‘Wasted on that crew,’ Markham riposted, watching the last stragglers exit the cemetery. ‘All on diets. Wouldn’t know what to do with a plate of stodge – they’d probably try to inhale it.’
Olivia laughed again, a joyous bell-like sound in the cemetery as it settled once more into its winter sleep.
‘All this talk of food is making me hungry… Have you got time for lunch with me?’
Markham looked regretfully at his watch.
‘I’m afraid that run-through at the Royal requires my presence, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
‘See that you do,’ she said, punching him playfully. Then a thought occurred to her. ‘Won’t they be expecting you to make a statement about Brian Shaw?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said grimly. ‘I’ll be referring to a “tragic incident involving a member of the company”. From the spaced-out look on some of those faces, I’d say the word has already spread.’
‘You know it wasn’t an accident, though.’ Olivia’s heart ached for him. This was clearly going to be another of those cases where he was torn in two.
‘Well,’ he said with a sigh, ‘incident’s vague enough to cover a multitude and should buy some time. Won’t stop the rumour mill, of course, but we can cope with that.’
‘Do you think the PM will come up with anything useful?’
‘Dimples knows I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, but even he can’t work miracles.’ A heaviness seemed to settle on Markham, the keen eyes despondent, the vital yet austere face downcast. ‘After Shaw took that whisky – whether under duress or otherwise – he couldn’t have put up a fight, which means no trace evidence.’
‘So they’ll decide he gassed himself … out of guilt…’
‘Most likely.’ Something like the resolute suppression of a pain in her lover’s manner suggested to Olivia that he would find such an outcome well-nigh unbearable.
He squared his shoulders.
‘There was no suicide letter, and those love letters to Baranov don’t prove anything except that he once had feelings for the man… As for Sheila Bloom’s murder … well, I just don’t see him for it, Liv… Brian Shaw was essentially at ease with himself, but whoever did this was eaten up with malevolence and hate.’
‘What about the DCI? D’you think he’ll cut you some slack?’
‘With Sidney it’s all about damage limitation… I’ll just have to convince him we need some time to close the investigation discreetly – check out Shaw and his “associates” sub rosa … some BS like that should do the trick, especially if Sidney think it’s his own idea.’
‘You old cynic.’
‘Sidney has that effect on one. He might as well have No Sex Please, We’re British tattooed on his bonce.’
‘Well, you just carry on sleuthing, dearest.’ She endeavoured to sound light-hearted as, hand in hand, they headed towards the cemetery gates.
Just as they reached the exit, some instinct made Markham look back at George Baranov’s grave.
Roger Miller, his face leached of colour as though a force he could not control was taking over his body, stood motionless, staring with burning eyes in the direction the mourners had taken.
Olivia shrank closer to him.
‘Who’s that?’
‘An obsessive fan,’ he replied grimly. And quite possibly a fire-setter.
‘He looks murderous … sorry, unfortunate choice of word.’
Eddie Bissell suddenly appeared on the path beside them. ‘It’s all right, Inspector, I’ve got this.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’ve just put Alex in a taxi, so she’s out of harm’s way,’ the administrator replied. ‘Roger no doubt wanted to see George well and truly buried.’ Bissell’s voice was flat, devoid of emphasis. With a polite nod to Olivia, he walked swiftly towards the grave where Miller stood oblivious of the gravediggers waiting to cover the coffin.
Poor Bissell, the DI reflected, once more steering Olivia towards the gates. Curious as he was to see how the administrator handled the situation, he concluded it was hardly a spectator sport. Baranov’s right-hand man would doubtless appreciate some privacy after the various dramas.
There had been something positively demonic about Roger Miller’s expression. He looked like a hungry vulture brooding over George Baranov in his coffin as though waiting to pick his bones clean. Markham wished he could share Brian Shaw’s conviction that the man was harmless…
Olivia sensed his disquiet.
‘What did he mean about wanting to be sure that Baranov was buried?’
‘Who can say, dearest?’ He endeavoured to sound casual. ‘These theatre folks have their own lingo… I don’t follow the half of it.’
