Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘We know that Mr Baranov could be cruel, sadistic even,’ the DI observed. ‘His colleagues seemed to see it as the flip side of his genius.’

  ‘God yes, Isobel must have been a masochist,’ Burton agreed with feeling. ‘Even when he told her that her hands were like spatulas, or she wasn’t “nubile” enough, she just kept on coming back for more.’

  But everyone has their tipping point.

  The DS sniffed. ‘He was a rude bastard. Apparently, there was a visiting teacher who came over from America and gave Isobel some fibre pillows as a present to help her from creasing her forehead as she slept. Guess what Baranov said? “Maybe face-lift would work better.”’

  Markham smiled affectionately at Burton who glowed in the warmth of the boss’s regard, relishing the moment of complicity.

  He’s letting me in, she thought happily. I belong in the club.

  ‘You’re a mine of information, Kate.’

  ‘I did dance classes at school, sir,’ she said shyly. ‘Too awkward to be any great shakes, but my mum kept hoping … fancied me as a real twinkle toes until the teacher put her straight.’ The DS flashed an endearingly wistful smile. ‘I was a bit hooked for a while and this case is bringing it all back.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly given me food for thought with all this about Isobel Kent.’

  He recalled the ballerina’s sleek dark hair and remote crystalline beauty. Had that glacial impassivity finally cracked, he wondered.

  Succinctly, the DI updated Burton on the previous evening.

  ‘Sounds like they were up to all sorts at Baranov’s, sir,’ she said when he had finished.

  ‘Well, from what the neighbour said, it certainly got nasty from time to time. Rows and scenes. Maybe even violence… Brian Shaw definitely knew more than he was saying.’

  ‘D’you think we’re talking … orgies … that sort of thing, sir?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, Kate,’ Markham replied drily. ‘I had a look at some of those press cuttings when I got back to the office last night. The reviewers said that Baranov’s recent “neoclassical” choreography was X-rated stuff … turning legs into phalluses … all highly erotic.’

  He was amused when the DS blushed. For all that she had done a stint in Vice, it was very easy to fluster her. ‘Easy pickings,’ as Noakes was wont to say.

  ‘Ivan Plucis thought Baranov was a randy old goat,’ she said. ‘Told me he was always catching female dancers sitting around with Baranov in their underwear smoking cigarettes while he was told off for skulking around as though he was a teenage Peeping Tom.’

  ‘Droit de seigneur,’ chuckled Markham, but he had a speculative gleam in his eyes. Restlessly, he got up and began to pace the office, a habit when he was turning over possibilities in his mind.

  ‘But Alexandra Fairlie was “The One”, wasn’t she? And Baranov didn’t have it all his own way with her. She carried on giving him the run-around – even when she came back after her marriage.’

  ‘Yes,’ Burton agreed. ‘Brian Shaw was quite upset by it, actually. He said Alexandra just accepted everything as if it was her due. He never heard her give Baranov a word of thanks for anything… What really pissed Shaw off was the way Baranov messed around with company class depending on Fairlie’s whims. So, if she came along with a bandage on her knee, Baranov would insist they cut the pliés – they’re like deep bends – and then once the bandage was off it was okay now, we can do pliés today.’

  ‘So there were mutterings.’

  ‘They all thought Baranov’s judgement was skewed, sir. Marguerite Aroldingen said it was jeopardizing the structure of the entire company.’

  Markham paused in his pacing. ‘Did she indeed.’

  ‘Oh, it’s obvious she was really unhappy about it – said her and Brian’s authority was being undermined.’ Burton consulted her notes. ‘She said there was one time Brian was choreographing a small piece and he ended it with Ivan lifting Alexandra over his head then sort of throwing her up and catching her mid-spin before she touched the ground.’

  ‘Sounds athletic.’

  ‘Well, Shaw was experimenting you see… Anyway, Baranov came in and went berserk. Started yelling, “You must change ending. Alex is too precious. She could be hurt. If you don’t want to change step, use someone else. Isobel or one of the others.”’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘And yet they all revered Baranov at the same time… You should’ve heard the way the bunheads raved about him, like he was some sort of guru … drivelling on about him being able to see into their souls.’

