Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Plucis looked at the DI as if he was simple-minded.

  ‘She was in love with Alex.’

  Markham was starting to feel light-headed, while he felt, rather than saw, Noakes’s jaw hit the floor.

  ‘Are you saying there was some sort of relationship between Alexandra Fairlie and Sheila Bloom, Mr Plucis?’

  ‘Heavens no, nothing like that.’ A curl of the lip. ‘Sheila just liked to worship from afar, but anyone could see how it was.’

  Markham felt his dislike of the man intensifying by the minute.

  ‘Sheila and Alex are Roman Catholics, Inspector.’ A dramatic pistol-shot clap of the hands. ‘Took their faith seriously. It was a bond between them. Baranov was married, which created problems.’

  ‘So Ms Bloom disapproved of Mr Baranov’s pursuit of Alexandra Fairlie?’

  ‘Yes. She felt Baranov should not have thought of Alex in that way. I remember she used to cringe when it sounded like he was outlining a romantic situation. “I’ve got a new solo for you,” he would say to Alex. “Just a chaste little love bite.” Ugh!’

  Markham had heard enough. Somehow, he felt tainted by the entire exchange. Having established that Plucis last saw the wardrobe mistress at Monday’s company class, he told the dancer he was free to go.

  Afterwards, he and Noakes sat ruminating on what they had heard.

  ‘Well, what do you make of it all, Sergeant?’

  The DS scratched his head in bafflement. ‘Beats me, Guv,’ he said, before taking refuge in a packet of Jaffa Cakes.

  Markham was grateful when Kate Burton arrived escorting Isobel Kent. As elongated and stretched out, and fascinating to watch, as a praying mantis…

  A veritable ice maiden, the ballerina thawed somewhat as it became clear that Burton had done her homework.

  ‘You follow the ballet, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’ve always been interested, Ms Kent,’ was the modest reply. ‘Your interview in the Gazette last year was fantastic. I loved the bit where you talked about ballet being the most beautiful art because it was gravity-less.’

  ‘It isn’t always beautiful, Sergeant.’ She permitted herself a tiny smile. ‘I used to make Mr B angry because of the way I used to get my adrenaline up.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Burton’s interest was unfeigned.

  ‘Well, if I didn’t feel at my peak, I used to pick a fight.’ The woman smiled at Burton’s startled expression. ‘As the music was counting down, I’d go up to one of the stagehands and say something like, “Hey! I have to make an entrance here. Move your ass!” I’d be arguing like crazy with some poor guy who was furious with me. He’d be opening his mouth to call out “BITCH!” … then suddenly I’d be off and away, transforming the conflict into riveting drama… At the end, after the curtain came down, I’d be yelling, “Where’s that wonderful man? I owe it all to him!” Kiss and make up time.’

  Burton burst out laughing. ‘Wonderful! How did Baranov react?’

  ‘Oh, he loathed it, Sergeant. He hated that kind of flamboyance. All that mattered to him was his choreography… They had to shove him offstage sometimes – at the very last minute, the stage manager would take him by the arm and lead him off… And even then, he’d still be working away with dancers in the wings.’

  ‘Dancers? As in Alexandra Fairlie?’

  A tight smile. ‘Alex was his muse, certainly. But the rest of us had our chances.’

  ‘The Sunday Times reported one of the corps as saying that Alexandra Fairlie’s coming back was the best thing that happened since she left.’

  ‘There was lots of speculation, Sergeant. But the company continued to thrive. There was a grant from English National Ballet and enough roles to go around.’ The tension was palpable. ‘But I had to raise my game. We all did.’

  Carefully, correctly, Burton established Isobel Kent’s whereabouts on Saturday night. The ballerina had been alone, so there was no-one to vouch for her movements.

  With tact and sensitivity, the DS probed Kent’s affair with Baranov. ‘Over long since, Sergeant,’ she laughed.

  A mischievous roll of the eyes.

  ‘By the end, passion and romance didn’t play a big role in our relationship. We saved our emotion for the classroom. George saved all his energy for work. He made sure we slept in twin beds, perhaps to conserve his energy.’

