Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  And yet, both Alexandra Fairlie and Isobel Kent had been insistent that Baranov saw ballet partnerships as altogether more spiritual than those of everyday life.

  ‘I’m blessed if I understand it,’ she muttered. Just then, Burton felt herself perilously in sympathy with that other George’s perspective on the ballet. She could only imagine the derision with which Noakes would have reacted to Fairlie’s declaration that ‘ballet provides a higher plane for us to live on’. But then, like most men, he’d be susceptible to a pretty face, she reflected glumly.

  She’d better start thinking about heading back to the station to write up her report … such as it was. At least Doyle would have taken care of the technical staff and got rid of that odious stage manager.

  The DS shut her eyes…

  When she opened them again, the darkness of an hour seemed to have gathered in a second.

  She started at a noise behind her, then relaxed.

  ‘Sorry to wake you.’ Eddie Bissell sounded embarrassed. ‘You’ve obviously had quite a day of it. I met Inspector Markham and Sergeant Noakes earlier, but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure… The officer outside let me in.’

  ‘Not at all.’ There was something endearing about the man’s old-fashioned courtliness.

  Introductions followed.

  ‘You look all done in.’ Bissell gave a shy smile. ‘I can make you a hot drink if you’d like.’

  Reluctantly, she declined. ‘I’ve got to be getting back,’ she said, surreptitiously massaging the small of her back which, along with her head, was beginning to ache.

  Then she remembered that this tall bony man was Baranov’s devoted lifelong shadow. Ivan Plucis had been dismissive. ‘“Steady Eddie,”’ he yawned with an air of assumed boredom. ‘If Baranov needed a removals man, Eddie would carry the furniture up and down stairs. A chef? He’d cook giant pots of spaghetti and supply the vodka. Chianti or Scotch. A playmate? Canasta, poker or bridge, he’d be sure to oblige. A beard—’ And then, tantalizingly, Plucis had broken off with a tight little sneer, concluding, ‘In service his whole life.’

  The man looked wrecked, she thought compassionately.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I know you were with Mr Baranov from the earliest days…’

  ‘He was quite superstitious and fatalistic,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘He had an attitude to life that he was going to play the game full out no matter what, and whatever happened to him was the hand of Fate – or God, if you like – reaching down.’

  Burton didn’t know what to say, but she was saved from having to answer by the insistent trill of her mobile phone.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this.’

  ‘No worries. See you around, Sergeant.’ He shambled away with the almost tottering gait of a much older man.

  The caller was Markham.

  ‘How’d it go with the DCI, sir?’

  ‘Let’s just say our meeting followed a predictable pattern, Kate.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘But that’s not why I’m ringing… There’s been a development.’

  Her whole body tensed.

  ‘A burglary at Baranov’s country house.’

  ‘But wasn’t that address secured, sir?’

  ‘It was meant to be, yes.’ The DI’s tone was more than usually chilly. Christ, she thought, someone’s for the high jump.

  ‘What’s the plan, boss?’

  ‘Noakes and I are heading over there now. Malkins Way. I’ll brief you and Doyle soonest, but you should wrap things up at the theatre for now.’

  ‘Pretty much done, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Ever succinct, he rang off.

  The DS stretched languorously. She felt curiously lethargic and disinclined to move, her limbs heavy … as though the theatre had placed her under a spell.

  Somewhere in the distance a fire door clanged.

  Time to make tracks before she ended up locked inside.

  Finally, no more sounds.

  Only the stage wire twisting and jangling crazily as though stirred by an unseen hand.

  7. Pastorale

  THE DI’S THOUGHTS, AS he sat in his office that Tuesday evening waiting for Noakes, were none of the pleasantest.

  It transpired that DCI Sidney’s other half – a formidable blonde Valkyrie whose telephone calls invariably sent his timid PA Miss Purcell into a tailspin – was an avid ballet fan, as well as belonging to the Friends of the Royal Court.

