Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Eventually Eddie Bissell left the children to Marguerite Aroldingen who moved them into the centre of the stage.

  ‘Those are our toy soldiers and snowflakes, officers.’ Bissell’s gaunt features had shed some of their earlier strain. ‘I know the old saying goes “never work with children or animals”, but I think they’ll do us proud.’

  ‘I’m sure they will, sir,’ Markham said kindly, pity stirring as he remembered the events of the morning. Bissell looked wiped out, but there were only days to go before curtain up.

  He hated to puncture the mood, but there was no choice.

  ‘Could you please gather the dancers together for me, sir? I’d suggest one of the studios… I have a brief announcement.’

  Bissell’s shoulders drooped as though he had the weight of the world on them, but he responded with his usual quiet courtesy. ‘Of course, Inspector. I’ll see to it right away.’

  In Studio 1 they found members of the corps busily whirling about, absorbed in their routines, many of them still swathed in multiple layers. Clearly dancers loved to sweat, Markham reflected. Presumably it lubricated the machinery.

  As he watched, the DI pondered the question of sex.

  Easy to see why Paul Gayle and Isobel Kent might have slipped into a liaison.

  Dancers must breathe hard into each other’s faces, he thought, must bathe and slither in each other’s sweat. The girl has to split her legs for him without any false modesty, her partner’s hand burrowing wherever it will to secure the grip he needs to stall or haul or lift or propel or pivot her. Good dancers presumably become so familiar with the smell and feel and sheer proximity of one another that sex can seem, in the event, a mere detail – something already half enacted…

  Unobserved by her boss, Kate Burton was watching him intently – the enigmatic DI with the lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead and the meditative poet’s gaze.

  She felt a guilty pang at the thought of Colin, her fiancé, a DS in Fraud. Nice dependable curly-haired Colin of whom her parents (especially her father) thoroughly approved and whose rapid rise to the higher echelons of CID seemed assured. She knew he was a good man. She knew – everyone said it – they were a good fit. She knew that Markham would never think of her in that way… So why couldn’t she get the better of this crush? He was so reclusive, he would never let her into his life… She had to get the better of this … this obsession with her boss. The long-awaited professional rapport couldn’t be disturbed by her restless emotions, she swore.

  Christ, she’s at it again. Noakes knew that look on Burton’s face. If the boss so much as chucked her a compliment, they’d need the resuscitation squad.

  What was it about the ballet? Even Doyle had a gormless little-boy-lost look, and he usually had his head screwed on right.

  Had to be sex, he concluded glumly. Dance giving folks ideas. Mind, it was never like that with the missus and himself…

  The DS pulled himself up with a jolt, having travelled down a path where he had no desire to linger.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Markham’s authority was such, that he did not even need to raise his voice. ‘Your attention, please.’

  Compassionately, he told them that Brian Shaw had died ‘following a tragic incident at his home.’ Calmly surveying the youthful faces upturned to his, he added, ‘I’m not in a position to say more at the moment. I would urge you just to go on doing your best, as your colleague would have wanted.’

  He had struck the right note and Marguerite Aroldingen nodded approvingly.

  ‘Right,’ she said to the corps, ‘we’ve got the orchestra coming in tomorrow, but for now we’ll make do with my boogie box.’ She gestured to the rather battered CD player she was carrying, eliciting laughter and some ironical cheers. ‘Positions for the party scene please.’

  The ballet mistress went across to the crop-haired pianist Markham had seen at the earlier class and said something. The woman walked over to them and introduced herself. ‘I’m Hilda Gaunt. The principals are practising next door in Studio 2. You might find it interesting to watch from the gallery. Shouldn’t be too long, because Marguerite will be needing them shortly.’

  They followed her up a flight of stairs recessed into the left-hand corridor alcove and found themselves in a loft space of the same dimensions as the gallery which overlooked the other studio. It had two rows of tip-up wooden seats, a bit like a lecture theatre.

  They filed into the front row, Markham taking the seat next to the pianist who, rather off-puttingly, reeked of nicotine. He was willing to bet it wasn’t the high-quality brand Marguerite Aroldingen favoured.

  For a few minutes, no-one spoke, content to watch Alexandra Fairlie and Ivan Plucis who were rehearsing to the somewhat tinny accompaniment of a CD soundtrack.