Sensing that she was being warned off, Olivia dropped the subject.
But Markham’s thoughts kept wandering to that tall figure with the burning eyes. Even after he and Olivia had left St Cyril’s far behind, he felt Roger Miller’s hungry gaze scorching the distance between them like an invisible brand.
*
As Markham drew up outside the theatre, the first snowflakes of December were falling, heralding the start of Nutcracker season.
He found Noakes sitting in the stage doorkeeper’s shabby little office, framed by the half stable door as he perched on one of two ancient stools which were ripped and had foam sticking out.
‘Afternoon, Noakes. Where’s our regular janitor?’
‘His back’s playing up apparently, Guv. More like he fancied a skive what with our lot running the show.’
‘You’re all heart, Sergeant.’
‘How’d the funeral go? Everyone behave themselves?’
‘Not exactly.’ And Markham recounted the fracas at the graveside.
‘Blimey.’ Noakes looked thunderstruck. ‘Lemme get this straight, boss… Isobel Kent and Paul Gayle were having it off an’ Alexandra Fairlie claims Baranov an’ Sheila Bloom knew about it.’
The DI nodded gravely.
‘Well, that’s motive for murder, ain’t it … if they panicked about their secret getting out?’
‘It’s one possibility.’
‘But hold on…’ Noakes’s hair now stuck straight up all over his head, for he was prone to rumple it wildly in moments of deep cogitation. ‘With ballet folk, sex is like musical chairs… They’re not going to get all steamed up about the odd shag… I mean, it’s no big deal to them, is it?’
‘It looked like a big deal to Alexandra Fairlie.’
‘Baranov would’ve been dead chuffed if her marriage was in trouble … meant he’d have her all to himself again…’
‘He also had a deep chivalric devotion to Ms Fairlie … it could have led to a confrontation with Paul Gayle and Isobel Kent.’ Markham’s tone gathered conviction. ‘And don’t forget there was already a history of bitterness between himself and Gayle.’
‘Plus Burton said he an’ Kent weren’t getting on.’
‘That’s right, there were professional tensions… And now the risk of Baranov or Bloom spilling the beans about the affair.’
‘Didn’t Fairlie already know? I mean, she said in the cemetery that she’d sussed ’em…’
‘I had the impression she’d only just put it together… They could’ve been terrified it was all going to come out. It suited Gayle to stay married to Alexandra – can’t imagine him wanting to lose her to Baranov. He and Isobel didn’t need that kind of negative publicity, so I reckon they’d have been desperate to keep the relationship under wraps.’
Noakes puffed and blew like a labouring steam engine. ‘Where’d Brian Shaw come into it? An’ what about the letters that were stolen?’
‘Something upset Shaw when we were at Baranov’s house,’ the DI said musingly. ‘Upset him very badly…’
‘Summat to do with them two, Guv?’
‘Shaw could’ve been onto the affair and thought they’d broken into Baranov’s desk to remove anything personal.’ Markham weighed the hypothesis. ‘At any rate, we know the
murderer – or murderers – called on him later the same night… “You did it up to the hilt and broke my heart”.’
‘Eh?’
‘Shaw quoted those words in his journal – they were practically the last thing he wrote.’
‘Could’ve been remembering summat Baranov or a boyfriend said to him. Or p’raps it was just a random line from somewhere…’
‘But he wrote that he was worried about something terrible happening … and that ties in with something Eddie Bissell said about overhearing a shouting match between Mr Baranov and someone who sounded like they had a grudge.’
‘Mebbe it was Alexandra Fairlie who said that stuff about being heartbroken … she could’ve pinched the letters an’ all.’
‘True. So could Ivan Plucis for that matter … or anyone who had “issues” with Mr Baranov and Sheila Bloom…’
Markham summarized what he had learned from Brian Shaw’s diary.
‘In other words, half the company could’ve wanted ’em dead,’ Noakes concluded gloomily. ‘What a frigging snake pit.’
Markham saw no reason to dispute this analogy.
‘I imagine we’re surprised because we think dancers are above that kind of nastiness,’ he said.
