Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Noakes shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Nada, Guv. Bissell wanted Baranov to get the police involved … you know, have a word in Roge’s shell-like … but he wasn’t having it … some Rusky hang-up about not showing fear.’

  ‘I want Roger Miller checked out, Sergeant. Maybe Social Services has something.’

  ‘Righto, boss.’

  Again that spasm of unease as Markham recalled the curiously avid expression on Roger Miller’s face while he watched Alexandra Fairlie … almost as though he was stripping the flesh from her bones. He’d seen that look on a man’s face before and it rarely ended well.

  Suddenly he rose to his feet.

  ‘Let’s get down to the theatre, Sergeant. Has to be better than stewing here driving ourselves mad.’

  There was a smart knock at the door and Doyle appeared.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’ The young DC looked worried. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but—’

  ‘I take it there’s been a development, Constable.’

  ‘Kind of…’

  ‘Try to be more precise.’

  The bracing rejoinder had its effect.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s Brian Shaw. He hasn’t turned up today… They planned to do rehearsals this afternoon – keep things as normal as possible – but he never showed… It’s not like him, so folk are worried…’

  Markham felt a terrible chilling sense of déjà vu.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the ballet master standing in Baranov’s study at Tunstall Lodge the previous night, his face strangely drawn and grey.

  Nerve ends tingled.

  ‘Get a squad car over to Shaw’s address now,’ he rapped.

  Galvanized, Doyle hurried out.

  ‘I should have known last night, Noakes.’ The DI’s voice was anguished. ‘Should have known there was something wrong. Shaw made a connection when he realized those letters had been stolen… Don’t you see,’ Markham struck his forehead distractedly, ‘he made a connection between the burglary and someone at the Royal…’

  ‘You think he wanted to give ’em a chance to turn themselves in?’

  ‘God knows what was in his mind, Noakes. But I think he may have signed his own death warrant.’

  9. Enigma

  MARKHAM WAS NEVER TO forget the sight that met them when they arrived at Brian Shaw’s little terraced house in Pelham Place close by the theatre.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, with Noakes at his heels, he raced up to the landing which was crowded with stretchers, uniforms and neighbours.

  Everywhere was the strong smell of gas.

  A uniform motioned towards the master bedroom.

  ‘Get rid of the gawpers,’ Markham instructed him in a fierce undertone.

  Noakes lingered to exchange a few words with a white-haired plumpish woman before following him.

  Papered in burgundy striped wallpaper, there was something theatrical about the baroque décor. A dancer’s taste.

  But the DI only had eyes for the mahogany half-tester bed, with cream swagged canopy, where Brian Shaw lay in pyjamas and dressing gown under an ivory counterpane, his eyes closed and a half smile playing about his lips. Strewn across the bed were half a dozen or so sheets of paper covered in flamboyant looped handwriting.

  An old-fashioned tallboy next to the bed held a glass of what Markham took to be whisky. An empty blister pack of diazepam was next to the tumbler.

  The bedroom curtains were half open, allowing an unexpected shaft of winter sunshine to stream in like a benediction across the placid face whose expression was so full of painless peace as to give the impression that Death had come to him as a friend.

  Noakes, having slipped on plastic gloves, was scrutinizing the sheets of paper.

  ‘Chuffing Nora,’ he whistled. ‘Think you may want to take a look, Guv. We’ve got a bunch of Shaw’s old love letters here.’

  With a decisive gesture, Markham pushed the bedroom door closed. SOCOs, medics, pathologist, the whole damn lot of them could wait, he thought angrily. Brian Shaw had struck him as a quiet, dignified man whose privacy he intended to safeguard for as long as possible.

  Silently, the DI slipped on his own gloves and held out a hand to Noakes before removing the correspondence to a straight-backed chair over by the window. Outside in Pelham Place, a row of tall poplars bent sorrowfully in a breeze that had whipped up from nowhere.

  Markham’s eyes skimmed the sheaf of letters that bore an appearance of having been endlessly smoothed, folded and refolded.