  ‘She must have steel pins for legs,’ breathed Doyle eventually, dazzled by the ballerina’s sinuous athleticism.

  ‘That’s a good way of putting it.’ Hilda Gaunt appeared gratified by his interest.

  ‘He’s incredible too.’ Burton’s eyes followed the flashing streaks of vivid movement with something approaching awe.

  ‘You’d never guess those two have an almost chemical dislike of each other,’ the pianist said with a wry smile.

  ‘And yet they look so harmonious together,’ Markham observed, watching Plucis support his partner in arabesque.

  ‘Well, they’re both professionals, and they try hard to make the performances work for people who’ve paid for their tickets.’

  ‘What was the problem between them, Ms Gaunt?’

  ‘Oh, competitiveness, immaturity … the usual. What made it worse was Mr B being such an outstanding partner. His skills in that respect were pretty much unparalleled despite his age. I can see him now saying, “Look how well Alex and I fit together”. Poor Ivan would stand there watching with a strained expression while Mr B demonstrated the partnering with greater ease, grace and confidence than even the tallest and strongest men… It must have been demoralizing.’

  Not least if Plucis managed to regain the ascendancy while Alexandra Fairlie was away, only to find himself right back at square one when she returned from exile.

  ‘When it happened in front of the whole company, it made him a bit of a laughing stock. Mind you, laughing at Ivan Plucis was something you soon learned to do on the other side of your face.’

  Was Hilda Gaunt trying to hint at something dark lurking beneath the Romanian dancer’s handsome exterior, Markham wondered.

  ‘What’s Alexandra’s role in Nutcracker?’ enquired Burton.

  ‘Clara, the young girl who morphs into a princess.’ Hilda Gaunt laughed. It was a low unmusical chuckle with an almost malevolent inflection. ‘Alex can do virginity like no-one else.’

  Markham raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It was the quality which made her so special to Baranov, Inspector … that freshness. It meant that she belonged to him on some sort of symbolic level – sort of frozen within the form he moulded for her.’

  Like the sculptor’s Galatea. Perhaps the only truly meaningful union someone like George Baranov could ever forge was with someone who shared not his bed but his dreams. And perhaps others could not fathom that rapture had a realm beyond the bedroom, and that for Baranov, whatever might have taken place behind closed doors could never compare with what happened on stage in front of their eyes.

  The DI pressed together the tips of his long slender fingers, watching the dancers thoughtfully.

  ‘Nutcracker’s a stuffy old period piece.’ Hilda Gaunt interrupted his thoughts. ‘Like aesthetic taxidermy really. But Mr B gave it new life… And now it’s down to Marguerite to pull it all together.’

  Show (must-go-on) business.

  ‘Is Ms Aroldingen up to the job?’

  ‘Oh, she’s tough as old boots. Deals with anyone who breaks company ranks as ruthlessly as any KGB commissar.’

  Ruthless. A new perspective on the company’s ballet mistress.

  ‘I u
nderstand she and Mr Baranov were together for a time, but he didn’t treat her very well.’

  ‘She laughed it off, Inspector, but I’m sure she was very hurt by it.’ A pause. ‘Mr B could be very naughty. But the man was so great, one just put up with all the other stuff.’

  We all have our limits, Markham thought. The strongest of us can run out of emotional resources. Now seeming sweet, convert to bitterest gall…

  ‘Marguerite’s got a great way of getting through life. If she can’t cope with something – a relationship, a problem, whatever – if she doesn’t solve it by the end of the day, it goes into a box, the box goes into a cupboard, the cupboard is locked and the key thrown away.’

  ‘I could do with some of that,’ Markham quipped charmingly.

  They continued to watch, though from the way Noakes was wriggling, Markham deduced that the DS was growing restive.

  ‘No sign of Isobel Kent,’ the DI commented.

  ‘Oh, she’ll be along in due course. She and Alex are alternating the main and lead soloist parts, so she’ll need her practice time. They’re rivals, but Isobel thrives on the competition … she needs that flick of the whip.’

  ‘I believe she was another one of Mr Baranov’s girlfriends.’

