Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  Kent certainly knew how to stick the knife in, thought Markham. The sound bites zinged along at such a rate that he fancied the Courier had been granted a fair degree of editorial licence.

  Mr B had always played games in which he set the rules. He identified future stars very early, holding their hands and patting their heads. All these little ten-year-olds were breaking their hearts for him and he just lapped it up. A young dancer might receive lead roles if she allowed him to fondle her in private… But with Alexandra, it was a fixation.

  There it was. The suggestion that Baranov was a sexual predator, if not a paedophile.

  He didn’t really respect women. Didn’t think women were capable of engaging him with ideas, or understanding his Russian background. He was quite an autocrat and liked female dancers to look anorexic. He was always thumping on my sternum and down my rib cage. “I want to see the bones,” he used to say. It was a sort of concentration camp aesthetic.

  Baranov cast as a misogynist and bully.

  It was terribly sad because, you see, in some ways he was beyond superlatives. An absolute genius who performed an autopsy on what he saw as the corpse of classical ballet … though the jury’s still out on whether that was a good thing or not. His conception of dance aimed to replace personality with a more abstract ideal of physical movement. Even when he designed works with plot and character, the drama was distilled and passion suppressed. He didn’t want anyone stealing the thunder from his choreography, almost as though he aimed to make his ballets “dancer-proof”. No-one could be allowed to outshine him.

  Damned with faint praise.

  There was no free discussion. “Don’t ask why it must be like this. Don’t analyze. Just do it. Maybe better no rehearsal. Like cold water – just jump in!” Mr B was really difficult about dancers taking class with anyone except him, as if it was paganism and worshipping private gods! He could be terribly cutting and sarcastic too. Like when I was about to go on and he’d tell me I looked constipated or that he could see my moustache. I mean, there were times I just wanted to crawl inside one of my toe shoes and sleep forever.

  She certainly had the mantra of victimhood off pat.

  In general, I think male dancers had it easier with Mr B because men are less malleable and more inflexible.

  A dollop of cod psychology to counterbalance the froth.

  But the men were undermined too and then they coasted – either became injured or lazy. Mr B’s emphasis on the ballerina took a toll … it sort of emasculated them.

  The DI could only imagine Ivan Plucis’ likely reaction to this castration in print.

  Mr B had a real distaste for stars and “dream teams”. He saw himself as Icarus, the only one who could fly to the sun.

  And we all know what happened to Icarus.

  If Mr B took against you, that was it, you were finished. Paul Gayle got the big freeze after he married Alexandra Fairlie, and it very nearly destroyed him, even though all he’d done was fall in love and rescue Alex from an impossible situation. She was pretty much going out of her mind at the time because she felt caged and desperately needed to talk to someone who was outside the situation and could reassure her she wasn’t crazy… She was always being watched by Mr B’s goons, so everything had to be cloak and dagger. Paul had a very tough few years and Mr B wouldn’t take him back even though he eventually made up with Alex.

  Pre-emptive strike.

  At least the piece steered clear of the murder investigation, though there was some distasteful speculation about groupies.

  Colleagues fell at Mr B’s feet like ninepins. I can think of several women who were desperate to have a romantic affair with him. Whenever he looked at them, they seemed to be rejuvenated as though they had splashed in the waters of a magic fountain.

  The Mills & Boon purple prose elicited a reluctant chuckle from Markham.

  Then there were the eunuchs. The men who never got over him. Pathetic creatures of thwarted dreams. All hoping to be “Mrs Baranov” while he played them like a fiddle.

  Poor Brian Shaw. It was a cruel dismissal.

  There was an extended panegyric to Isobel Kent’s qualities as a dancer which concluded thus:

  No fey sprite this. It’s been said she’s the only ballerina who makes you restless for a woman.

  With her sexpot credentials firmly established, the piece ended on a note of winsome vulnerability.

  At the end of a performance, it’s off with the Sugar Plum Fairy’s tiara. Off with the mascara. The paint and powder. Then, with her practice bag slung over her narrow shoulder, the ballerina wanders off into the misty drizzle of Bromgrove. Stage people pay for coming out in the limelight by going home in the rain.

  As Noakes might have said, pass the sick bag.

  Next to the text were two grainy pictures of a tutued Kent, eyes modestly cast down, and George Baranov, looking into the distance as though his gaze would pierce space.

  Perhaps the article wasn’t too bad, Markham thought, though a vengeful stench hung over it like a pall.