‘Don’t you fucking believe it, mate!’
The stagehand – short and grizzled – grinned at them. Markham couldn’t help grinning back.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked courteously.
‘Well, we’re always there for ’em, right? But they treat us just like the furniture.’
He leaned against the stable door for all the world as though he was about to order a pint, thought Markham.
‘We chivvy ’em along when they’re nervous … tell ’em their new eyelashes are great … fetch and carry … hand out sweets … even catch ’em in the wings sometimes.’
‘I take it you feel underappreciated.’
‘Too right. All we ever get back’s complaints. The lights are too hot. There’s too much snow. The stage is too slippery. The props aren’t placed right.’ He sighed gustily. ‘An’ it’s not just the girls neither. That Romanian’s a right prat. I remember one night he wouldn’t stop practising onstage during the interval when me and one of the others wanted to move scenery. In the end, we just picked up the portable barre with him hanging on to it.’ His smile nearly split his face. ‘Mr Baranov thought that was hysterical, nearly died laughing.’
Suddenly he recollected himself and said sheepishly. ‘Sorry, no disrespect, but it was really funny.’ He chuckled. It was the deep phlegmy laugh of a smoker. ‘Then there was another time when Harry dropped his trousers and mooned at him just when he was about to go on for some big love duet thing.’
‘Got a good view of Harry’s piles, did he?’
The garrulous stagehand looked gratified that Noakes was entering into the spirit of the thing.
‘Very good, mate,’ he barked.
‘Presumably Mr Baranov tore a strip off this Harry.’ Markham was quite curious to know the answer.
‘Not him!’ Another smile of genuine affection. ‘He got on really well with all us stagehands. Old sparring partners we were.’
‘What about Mr Murphy? Was there the same camaraderie with him?’ Markham asked.
The other pulled a face.
‘You can speak freely, sir. This goes no further.’
‘That tub of lard,’ the stagehand said scornfully. ‘Looked like a side of half-cured ham whenever he put on his tuxedo.’
‘I take it you’re not a fan,’ Markham observed wryly.
‘Dead slimy to Mr Baranov’s face he was … but I know behind his back he called him a perv.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I heard him telling the other stage manager – the young lad – that he’d seen Mr B holding some young girl’s foot and stroking it. She was telling him it was weaker than the other one an’ he was slobbering over her. “Oh dear, but you know if it was a beautiful foot, you’d be perfect.”’
‘Indeed.’
‘An’ he complained Mr B was always holding the girls’ hands … gazing into their eyes an’ repeating their names like some sort of spell.’
A tactic to make the other women in his life jealous perhaps? Or simply George Baranov’s way with women? Doubtless a combination of the two.
Romantic. Or dangerous.
‘Did he raise his concerns with Mr Baranov?’
‘Most prob’ly. But he wouldn’t have got very far. Mr B would’ve told him where to get off,’ their informant said comfortably. ‘He couldn’t stand Murphy. Looked at him like he’d crawled out from under a stone… I can see him now tilting his head back an’ looking down his nose at him.’
It sounded very much as though Ted Murphy’s days with the company might have been numbered. Clearly the stage manager resented Baranov’s extraordinary sway over women. The choreographer was commander, chieftain, caliph and sun king of a worshipful clique. Lesser mortals could never hope to emulate such charisma, Murphy least of all.
‘What about the assistant stage manager … Mr Porter?’
‘Jake’s a nice fella. Good fun once he loosens up.’ A roll of the eyes. ‘The wardrobe lady and Mr B caught him gallivanting at the barre one time. One of the ballerinas – the one with the red hair – was putting him through his paces for fun. “Stand up in first position – heels together, toes pointed, bottom in.” They just collapsed laughing but you could see Mr B didn’t like it. She was his girl, see, that red-haired one. He had a go at Jake for that in front of everyone, the wardrobe woman too.’ The stagehand shrugged his shoulders philosophically. ‘Jake didn’t need telling twice.’
‘Any problems with over-enthusiastic fans?’ Markham enquired.