  Kent offered nothing new regarding the wardrobe mistress – ‘hadn’t clapped eyes on her since Monday afternoon’ – though she confirmed the closeness of what she called the ‘troika’ – Baranov, Bissell and Bloom. With polite discomfort, she added, ‘I did not understand the dynamic, Sergeant.’ Her confusion sounded like the genuine article, but Markham hastened to remind himself that appearances counted for nothing in this most unnatural of worlds.

  Wandering back to the auditorium, the little group was startled by the sound of a harsh pattering overhead.

  Sleet, thought Markham.

  As they stood in front of the stage, a breeze swept in from the streets outside – sharp, dense and icy cold – rattling the boards on either side of the proscenium arch, a relic from the days of variety shows, when numbers were slotted into them to show the audience who was on next.

  Outside the theatre, it sounded as though the wind was getting up with a sort of hoarse roar, and a whirl and tumult that made the air seem mad. Onstage, the props and sets grew indistinct and shadowy in their many shapes, assuming a doubtful and mysterious character, frowning on spectators with a spectral aspect. As he stood, indecisive, Markham felt he could not separate the theatrical paraphernalia from the phantoms which populated his mind and seemed momentarily to glide out of sight only to lurk in the wings, ready to accost him in some new and alarming guise.

  ‘Sir.’ DC Doyle’s voice interrupted the DI’s reverie. ‘You need to get back to the station. The DCI wants to see you.’

  Markham’s heart sank. Just what he needed!

  Suddenly a diminutive dark-haired figure in leotard, baggy cardigan and leg warmers came hurtling down the theatre aisle towards him, having somehow managed to circumvent security. At a meaningful look from the DI, Doyle scuttled off to investigate.

  Even in baggy practice clothes, the intruder looked curiously exotic, like some sort of kewpie figurine. There was something eerie, almost sinister, about these ballerinas, he decided, with their painted-on faces and the solid little lump at the top of their heads. At that moment, he badly wanted to be away from the lot of them.

  ‘You can’t just keep us locked up in that Academy all day!’ she hissed. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong. We want to go home.’

  Clearly the natives were growing restless.

  Markham turned to Burton.

  ‘Kate,’ he said quietly, ‘I want you to complete all interviews with the dancers and teaching staff. Once that’s done, they’re free to leave. Full contact details, mind.’

  He turned to the dancer. ‘The sooner my officers are able to finish their interviews, the sooner you can all go home.’ Courteous, but a manner that brooked no opposition. The iron fist in a velvet glove, thought Burton admiringly as she ushered the dancer, waddling and ungainly when not on pointe, towards the foyer exit.

  Her colleague had returned, flushed and panting.

  ‘Doyle.’

  ‘Sir.’ The young DC sprang to attention.

  ‘See to the technical staff as soon as possible, please. In the meantime,’ he said tonelessly, ‘Noakes and I will liaise with DCI Sidney.’

  Suddenly, there was the sound of a lively altercation at the rear of the auditorium and a tall, slim dark figure burst through the swing doors leading to the foyer with Ted Murphy and a SOCO in hot pursuit. Behind them fluttered a distressed looking Alexandra Fairlie.

  ‘I’ve had just about enough of you!’ the stage manager bellowed, grabbing hold of the young man’s arm on one side while the burly SOCO took the other. ‘Miss Fairlie don’t want you bothering her, capeesh? Now move it!’

  Markham raised his hand.
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  ‘Wait,’ he said calmly. ‘What’s this all about?’

  The young man shrugged himself free and Alexandra Fairlie came forward.

  ‘This is Roger,’ she said awkwardly, as though uncertain how to proceed.

  The DI waited.

  ‘Roger’s a fan.’ There was a rising heat in her face. Meanwhile the young man stood and listened with quiet dignity.

  ‘I got to know him after I came back to ENB. He left notes for me at the stage door … very respectful and complimentary about my dancing.’

  ‘Anonymous notes?’

  The dancer looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes, at first. But I soon worked out who he was because he came to all my performances and always sat in the first row right next to the stage … he commented on my facial expressions in particular roles … the kind of thing only someone sitting so close would notice.’