  Glancing round Sidney’s Hall of Fame, so called because the walls of the inner sanctum were festooned with blow-ups of Sidney schmoozing the great and good (even the odd minor royal), Markham felt he could safely assume the roll call included VIPs from the theatre’s Board of Trustees, as well as members of Bromgrove Arts Council. Yes, there was Dame Margaret Tappertit, President of Bromgrove Ballet, whose equine features suggested she would be more at home with gymkhanas than Giselle.

  Sidney himself – with his buzz cut and designer goatee – hardly looked like the DI’s idea of a ballet groupie, but it was clear from the self-important peroration to which he treated them, that he fancied himself as a patron of the arts. Markham mentally tuned out for most of the self-aggrandizing spiel, an ear cocked for the moment when the DCI finally ground to a halt.

  Yep, here it was.

  ‘…Two tragic casualties of the random violence which blights the metropolitan landscape.’

  God, that conference on knife crime had inspired Sidney with delusions of adequacy. He’d probably used that exact same phrase in his keynote speech. Only problem being, there was nothing remotely random about the murders of George Baranov and Sheila Bloom.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s surprisingly political, the world of ballet. Clashing personalities, artistic temperament … a real mesh of loyalties and resentments.’

  Sidney gave a harsh bark devoid of real merriment.

  ‘Artistic temperament, you say… Well, George Baranov had plenty of that by all accounts. According to Dame Margaret,’ there it was, the name-dropping, bang on cue, ‘when they did Swan Lake, he put his foot through a canvas. But did he break stride? Not a bit of it … just pointed and said, “To be restored.” Meh, meh.’

  Having established that he was on first-name terms with denizens of the dress circle and au fait with celebrity gossip, the DCI adopted what he presumably considered to be an appropriately mournful demeanour, though to Markham’s jaundiced eye, this made it look as if he had piles.

  ‘A sad loss to the arts … tragic that a very sick and deranged individual has extinguished such a great talent.’

  Markham felt a groan rising from the core of his being. With difficulty, he suppressed it.

  ‘I think we may be looking at an inside job, sir.’

  Sidney’s bonce, gleaming sweatily like cheese on the turn, underwent a subtle change of hue from pasty white to pink.

  It was a bad sign.

  Nevertheless, Markham persisted.

  ‘You see, with the wardrobe mistress Sheila Bloom also being murdered, sir, this makes it less likely that the assaults were random.’

  An ominous silence. Next to him, Noakes shuffled his feet in sympathy.

  ‘I’m inclined to think the answer may lie somewhere in the dancers’ personal lives, sir.’

  Sidney’s louring expression offered no encouragement.

  ‘We’re looking at some … colourful … unconventional … relationships.’

  Oh God, he could see he’d lost it. No way was Sidney going to have his wholesome wife’s favourite charity tarnished by any suggestion of sexual scandal. Nor did the DCI wish to hear anything that suggested the ‘jewel’ in Bromgrove’s civic renaissance was about to lose its shiny lustre.

  Time to retrench.

  ‘But of course, as you say, sir, we’ll also be looking at the theatre’s vulnerability to intruders and the possibility of obsessive fans … fixations, harassment, local oddballs.’

  That was more like it.

  Sidney smiled
his crocodile smile.

  ‘Excellent, Inspector, excellent. The ballet is bound to attract its share of unbalanced emotional types.’ As opposed to the well-heeled ladies who rattled their jewellery in the stalls. ‘A pound to a penny you’ll find anonymous letters and stalkers somewhere in the mix.’

  Thank you, Perry Mason.

  Aloud, Markham said, ‘Apparently, there’s been a burglary at Mr Baranov’s house, sir.’

  The DCI was all solicitude.

  ‘I mustn’t detain you then, Inspector.’ He showed all his teeth this time. ‘Burglary … perfectly in keeping with a crazed vendetta… Very sad.’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. The DI was not wont to be profane, but Sidney’s wilful obfuscation made him want to smash everything in sight and impale his boss on the nearest available paperweight. Did he seriously think Markham was going to waste time and resources on the mad fan theory? With a sinking heart, he realized he would have to resort to his usual ploy: run a dummy investigation in tandem with the real thing, feeding Sidney phoney bulletins to keep him at bay.