  ‘Bunheads?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I’m slipping into ballet slang now … that’s what they call the female dancers.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Burton rumpled her pageboy with an exasperated air.

  ‘It was a bit like one big family, sir. With Baranov as the father figure.’

  Only someone had committed patricide.

  ‘They all said he was very kindly and democratic where it wasn’t a question of his ballets and casting… I mean, when they travelled, he was always giving up his taxi to a dancer before himself, because he said it was more important for them to get to the theatre than for him… And Eddie Bissell said he was just incredible with children – had a great rapport with them. Made all the little hobbledehoy boys feel like princes.’

  Interesting, given his clear preference for the ballerina.

  ‘Did you get much out of Mr Bissell?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’ She screwed up her features. ‘Too loyal. Mind you,’ she looked as though a thought had struck her. ‘Bissell did mention something a bit odd… Now what was it? Oh yeah.’ Her expression cleared. ‘He said he’d been passing outside the men’s dressing rooms when he heard Baranov shouting at someone. “You are sinister,” or something like that.’

  Sinister. Evil.

  ‘Did he see who it was?’

  ‘Nah, didn’t want to eavesdrop – too honourable – so just went on his way. But it stuck in his mind cos Baranov wasn’t the type to be afraid of anyone.’

  ‘Did Doyle have any luck with the technical people?’

  ‘I had a look at his notes, sir, but nothing juicy… The stagehands seem to have got on well with Baranov, enjoyed joshing him … and swapping dirty jokes.’

  ‘What about the stage managers?’

  ‘Baranov didn’t much care for Ted Murphy by all accounts, but the young lad—’

  ‘Jake Porter?’

  ‘That’s him … the assistant stage manager … seemed to like Baranov. Said he fought his corner in some sort of dispute with Ivan Plucis…’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Plucis was angry cos he thought Jake brought the house lights up too early at the end of a performance and he could have had another bow… Anyway, he was ranting at Jake and Baranov heard it. He ordered Plucis to apologize – said he couldn’t speak to Jake that way. Told him, “Maybe you will be running a company one day, and you will need people like Jake to make you look good.”’

  ‘I bet Plucis loved that.’

  ‘Well, Jake said he looked like he wanted to take a pop, but Baranov leaned back and tilted his chin up … sort of looking down his nose at Plucis.’ To Markham’s amusement, the DS broke off to do an imitation of an imperious stare. ‘He wasn’t a tall man, but he had this snooty way of putting people in their place… Did the trick, apparently. Plucis got back in his box after that.’

  ‘Hmm… What about Sheila Bloom … any stories about her?’

  ‘Liked to play the grande dame … plumed herself on being Baranov’s confidante.’

  ‘Wasn’t that Marguerite Aroldingen?’

  ‘Well, she was his best friend in the company, and he left most of his ballets to her.’

  ‘How do you mean, “left his ballets to her”?’

  ‘In his will, sir. You can do that with ballets … something to do with them being intellectual property.’

  ‘That’s a new one on me.’
The DI smiled at her. ‘You’re broadening my horizons with a vengeance, Kate.’

  Burton grinned. ‘Now Marguerite Aroldingen really is grand. In the days when she was still dancing at ENB, the company loved it when she came to class wearing a mink coat over her practice clothes. As they all started warming up, she’d slip off the mink and casually let it trail to the floor so it usually ended up in the resin box.’

  ‘Mink, hey?’ Markham’s expression was quizzical. ‘She wouldn’t get away with that now … the animal cruelty mob would be picketing the stage door.’

  The DI pondered for a minute. ‘So, Ms Aroldingen’s a lady of means?’

  ‘Yes. Married a banker. Separated now, but she’s comfortably off.’

  ‘Anything to be gleaned about her relationships with our victims?’

  ‘The affair with Baranov seems to have settled into something less romantic but far more comfortable… They were arm-in-arm buddies according to Brian Shaw.’

  ‘So it must’ve hurt when Alexandra Fairlie came back and she was cast aside like an old glove.’

  ‘She says it only made Baranov more loveable – humanized him.’