‘You mean that bloke who’s got the hots for the redhead?’ The stagehand scratched his head. ‘In this game, there’s always fruit and nuts hanging round … you get used to ’em… If you’re asking me whether he might turn nasty … to be honest with you, I couldn’t say.’ He gave a cheeky wink. ‘She gets off on all the attention, if you ask me.’
‘Any issues with health and safety?’ Noakes enquired with elaborate nonchalance. ‘Scenery collapsing on someone? Lights fusing? Things going pop?’
A wary expression came over their companion’s face. ‘Nothing to speak of, gents… I mean, now and again folk get a bit careless … but nothing major.’
At that moment, there came the sound of a crash from inside the auditorium.
‘Right, I’d better hop it. Sounds like they may be needing me in there.’
With a cheery wave, their new-found acquaintance disappeared.
‘Sounds like the serfs didn’t know their place,’ Noakes grunted.
‘Hmm.’ Markham ruminated. ‘I bet none of that found its way into Doyle’s interviews with the technical staff.’
‘Sounds as if it wasn’t just the dancers who had gripes.’
‘True.’ Wearily, Markham massaged his temples, feeling that he was sinking deeper and deeper into a quagmire.
‘What if someone did a poison pen number on Baranov? Or was trying to blackmail him?’
The DI stared. Overcome with confusion, Noakes turned red and mumbled, ‘Sorry, that’s a daft idea, Guv.’
‘No,’ Markham said firmly, ‘you could well be onto something there, Sergeant. At all events, we can’t rule anything out and, as you say, there were rumblings “below stairs”.’
He pinched his temples once again, as if by that means the way forward would become clearer.
‘At least there aren’t any grieving families to visit.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Mr Baranov’s ex, Diana Adams, is in a care home. Neither Sheila Bloom nor Brian Shaw had any family living … or at least none that we can trace.’ He sighed. ‘Sad, but I can’t help feeling grateful.’
‘What’s the plan now, Guv?’
‘I just need to show my face at this rehearsal or whatever it is and make a short announcement about Brian Sha
w.’
‘My missus is in there.’
Which doubtless had something to do with Noakes’s unusual altruism in manning the stage door.
‘Excellent, Sergeant. I know her powers of observation are exceptionally acute.’
Too bloody acute for comfort.
‘Where’s Kate?’
Noakes jerked a thumb in the direction the stagehand had taken.
‘She’s in there too, drinking it all up an’ getting autographs,’ he said deadpan.
‘And Doyle?’
The DS smirked. ‘Not really his scene.’ At a sharp look from the DI, he hastily added, ‘I’ve got him checking Sheila Bloom’s finances. If she was hard up, then maybe she tried to blackmail the killer.’
Good, that was more like it.
Noakes cleared his throat, usually the prelude to some dodge or other.
‘There’s a buffet this evening in the theatre foyer, Guv. All very last minute. Sort of tribute. Ned Chester’s coming from the Gazette.’
‘We better drop in on that, then. Take the emotional temperature… See if we get any leads.’
The DI didn’t sound optimistic, but Noakes visibly perked up at the prospect of free food. He couldn’t be doing with goulash or whatever weird grub they served at Baranov’s wake, but the theatre would most likely put on a half decent spread…
‘And Noakes, I want some more uniforms around in case Roger Miller decides to show. According to Brian Shaw’s journal, there was a fire in the theatre last month.’
‘Arson?’ The DS patted his paunch complacently. ‘I knew that stagehand was keeping shtum about summat … looked dead shifty when I asked about health an’ safety.’
‘Apparently Ted Murphy was keen to finger Miller.’
‘Murphy!’ The DS sounded disgusted. ‘That lazy git doesn’t know his arse from his elbow… Like as not, it was all down to him in the first place.’
‘Well, I’m not taking any chances. It’s only thanks to the DCI pulling strings that the theatre’s not been closed for the foreseeable. I don’t want any glitches tonight.’
The two men made their way towards the auditorium.
Markham felt a whoosh of cold air as though somewhere behind them a door had swung shut.
But when he looked around, no-one was there.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 92