  ‘Will you be wanting a press conference, sir?’ he enquired with well-practised obsequiousness.

  The DCI stroked his pips by way of Pavlovian response. His boss was catnip to PR, Markham thought grimly. Hopefully the prospect of TV exposure would serve as a diversionary tactic.

  ‘Good idea, Markham,’ came the approving response. ‘Get Barry Lynch to set it up for tomorrow morning.’

  One for Kate Burton, the DI decided. At their last encounter, Noakes had called the PR man a ‘smarmy tosser’ (with which assessment Markham was privately inclined to agree), so best let her handle the media team.

  And with that, they salaamed their way out of Sidney’s presence.

  Miss Peabody was hovering in the outer office, making the beaver-like noises which generally indicated she wanted a confidential word.

  ‘Anything I can do for you, Miss Peabody?’ the DI enquired courteously.

  ‘I wonder, Inspector, if you don’t think me very forward … that is to say…’

  ‘Spit it out, luv. We’ve got criminals to catch,’ Noakes urged her.

  ‘I have a niece who’s taking dancing lessons … won some prizes too…’

  Markham smiled encouragingly.

  ‘She’s a huge fan of Alexandra Fairlie…’ The PA looked nervously in the direction of the inner sanctum.

  The DI saw where this was going.

  ‘She’ll be a die-hard autograph-hunter then, I expect,’ he said with blithe disregard for police protocol. ‘I’ll be sure to scoop up a couple of ballet signatures, never fear.’

  The PA beamed and disappeared into Sidney’s office.

  Noakes stared disbelievingly after her retreating figure.

  ‘Look no further, Guv,’ he grunted. ‘There’s our mad stalker… Peabody’s niece.’

  ‘C’mon Noakesy, we’ve got a burglary to check out.’

  ‘I jus’ need to…’ The other gestured vaguely in the direction of the stairwell.

  ‘Let me guess – a refuelling stop?’ The DI sounded resigned. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes tops, Sergeant.’

  Passing though CID on the way back to his own office, Markham had paused by Kate Burton’s desk and picked up a few copies of Dancing Times. Wouldn’t hurt to see if anything could be gleaned…

  As it happened, there was a feature on Alexandra Fairlie accompanied by glossy photographs showing her barefoot, splitting her legs like compasses and performing other violent acrobatic contortions. Porcelain brittle, red-gold hair hanging loose about her like a cloak, her appearance was far removed from that of the conventional ballerina. Scrutinizing the caption, Markham read: Alexandra Fairlie rehearsing Movements, an experimental work by George Baranov. The facing page offered Fairlie’s insights on the highs and lows of a dancer’s life.

  No sign of Noakes yet. He’d see what Ms Fairlie had to say.

  Anxiety over being asked to join the company is only the first in a series of lifelong dance worries. Once in the company – and you usually enter as a corps member – you worry about whether you are going to be cast, and then when you are cast you wonder if your talents have been misunderstood and if this role is really right for you, or if you are capable of doing it and whether you will ever get any more roles.

  How can you call attention to yourself? By attending company class every day, by taking more classes, by watching all rehearsals, even those you haven’t been called for? By smiling at the choreographers? By being friendly with the “right” people? By not being friendly with the “wrong” people? And wondering what the hell does this have to do with dancing, and why am I driving myself crazy about all this nonsense?

  Intrigued despite himself, Markham read on.

  It’s such a treadmill. You never stop wondering will you ever make it to soloist. But you’re terrified to ask, in case someone tells you you’re only a very limited dancer or tells you to be patient. You start to resent people who get promoted over you, who aren’t as talented but know how to push themselves forward.

  Even when you’re made a principal, the insecurity never goes away. Why is she learning my role? Should I ask for that juicy part I want or, if I ask, does that guarantee I’ll never get it? If I’m not getting enough performances, what should I do? Try for guest appearances? Make more money?

  And the biggest worry of all. Will Mr B make a ballet for me?

  Hmm. Well, it didn’t appear she’d had much to worry about on the score of new ballets if those pictures were anything to go by.