  As she continued with her narrative, the ballerina regained her poise.

  ‘He wrote me some poems.’ There was an incredulous snort from the stage manager. ‘Then he sent me a bottle of Givenchy perfume and a beautiful book about Russian ballet.’ Her tone defensive, she added, ‘It was all perfectly polite and above board … eventually he introduced himself one evening when I came out from the stage door… I explained that I was married and he was a perfect gentleman about it…’

  ‘I simply wanted to show my appreciation of great artistry.’ It was a cultured resonant voice.

  ‘How come you’ve turned up here today?’ Noakes asked suspiciously. Today of all days.

  ‘I just happened to be in the area … did some window shopping in the town centre earlier and wandered out this way.’

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of the ballerina no doubt, Markham thought uneasily.

  ‘You aren’t at work?’

  ‘I’m a lecturer at the university,’ came the easy reply. ‘We broke up last week.’

  ‘Roger saw all the police activity and realized something must have happened. He went round to the Academy to see if I was all right.’ The dancer looked sideways at Ted Murphy. ‘Security got the wrong end of the stick,’ she said with something approaching venom in her tone. ‘I heard lots of shouting and then one of the others told me Roger was heading to the theatre … so I followed him.’

  ‘Well, now you’ve satisfied yourself as to Ms Fairlie’s safety, I am going to ask you to leave the premises, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The man was devouring Alexandra Fairlie with his eyes. He was undoubtedly good-looking but somewhat cadaverous, as though his thinness was the effect of some wasting fire within him, which found a vent in that piercing gaze.

  Uneasiness lanced through the DI once again.

  ‘If you would be kind enough to leave full contact details with Sergeant Noakes here before you go…’

  Markham nodded to Noakes who advanced grimly upon Roger, swatting away Ted Murphy and the SOCO like importunate flies.

  In a matter of minutes the auditorium was deserted once more.

  Save for the observer who stood unnoticed at the back of the dress circle. Silently watching and waiting.

  6. Unravelling the Threads

  WHEN KATE BURTON PUSHED open the door of the ‘Martha Graham Studio’ in Bromgrove Dance Academy, she was taken aback by the sight which met her eyes. Dancers in tracksuits or leotards and leg warmers stood at the barre practising impossibly sinuous movements in slow motion, their eyes fixed intently on the full-length mirrors, scrutinizing themselves from all angles.

  It was not what she had expected to see after the hideous discovery of Sheila Bloom’s body.

  Suddenly, Marguerite Aroldingen was beside her, discreetly drawing her away from the studio up to the little gallery overhead. The DS took everything in with inquisitive eyes. The whole set up, down to the viewing balcony, was a mirror image of the rehearsal rooms in the theatre across the way. Home from home.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the ballet mistress said, ‘the rest can’t hear what we say up here.’ The world-weary eyes were shrewd. ‘You’re a bit shocked at us, aren’t you?’

  Burton groped for some suitably polite denial.

  The other broke into her trademark throaty laugh.

  ‘They mean no disrespect, Sergeant. It’s their way of coping.’ She smiled an enigmatic sphinx’s smile. ‘For dancers, speech is pared down as much as their bodies… They can live hours a day without speaking at all… They’ve internalized their horror at what they saw back there and are dealing with it in the only way they know how.’

  Burton lent over the rail and looked at the figures below. Now that the ballet mistress had pointed it out, she could detect signs of trauma in the grimly focused expressions and glazed eyes.

  ‘They’re obeying their instincts, Sergeant.’ Marguerite Aroldingen could see that the young policewoman with the serious brown eyes was genuinely trying to understand this strange new world which seemed to be populated by devotees of some arcane cult.