  ‘Not in any serious sense … not like with Marguerite.’ The pianist was getting fidgety, rubbing her thumb and index finger together. No doubt she was desperate for a cigarette. ‘Though she certainly tried to capitalize on it … always badgering Mr B for roles.’ A harsh yelp. ‘He was more than a match for her. “Sorry, dear, God says no.”’

  ‘Were you at the funeral this morning, Ms Gaunt?’

  ‘Yes, and I saw what happened between Isobel and Paul Gayle, if that’s what you’re driving at.’ Her lips twitched. ‘Mr B would have liked it.’

  ‘Alexandra didn’t seem too happy, though.’

  ‘No … but let’s face it, she was a semi-detached wife, so hardly surprising if Paul looked for comfort elsewhere. That whole weird set-up with Alex and Mr B must’ve messed with his head.’

  Could it have led to murder? The question hammered insistently in Markham’s brain.

  ‘When you say Alexandra was semi-detached, could she have looked elsewhere … taken up with an admirer?’

  ‘You mean Roger Miller.’ The woman’s tone was matter of fact, though a small shudder escaped her.

  Markham was quick to notice.

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘Don’t really know him that well, Inspector, but there’s something not right there… He’s a lecturer on nineteenth century history at the university. All wild, romantic, soaring, out of control – oceans booming, horses galloping… And Alex let herself be swept away by it all, though I’m not sure how far things went… He’s definitely crazy about her, but some of the behaviour’s quite freaky – copying her picture with tracing paper and bringing it to her to sign, stuff like that. Mr B laughed at it, but I know for a fact that Mr Bissell was worried. He asked me to keep an eye on Alex, but it wasn’t really my place and, to be honest, I could understand why she became reckless… The thing with Mr B made her resentful … fed up of having to account for her movements all the time. If Alex did get it on with Roger, then it was probably a one-off.’ She shuddered again. ‘He’d suck the life out of her.’

  It was a disturbingly vampiric image.

  ‘Did you have much to do with Sheila Bloom?’ Markham asked obliquely.

  ‘Not to speak of,’ came the breezy reply. The pianist was clearly relieved to be done with the subject of Alexandra Fairlie’s admirer. ‘Bit hoity-toity was Sheila.’ Hilda Gaunt broke off, looking embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Inspector, that just slipped out. I’m pretty much plankton level… Sheila was mostly off with Mr B and Mr Bissell.’

  ‘No harm done, Ms Gaunt.’ Markham liked her outspoken frankness. ‘Will you be at the buffet this evening?’

  ‘Not me,’ was the forthright reply. ‘I’ve got an urgent date with a nice bottle of red and a box set.’

  The pianist looked at her watch.

  ‘Isobel really should have been here by now… Though come to think of it, I heard one of the corps saying something about an interview…’

  The DI’s antennae were instantly alert.

  ‘An interview?’

  ‘I think she was going to let one of the local rags do some sort of feature … very low-key … a reporter had been pestering her to do an interview.’ Noticing the look on Markham’s face, she added uncertainly, ‘Though perhaps in the circumstances it wasn’t such a good idea.’

  Swiftly, he adjusted his features. ‘No doubt just giving the local newshounds a sprinkle of seasonal stardust,’ he said lightly.

  Hilda Gaunt was reassured.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’m off to see if Mr Bissell needs me for anything. Otherwise I’m calling it a day.’

  ‘Thank you for talking to us, Ms Gaunt. Not least for giving us a flavour of the ballet world.’

  The woman was clearly pleased. ‘Any time, Inspector.’ She moved along the end of the row to the top of the stairs. ‘D’you know, in Victorian theatres they opened the grilles in the roof during the interval to let air in… When they were opened, everyone’s hats and programmes flew up in the air.’ It was an arresting picture and one that clearly tickled her fancy.

  With a mischievous smile, the pianist was gone.

  Down below, the music had stopped and the two principals were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I’m going to give Ned Chester a call,’ Markham said grimly, reaching for his mobile.

  ‘You don’t think he’s got anything to do with this interview with Isobel Kent, sir?’

  ‘No, Kate, but hopefully he’ll know something about it. If we’re lucky, I might be in time to get it pulled.’

  ‘You reckon it might cause trouble, Guv?’