  ‘Then she’s a remarkably tolerant woman given what we’ve heard about his servility towards Ms Fairlie.’ Like Odysseus captivated by the sirens, Baranov had seemed helpless to resist her.

  ‘Maybe Baranov wasn’t quite as infatuated as everyone seems to think, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Brian Shaw had the feeling that Baranov had decided not to allow Fairlie to wield the same power over him again.’

  ‘Hmm. Could be wishful thinking on Shaw’s part.’

  ‘Bloom and Baranov definitely weren’t such good mates at the end. One of the corps said she saw them together once when it seemed very awkward… Baranov’s head was down and he looked like a wet dog being told off.’

  It was a vivid cameo.

  ‘At least someone was fighting Paul Gayle’s corner, whatever her motives might have been.’ He laughed.

  His thoughts turned to Alexandra Fairlie’s husband.

  ‘What did people have to say about Gayle?’

  ‘Sort of sympathetic and contemptuous at the same time.’

  ‘Contemptuous?’

  ‘Well, they nicknamed Alexandra “Princess” and called him “the Consort” behind his back … as though he’d let himself be pushed around … like he was pathetic.’

  ‘If he wanted to save his marriage – not to mention his career – he probably had no option but to suck it up.’

  ‘Had to have hurt, sir.’

  Enough to kill? Markham asked himself. Baranov’s ruthless sidelining of the young soloist must have left him feeling blanked out – as if the choreographer had simply passed an eraser over him. But that still left Sheila Bloom…

  The DI became aware that the DS was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Well done, Kate,’ he said warmly.

  She smiled so delightedly, it was almost sad. In that moment, he reproached himself for having failed to give her his full confidence and vowed to make amends. Starting then and there.

  ‘How do you feel about tackling the press conference?’ he asked.

  ‘Won’t the DCI want you, sir?’

  Sidney – antennae permanently alert to the nuances of political correctness – would far rather have a young female subordinate as his foil than Markham (pale, male and stale).

  ‘No, I think you can handle it, Kate. When it comes to summing up George Baranov in a few well-chosen words, I reckon you’ll do a better job than anyone else. I’m impressed by your grasp of the company dynamics.’

  ‘Well, if you think I’m up to it, sir.’

  A glow of pleasure so improved her looks in that instant, no-one looking at Kate Burton would have thought her at all plain.

  A short time later, the DI sat in the ‘sauna’ at Doggie Dickerson’s Gym where Bromgrove Police Boxing Club had its unofficial headquarters.

  He knew full well that membership of Doggie’s probably constituted Exhibit A in his professional ‘rap sheet’, but the place was somehow indispensable to his well-being. Dingy, dilapidated, and of dubious hygienic integrity, its rough authenticity suited him perfectly. There was something soothing too in the peculiar freemasonry of the place, villains and policemen slugging away at each other in comfortable anonymity before returning to their usual avocations.

  The proprietor himself looked like something out of central casting – dead ringer for a Dickensian crook or denizen of the criminal underworld – with his crooked yellow teeth, lopsided leer, and eyes that were bloodshot from a surfeit of Jack Daniels.

  Yet he knew the respect due to his patrons, did Doggie. On hearing that his ‘fav’rite ’spector’ was on the premises, he rammed down his straggling grey toupee, adjusted his grubby cravat and – toilette duly complete – adjourned to the mildewed back room (steam guaranteed through lack of a functioning window) for a few minutes of congenial chat.

  ‘Who’s in today, Doggie?’

  ‘Young Mr Carstairs from Vice just dropped by. An’ there’s a couple of likely lads from out of town.’ No need to enquire too closely into the antecedents of the latter group. All Markham craved was some mindless exercise to help him shake off the curious sense of oppression…

  ‘’Ope you don’t mind me sayin’, Mr Markham, but you’re lookin’ a bit peaky.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is, Doggie…’

  This empty formula seemed to satisfy his blissfully incurious interlocutor. ‘Come with me, Mr Markham, an’ we’ll soon ’ave you feelin’ more like yourself.’

  Forty-five minutes later, towelling off alongside Chris Carstairs, Markham felt satisfied he had acquitted himself with honour.