  ‘Put any of us in front of a mirror and the familiar rhythms take over… We’ll start twisting from side to side and pawing the ground.’ Another husky chuckle. ‘But our eyes will never leave our reflections.’ Burton could see that it was true. ‘The choreographer Jerome Robbins even made a ballet about it…’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Aroldingen clearly enjoyed having an appreciative audience. ‘Afternoon of a Faun,’ she continued. ‘In the ballet, the audience itself is the imaginary mirror-wall for two young dancers falling in love. The boy and girl are so entranced by themselves that even when they finally come together to kiss, they never, not even then, look away from their reflections… Narcissistic or what?’ Put in such terms, it did sound unattractively solipsistic. ‘Don’t be too hard on us, Sergeant.’ The ballet mistress’s voice was wistful, almost sad.

  The DS noticed that she was watching the whirling delicate figure of Alexandra Fairlie, who had moved to the centre of the room, with avid intensity.

  ‘It really has nothing to do with vanity. It’s just that we’re never satisfied with what we see in the mirror…’

  ‘I need to interview them,’ Burton said slowly, almost mesmerized by this alien breed of beings who all had the same chicken-breast white skin and androgynous appeal, as if they were another type of sex altogether – some kind of dancing creature.

  ‘Give them five more minutes,’ the other countered. ‘Then Brian and I will get them ready for you.’

  Until then, the DS had failed to notice Brian Shaw sitting unobtrusively in a corner, looking withdrawn and abstracted from what was going on around him.

  Burton decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Can you think of any reason why someone would have wanted to kill Sheila Bloom?’

  ‘None whatsoever, Sergeant,’ was the calm reply.

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Let me think… I believe it was when she brought your colleagues into company class yesterday…’ Aroldingen’s manner was quite unruffled, no telltale signs of strain.

  ‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Sheila seemed her usual calm, efficient self.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Of course, what happened to George will have hit her hard.’

  ‘She was close to him?’

  ‘I think perhaps she was his best platonic woman friend.’ An elegant hand smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle in her dress. ‘You see, he treated women in general as females rather than great friends, and certainly not as intellectual companions.’ Aroldingen’s face had a faraway look. ‘Sheila planned to teach him friendship… She knew that every woman he had an affair with was discarded sooner or later, so she told him she didn’t plan to be one of the discarded ones. She laid it on the line with him. “This way I might be your friend for life,” she told him. “You’re so great, you can teach us everything when it comes to the ballet, but I might be able to teach you how to be a bigger and better human being.”’

  A platonic friendship
.

  Could Sheila Bloom have ended by wanting something more?

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Sergeant.’ The ballet mistress was gently reproachful. ‘But believe me, they were just friends… Sheila was always there for his Easter suppers, late at night after church on Sunday. He’d spend the entire day preparing all kinds of food and bossing us around like crazy… She gave him a beautiful icon of St George for his saint’s day and he was thrilled with it… His saint’s day meant more to him than his birthday, you see. It had some sort of inner meaning for him – a private one – and Sheila understood that. She was what you might call simpatico.’

  ‘A confidante?’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘He regarded you in that light too?’ Burton paused delicately, considering how best to broach the subject of George Baranov’s roving eye.

  Marguerite Aroldingen made it easy for her.

  ‘Look, Sergeant, I can see now how George loved women – not real women in full-blown adulthood, but girl-women just tipping over into womanhood. In the ballet world, full blooming womanhood is not prized.’ She sighed deeply. ‘George wanted someone like Alex, a half doll whom he could feed and whose limbs he could manipulate, who never rebuffed him or cried and who looked to him for everything.’

  But what if Alexandra Fairlie had rebelled against that role? What would have happened then?

  ‘Mr Baranov’s attitude to women must have hurt you,’ the DS said finally, ‘given that you’d been … close at one time.’

  ‘Time is a great healer, Sergeant.’ Aroldingen’s tone was contemplative, ‘and I’m more detached about our liaison now.’

  A fleeting expression of pain suggested the woman’s composure had been bought at some cost.

  ‘It’s true that I did love him … even hoped to marry him at one time. But George just wasn’t cut out for matrimony. Although in the ballet classroom it was all blood, sweat and tears for the girls he schooled and loved – “making the beautiful more beautiful,” as he put it – at home he expected women to recline in a perfumed paradise, fanned by eunuchs. He liked to do his own ironing, but he would be irritated if I scrubbed the floor and asked him to walk on newspaper.’