  But as Markham looked up from the magazine, his eyes were thoughtful, his mind teeming with questions.

  How did those other ballerinas feel about Fairlie’s predominance? How did Isobel Kent feel when the younger dancer arrived back on the scene, ready to reclaim George Baranov’s undivided attention and adoration? How did Marguerite Aroldingen feel about being consigned to the back burner? To say nothing of Paul Gayle’s feelings – forced to ride the carousel of the choreographer’s whims, losing his own professional identity in the process… For all the casual insouciance, he must have been bitterly hurt.

  Idly, the DI continued to flick through the pages until something else caught his eye.

  Talking Heads: An Interview with Ivan Plucis.

  Quickly he skimmed what appeared to be a discussion about the qualities required to be a good partner. From what he’d seen of Plucis, Markham was willing to bet the Romanian considered he possessed them all in abundance. Then a few lines that Burton had circled caught his eye.

  Ballerinas come in all shapes and sizes. Some are nice, some not so nice. But they all possess the elements necessary to make a ballerina. They are all tough, self-centred, and without any interest in the needs of their male counterpart. As far as they are concerned, he is just there to display them to maximum advantage.

  Miaow.

  Did Plucis have Alexandra Fairlie in mind when he offered this withering assessment? he wondered… Food for thought.

  Noakes appeared at the door clutching a greasy looking paper bag and eyeing the DI’s reading material apprehensively.

  Markham laughed at his expression. ‘Just boning up on bitchy gossip in the ballet world, Sergeant. No need to worry, I won’t be going all Melvyn Bragg on you.’

  The other’s expression suggested that one of those in the team was more than enough.

  ‘Right, Noakes. Before we head off, get one of the DCs to put out a call to Brian Shaw and then sort a car to take him to Malkins Way.’

  ‘The ballet master?’ The DS looked doubtful. ‘Ain’t he a suspect, Guv?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ came the crisp retort. ‘But he’s an old friend of Baranov’s and I want someone who knows him to walk us through the place … tell us what’s missing rather than have some nosy neighbour trampling about.’

  ‘You think chummy was after summat in particular, boss?’

  ‘Well, the timing’s suspect and I—’

  ‘Don’ like coincid
ences,’ Noakes finished the sentence for him. ‘Doyle c’n get Shaw sorted while I bring the car round.’

  After a swift call to Kate Burton to update her on developments, Markham headed for the station car park. It was a clear frosty evening, and he felt a frisson of anticipation stir. Perhaps Malkins Way would give them the break they needed.

  With it being night time, the rural charm of Malkins Way went pretty much unappreciated by the two policemen.

  George Baranov’s village retreat, Tunstall Lodge, was in fact more a cottage than a country house. But for all that, the compact whitewashed two-storey Georgian residence, set back from the road at the end of a winding gravel path, was an attractive property. With topiary clipped into swirls, pom-poms and crinolines, the garden that surrounded the cottage – illuminated by floodlights – resembled a ghostly corps de ballet. Markham shivered slightly as he surveyed its ordered precision.

  Brian Shaw was waiting for them under the pillared portico at the front of the house next to a tall spindly figure with sepulchral features and close cropped grey hair, like an old bishop.

  ‘This is Mrs Dade,’ the bored-looking DC said, eyeing her with disfavour.

  ‘Mr Baranov’s neighbour,’ she put in with some asperity. ‘My property borders his at the back. Willowmead.’

  ‘Er, yes, Mrs Dade called in the burglary, sir.’ The expression on the officer’s face suggested he’d had an earful on the subject of response times. ‘Looks like they got in through the study on the ground floor. We’ve got two uniforms checking round the back.’

  ‘Thanks, Constable.’ Markham’s tone was distinctly wintry. ‘How come the intruder was able to breach the perimeter in the first place?’

  Mrs Dade crossed her arms and leaned back on her heels. Hah, get out of that if you can, young man, her attitude seemed to say.

  ‘We’re looking into that, sir,’ was the mumbled response. ‘I’ll make out a report.’