  It was the age-old story.

  Unrequited passion.

  Dearest Beloved George,

  My thoughts turn constantly to you – you who hold the prize, the gift of happiness, the realization of bliss, of misery, of fruitfulness. I fear you and long for you.

  I have suffered such anguish as I hope you will never know.

  I laid my heart at your feet with all the ardour, the faith, the fullness of passion. It was trampled, mutilated, distorted and crushed. And now it is shrivelled and gone underground.

  How I have longed for someone to bring my heart to life in a happy way. Only you could have done it.

  Very often I am on the edge of madness and want to scream. I am missing you so terribly hard and tearing myself to pieces…

  And yet I am glad at least to have moved you. The most important thing in life is to be moved. Nothing – nothing else matters.

  Love to my only love.

  Markham was momentarily overcome by a tidal wave of rage so strong that he felt he must choke.

  For all their middlebrow sentimentality, he had no doubt that genuine suffering lay behind Brian Shaw’s letters to George Baranov – a suffering never intended for exposure to the common gaze. It was sacrilege to drag this long-concealed trove, presumably returned to Shaw by Baranov, into the light of day…

  ‘Poor sod.’ Noakes’s voice was compassionate. ‘Didn’t look the type to commit suicide … the guilt must’ve got to him in the end.’

  ‘This was no suicide, Sergeant.’ The DI’s face was darker than his subordinate had ever seen it.

  ‘But, Guv,’ the DS gestured to the bed. ‘He was obsessed with Baranov, that’s clear enough… And then you’ve got booze, sleeping pills and the gas full on. Next door neighbour said he wouldn’t modernize the kitchen even though the builder told him it was a death trap.’ Another furtive look at the peaceful face on the pillow. ‘He’d not have known owt about it, boss … better’n facing a trial or ending up in the loony bin.’

  ‘I’m not buying it, Noakes.’ Markham’s dark gaze comprehended the whole room. ‘It doesn’t feel right… Too bloody convenient by half… Too stagey … too posed.’

  ‘Well, you gotta remember how he was, Guv … you know, very, er, genteel an’ that… Wouldn’t want anything ugly…’

  ‘That’s just it, Noakes.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Think about the way those bodies were displayed … that Rat headdress and poor Sheila Bloom swinging like some sort of ventriloquist’s dummy… Those were cruel murders. Ugly. But Brian Shaw wasn’t that kind of man.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Guv,’ Noakes ventured, mastiff’s head on one side. ‘It’s always the ones who look like they couldn’t hurt a fly… I mean, in the beginning no-one thought Fred West was a serial killer.’

  There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.

  There was a discreet tap and a nervous looking uniform appeared at the door.

  Noakes disappeared onto the landing while the DI gazed sightlessly out of the bedroom window, wondering what it was Brian Shaw beheld as he sighed his last. The face of a killer?

  ‘Dimples is downstairs, Guv.’

  Markham suddenly felt he couldn’t bear to watch the bluff, cheerful police pathologist Dr Doug Davidson poking and prodding Brian Shaw. It would feel like the worst violation.

  ‘S’all right, boss. I’ll deal with it.’ Noakes was quick to catch the DI’s mood. ‘There’s a little box ro
om the other side of the bathroom. Jus’ poked my head in before. Mebbe there’s more papers ’n’ stuff in there…’

  ‘Right, Sergeant.’ Stiffly, Markham got to his feet. ‘I’ll be just across the way.’

  With one last look at the dead man’s tranquil face, he quietly left the room.

  Unlike the understated elegance of Shaw’s bedroom, the ballet master’s cluttered little study at the back of the house looked like a student’s, with books, CDs and DVDs strewn across a distinctly threadbare carpet. In front of the window, there was just room for a padded swivel chair and modest pine desk unit.

  There was only one picture on the wall. A black-and-white head and shoulders portrait of a wonderfully handsome George Baranov, the proud hauteur of the budding choreographer apparent in every lineament.

  Markham looked around him and sighed.

  It would all have to be processed.

