Was she in love with Baranov herself?’
Shaw looked levelly at them. ‘I think she may have been at one time, yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Much like myself.’
Clearly, Markham reflected after Shaw’s departure, the ballet world was something of a sexual merry-go-round, with relationships and romances erupting and evolving in complicated patterns.
This impression of a complex kaleidoscope was only heightened with the arrival of Ivan Plucis.
The Romanian principal was wonderfully handsome, with dark hair, sharply chiselled face, and a rather supercilious way of holding his head back and looking down his nose – though perhaps this was something to do with the way a danseur noble was supposed to carry himself on stage.
Markham felt an instinctive dislike of the man. There was something too vulpine about him, a sibilant lisp and languid smirk conveying a sense that something unpleasant lay behind the studied nonchalance.
‘Baranov was not a nice man,’ the dancer told them. ‘Told me I was too stiff … too prissy … too formal.’ The handsome features hardened into a grim mask. ‘I almost left the ballet because of him.’
‘Why do you think he was so hostile?’
‘All that “Ballet is woman” talk. Pah! Men were always second best for him … always!’
‘Why was that?’
‘Who can say?’ An impatient flick of the wrist. ‘Perhaps we were a threat … rivals, you know. Only he could be the male star…’ Plucis looked complacently down his long lean length, at the elegant limbs encased in skin tight leggings. ‘And he was past the age for performing, you see. He wanted to be up there onstage with the ballerina, rather than just making dances. Yes, I think he hated me for that.’ Plucis placed a hand over his heart with studied theatricality. ‘And I challenged him, asked questions.’ A disdainful sniff. ‘Not like those perfect little corps girls with their tight ballerina buns, putting on their ballerina airs. “Yes, sir; no, sir; I’ll slit my throat, sir.”’ It was the perfect approximation of an adolescent whine. Plucis added soberly. ‘I met him as an equal. He didn’t like that.’
‘You felt excluded.’
‘I was outside the magic circle, always. It was like Do Not Disturb.’
‘When you say magic circle—’
‘The cosy threesome. Baranov, Bissell and Bloom.’ A mirthless snicker. ‘In the company, we called them The Royal Family.’
Abruptly, Markham changed tack, anxious to keep this smooth customer on the back foot.
‘Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts on Saturday night?’
‘I was with a lady.’
‘We will need her contact details, Mr Plucis.’
‘But of course.’
A partner’s alibi. Worse than useless.
‘You talked about a threesome … how so?’
‘Well, Baranov always brought someone else along on his “dates” with Alex. To keep up appearances. Bissell or Bloom was always around.’
Plucis’s proud face twitched. ‘They were like some sort of bodyguards,’ he said. ‘Poor Alex. No room to breathe. Awful.’ His tone contemptuous, he continued, ‘You know, sometimes they went to dinner straight after Alex finished dancing. Did not even wait to see the rest of us finish the performance. Can you imagine?’
‘What did Ms Bloom get out of it?’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 84