  Markham’s face was very sombre.

  ‘More than that, Noakes, I’m afraid it might get her killed.’

  12. Spectre at the Feast

  BACK IN THE POLICE cubbyhole cum incident room, Markham put down his mobile with a thunderous expression.

  ‘Spilled her guts then has she, Guv?’

  ‘It would appear so, Noakes. A gossipy two-page spread in today’s Courier.’ The DI’s eyes were emitting sparks. ‘Ned’s got a copy. He said he’ll send it through … just as soon as I give him a fax number.’

  ‘There’s a fax machine in Eddie Bissell’s office upstairs, sir.’ Burton was on her feet. ‘I’ll call Ned right now.’

  ‘Thanks, Kate.’

  The DI felt a wave of furious exasperation rise like nausea to his lips.

  ‘What could have possessed the stupid woman?’ he muttered.

  Noakes and Doyle looked at each other, uncertain whether this was a rhetorical question.

  The DC cleared his throat. ‘You reckon this means trouble, boss?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Constable. Let’s just say, I think Isobel Kent may have put a match to the pyre.’

  ‘Ain’t she a suspect, Guv?’

  ‘Yes. Along with everyone else in this benighted company.’ Long fingers drummed an impatient tattoo on the arm of his chair. ‘But it’s complex … and something like this could be incendiary.’

  ‘As in send one of ’em over the edge?’

  ‘Precisely, Sergeant. To say nothing of whipping up a media storm which is the very last thing we need right now.’

  ‘Whatcha want us to do next, Guv?’

  ‘Chase the PM report on Brian Shaw for me, Noakes. It’ll say carbon monoxide poisoning rather than strangulation, but at least we’ll know where we stand.’ Markham’s head was beginning to throb alarmingly. Suddenly, he just wanted to be on his own so he could absorb Isobel Kent’s lunacy in private as opposed to bursting a blood vessel in front of his subordinates.

  ‘C’mon, Doyle.’ Like a seasoned meteorologist, Noakes knew the signs. ‘Let’s check out the arrangements for this evening … with that doorkeeper pulling a sickie, we need to so
rt security.’

  ‘Here you go, sir.’

  Markham picked up the fax as though handling a lump of pure plutonium.

  ‘Thanks, Kate. Just give me ten minutes or so to get my head round this and then we can have a think about the implications.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I take it you’ve had a quick peek?’

  The DS blushed.

  ‘From your apprehensive expression, I take it Isobel Kent hasn’t pulled any punches.’

  ‘Well, it looks like she’s been quite indiscreet, sir. The Courier played a blinder … must’ve caught her on the raw…’

  ‘And waved an open chequebook in front of her.’ The DI groaned softly. ‘Right, I’ll take a look. In the meantime, see if you can pin down Ms Kent’s whereabouts and make sure one of the stage crew stays with her at all times.’

  ‘She and Ivan Plucis are doing a turn this evening, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘After the buffet. Some sort of “entertainment”. They’re going first, and then Plucis is partnering Alexandra Fairlie. It’s just a couple of short pieces … you know, to give the sponsors their money’s worth.’ Burton drew herself up with self-conscious pride. ‘They call it a divertissement.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, I want eyes on the dancers at all times, is that understood?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘Is Paul Gayle performing in this one-off or whatever it is?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir.’

  ‘Try to find out. I want tabs kept on him too.’

  ‘Got it, sir.’

  Burton moved smartly to the door, casting a last glance at the dark head bent frowningly over Isobel Kent’s exposé. Like the boss, she had a bad feeling about this…

  Isobel Kent had certainly gone running off at the mouth. Her disclosures, racily entitled Doe-eyed Dancer Lifts the Lid on Baranov, fairly crackled with hissy subtext in a way that could only prove monumentally embarrassing to the keepers of George Baranov’s flame. To say nothing of the grandees at English National Ballet.

  There was a complete empathy between Alexandra Fairlie and Mr B which made for a kind of hypnotic witchcraft. The problem is, he became obsessed with giving her characteristics to everyone and replicating his princess everywhere – even down to her pale complexion – which demoralized a lot of the dancers. He was so infatuated that he actually allowed her to choose which ballets would be on the programme and who would dance them. Understandable if it turned her head.