  Where would Shaw have hidden his journal? That there was one somewhere he had no doubt.

  Then his policeman’s eye noticed an unevenness in the shabby carpet over by the bookcase.

  Lifting up a corner of the rug, he found what he was looking for.

  A loose floorboard easily prised up.

  Underneath, a dark green clothbound notebook.

  The DI moved to the desk, sat down and began to read.

  It was an hour later when Markham closed Brian Shaw’s journal.

  No-one had disturbed him and the house was now quiet. Peering out of the window, he saw a PC standing guard on the pavement from which the gaggle of bystanders had now dispersed. Noakes was doubtless somewhere about, running interference. Markham could always count on him for that.

  The DI leaned back in the chair, thinking hard.

  Shaw’s journal – shrewd and gossipy in tone – had presented a complete contrast in style from the unrestrained romanticism of his correspondence with Baranov.

  Although piecemeal and largely undated, it vividly depicted a company where jealousy was rife and tensions ran high.

  With steepled fingers, the DI reviewed his discoveries, looking at the extracts he had bookmarked with slips of paper.

  First Marguerite Aroldingen, who had clearly been bitterly hurt by Baranov’s defection to Alex Fairlie.

  After the performance of Winter Dreams, when George came down the staircase from his usual vantage point at the back of the dress circle, instead of going to Marguerite as he had done all the time Princess was away, he went straight backstage to Alex. This seems to me a great drama and Marguerite a great heroine…

  Poor Marguerite, I really feel for her. No wonder she decided to retire. With Alex back on the scene and George infatuated again, it was so hard for the older women to hold their own… No one else got his full attention. There was no transition … just as though George had closed a book of his life and picked up another book, turned to the first page, and suddenly there was Alex… Marguerite and the rest reduced to back numbers. Talk about being “on the shelf”!

  Marguerite and I never really talked about George’s relationship with Alex … partly out of good manners and partly because I didn’t want her to see how enthusiastic I was about Alex’s dancing … it would have been too painful for her…

  Interestingly, it appeared that Aroldingen too had her run-ins with Sheila Bloom while she was still a performer.

  People more and more fed up of Sheila who carries on like Mother Goddamn … gets away with it cos she knows where the bodies are buried. An ill-omened turn of phrase.

  Marguerite finally lost it when Sheila barked at her for flopping down on the stage floor and getting her costume dusty. No backup from George, needless to say. M really let the two of them have it with both barrels. “I don’t give a fuck about this costume and I don’t give one fuck about this fucking production.” Priceless. She deliberately yawned her way through every performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Furious rows with George.

  Then there was Isobel Kent.

  Izzy is barely able to mention George’s name without spitting it out. Problem is, he hates her intense method-acting approach. Today he mocked her when she asked him why she was doing a chaîné by asking, “Why are you dancing?”, mimicking her frantic tone. Cue sniggering from the corps. She was looking daggers…

  Yet another clash between George and Izzy over costume alterations. Izzy shrieked, “Who d’you think you are – a bigger star than the ballerina?” George’s response was unprintable. You could hear it all over the building. The stage crew were cheering…

  ‘It’s too bad that George has consigned Izz to oblivion, taking role after role off her… Just like with Marguerite…

  Steady Eddie tackled George about being unfair by giving so much attention to Alex… Very calm and reasonable as always – told George it was unbalancing the company. G nodded and pretended to listen…

  I kind of “get” what’s going on between George and Alex… The connection with her inspires his choreography, so he can’t give her up. He devotes as much imagination, concern and attention as he can spare to the rest, but it’s all secondary to the main task – fanning Alex’s flame onstage…

  Ballerinas can be such bitches. “You can’t lift worth a damn. Don’t hold me there. Touch me. Don’t touch me. Put your hand right on my tits. Come on, don’t be afraid cos there isn’t much of them anyway.” Yadda yadda yadda. Sometimes I think Alex is just some professional cockteaser, but then onstage all the garbage drops away and it’s pure poetry.