  ‘Nice one, Gil. You made me work bloody hard.’ Carstairs grinned. ‘Imagining I was Sidney, were you?’

  ‘Mind reader,’ was the laconic reply.

  The other eyed him shrewdly. ‘Under the cosh with that theatre investigation, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Carstairs was unperturbed by his colleague’s abruptness, Doggie’s being pretty much the detectives’ last bastion against the horrors of the job and a refuge where shop-talk was generally avoided.

  ‘Follow the ballet do you, Chris?’

  ‘God no.’ The other waggled his eyebrows lecherously. ‘At least not unless I’m on the pull and think it’ll impress the birds.’

  Carstairs yawned. ‘Can’t for the life of me see what’s so special. I mean, it started out as blokes wanting to look up girls’ skirts, didn’t it?’

  Markham strongly suspected that George Baranov would not have approved this definition of a balletomane…

  Arriving back at the station, Markham had to admit that he was feeling more like himself. The clean crisp smell of winter was in the air, and every breath had a cool freshness, a vibrancy that invigorated him.

  And yet he couldn’t shake the uneasy sensation that he had missed something – something crucial – buried in what Kate Burton had said. If he managed to stay out of the DCI’s way for long enough, he might be able to remember what it was.

  He made it up to his office undetected and settled down behind his desk, conference pad to hand.

  The door banged open and Noakes ambled in.

  ‘’Lo, Guv. Burton did well with the journos,’ he said without preamble. ‘Kept that scrote from the Gazette in his place and made all the right noises.’ Slumping into the chair opposite Markham, he added, ‘Scrubbed up well too.’

  This was George Noakes at his very best, Markham reflected affectionately. Generous enough to give credit where it was due despite all his entrenched prejudice against ‘fast track clever dicks’.

  ‘And the DCI?’

  ‘The usual. Made it sound like we’re about to make an arrest when—’

  ‘We’ve got bugger all,’ Markham finished gloomily.

  ‘The PM report’s in, though, Guv.’

  ‘At least that’s someth
ing.’

  ‘The wardrobe lady was strangled then strung up on that wire thing.’

  Markham flinched at the memory of Sheila Bloom’s body sagging like some sawdust puppet.

  ‘Time frame?’

  ‘About an hour before the body showed up onstage Tuesday morning.’

  ‘So any of them could have done it.’ The DI sounded despondent, his new-found energy leaching away. With his usual concision, he ran through what Burton had told him earlier.

  ‘Christ, Guv. That’s not exzackly narrowing the field.’

  ‘Quite.’ Markham’s lips were tightly compressed.

  A thought occurred to him. ‘What did you make of Alexandra Fairlie’s … admirer, Sergeant? Any chance he could be mixed up in this?’

  ‘Roger the Dodger?’ Noakes gave a grim chuckle. ‘Mr Roger Miller. No alibi for Baranov or Bloom, but he’s jus’ one of them saddos who likes tagging along with ballet folk.’ Another malevolent snigger. ‘The administrator bloke … or office manager … or whatever he is—’

  ‘Eddie Bissell.’

  ‘That’s the fella. Well, he said our Roger’s basically harmless. Just a bit … obsessed… Has this idea he’s Fairlie’s white knight or summat like that … on a mission to keep her safe.’

  ‘Very chivalrous.’

  Noakes grinned evilly. ‘Baranov didn’t see it like that. Called him a nut job and went ballistic when Fairlie turned up wearing a pearl ring he’d given her. Baranov told her to give it back and she did.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe we shouldn’t be too quick to discount the DCI’s mad fan theory after all.’

  ‘Bloom didn’t like Roger either. She an’ Baranov were singing from the same hymn sheet when it came to that.’

  ‘Anything logged against him?’

  ‘Nah, he’s clean.’ The DS frowned. ‘Apparently, Baranov was dead antsy about some anonymous letter warning him that he’d be getting a letter bomb. In the end, there was a parcel delivered but there wasn’t anything like that in it … jus’ some photos of Fairlie with Baranov, only Baranov’s face was cut out.’

  ‘I take it they couldn’t make anything stick against Roger?’