  Clearly, as Baranov’s rekindled infatuation and Alex Fairlie’s resistance intensified, there was fertile ground for trouble.

  It’s awful watching George lose his self-control over Alex again… Eddie’s detailed to escort her everywhere, for “protection” – against fans maybe, rapists perhaps, suitors certainly! At least Consort’s out in the sticks with ENB, so George can pretend she isn’t really married… God, what a mess!

  You have to feel for Paul Gayle … so insignificant despite being the bone of contention! Mind you, I enjoyed his dig in Dancing Times. “I’m sick of people rolling round the floor in all-over tights, because this has led to an awful muddle going on … I do not believe that when you mix ballet and modern dance choreographically you get the best out of either.” Trying to take the wind out of George’s sails and who can blame him… Even a nonentity’s entitled to his opinions!

  I’m not wholly converted to George’s latest geometric stuff, and the critics are zigzagging all over the place. Alex came in with a bandage on her nose today … said she’d gone up too high in front and karate-kicked herself. Certainly spoiled the pouter-pigeon profile. Lots of false concern from the corps!

  Ivan and George drew their metaphysical fencing foils today. Seconds out! Ivan just can’t see that G doesn’t “do” celebrities – at least not the male variety! “Stop milking applause … we don’t want noise of clapping to ruin sound of music… You’re a one-man show. I don’t like this… Everyone’s a star in my company.”

  All very ironic, but Ivan zipped his lip and just put up with what George dished out, though he calls him “Fuckarov” on the sly. To be fair, there are some democratic touches. On the programmes for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, George insisted he be listed only as ballet master. “I am not big director. Just ballet master.” Of course, speaking alphabetically, his name is always going to come before mine!

  Relishing the self-deprecating tone, Markham experienced a familiar sense of loss.

  Any man’s death diminishes me.

  Roger Miller got a mention too, Markham noted with quickening interest.

  Alex’s lovesick swain is still hanging around the theatre like a bad smell. Endlessly bothersome but essentially harmless. At least it’s forced that fat slob Ted Murphy off his backside. G affecting not to notice but has put poor Eddie on extra guard detail. La Fairlie is lapping up all the attention, of course, and who can blame her? Mr Miller’s easy on the eye, if you like that under-nourished look, and at least he’s her own age. Wi
th Consort exiled to Siberia, it’s the nearest she gets to having any fun… Sobersides Eddie’s not happy – banged on at George about it in front of everyone with dire warnings of trouble ahead … wants G to get the police involved and frighten the living daylights out of our scrawny friend, but no dice. Murphy’s convinced Roger had something to do with that fire in the basement last month, but ten to one someone sneaked down there for a crafty smoke and didn’t put the butt out. It’s such a mess down there – all the turps and solvents – it’s a bloody miracle we haven’t been blown sky high long ago…

  An accident or arson?

  How secure was that theatre with all the comings and goings? Was there a lair somewhere in the bowels of the building where a stalker prowled by night?

  Eddie Bissell was a man with his wits about him. If the administrator was alarmed by Roger Miller’s ubiquity, then he probably had good cause. The DI knew from what Kate Burton had told him, as well as from his own research, that fan mania sometimes verged on the unhinged with ballet devotees becoming ferociously possessive. Brian Shaw’s tone was ruefully amused, but the laser-like intensity of Miller’s unswerving focus had struck Markham as sinister.

  The DI continued his perusal, trying to ignore the familiar gnawing anxiety that right there under his nose was a vital component of the puzzle and he had missed it…

  Sometimes I hate George for making me feel so vile. When I was young, I could’ve done it with anything. Anything. I could have fucked a duck. If you’re a young person, you can do it – it’s no trouble. But he spoiled everyone else for me, and now I’m just a dried-out husk…

  There were other scatological asides, and the journal’s tone became progressively darker, finishing on an enigmatic note with an entry undated like the rest but presumably of recent origin.

  I’m worried… Can’t shake the feeling something terrible is going to happen … like a thunder storm about to break. “You did it up to the hilt and broke my heart.” What if—