  He scanned the print once again.

  Had he missed anything in his lightning perusal?

  No, that was it, apart from a survey of Kent’s “career highlights” and her thoughts on Baranov’s choreography for Nutcracker, plus a lame anecdote about some male dancer who’d cornered Baranov in a classroom, only for his passionate declaration to be ruined when the choreographer’s pet dog ran in and pooped all over the floor. Apparently, the hapless suitor had improvised a sweeping gesture and covered the unsightly mess with his scarf, but the mood was broken.

  God, it was poor taste for the Courier to print this guff on the day of Baranov’s funeral, though no doubt helpful in terms of drumming up publicity prior to curtain up.

  A gentle knock at the door interrupted his reflections.

  ‘Come in, Kate.’

  ‘What did you make of it, sir?’

  ‘Well, she’s planted her stiletto between George Baranov’s shoulder blades all right.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Pretty nasty really. I mean, the man worked wonders with ENB – completely turned its fortunes around – and was incredibly generous to dancers who needed help. But this … well, it makes him sound like a creepy old letch with a taste for underage girls.’

  ‘And almost singlehandedly responsible for an outbreak of anorexia into the bargain.’

  ‘Isobel Kent’s a real bitch on wheels,’ Burton concluded.

  ‘On pointe shoes at any rate.’

  They exchanged a smile of rueful complicity.

  The DI looked down at the fax.

  ‘There was something in here about Baranov’s production of The Nutcracker being controversial. Kent rabbits on about “sinister overtones” and “forbidden fantasies”.’ His expression was faintly quizzical. ‘What’s that all about? Presumably she’s having a dig.’

  Burton was touchingly delighted to turn pedagogue.

  ‘In the traditional version of the ballet, there’s a character called Drosselmeyer. He’s the heroine’s elderly godfather as well as a doll-maker. He gives her a toy nutcracker and … well, to cut a long story short, the nutcracker turns into handsome prince and takes her off to the Kingdom of Sweets.’

  ‘Sounds pretty innocuous to me.’

  ‘But you see, sir, Baranov’s version has Drosselmeyer – the old man – turn into the dream hero … sort of makes his relationship with the heroine more incestuous and forbidden.’

  ‘Not to mention paedophiliac.’

  ‘Some critics think it’s much truer to the original source from The Tales of Hoffmann – apparently that’s pretty weird and disturbing… Baranov’s also done lots of clever stuff round the theme of childhood fears and dreams.’

  ‘But Isobel Kent’s not really highlighting the innovative choreography, is she?’

  ‘No, it’s more like shorthand for saying Baranov’s a paedo.’

  Markham was back to looking thunderous.

  ‘Did
you mean what you said earlier, sir?’ the DS enquired timidly. ‘That she might end up getting herself killed?’

  A draught suddenly whistled beneath the door, making them both shiver.

  ‘We’re dealing with a dangerously unhinged personality here, Kate… By giving this interview, Isobel Kent may have opened the door to a devil.’ His voice very low, he added so softly that she could barely hear him, ‘I believe he’s inside already.’

  ‘What do you need me to do, sir?’

  Burton’s face suddenly looked curiously pinched and defenceless in the half-light.

  ‘You’ve done well, Kate. Make yourself a hot drink and then rustle up Noakes and Doyle.’

  He glanced at his watch. 4.30 p.m. It felt as if the day would never end.

  ‘What time does this shindig start?’

  ‘Six fifteen, sir. The dancers are due to do their stuff at seven.’

  ‘Right, I’ll just have a wander … stretch my legs,’ he said vaguely.

  Outside the theatre, an icy wind blew. It was bitterly cold and the building behind him loomed quiet as a tomb. The earlier snow had not stuck, though the leaden sky seemed somehow swollen with the promise of more to come. Perhaps this would deter the good people of Bromgrove from leaving their firesides…

  ‘If you can get through the twilight, you’ll live through the night,’ he muttered to himself as though it was a talisman.

  Then, shoulders hunched as though to confront an invisible enemy, he re-entered the building by the stage door.

  In the event, the buffet was well-attended. Markham recognized a sprinkling of local press. The sharks had scented blood in the water after Isobel Kent’s interview, he thought cynically. Ned Chester caught his eye but made no attempt to approach. Just as well given that DCI Sidney, exuding the usual oleaginous patina, was circling the canapés while dispensing well-practised pleasantries to Dame Margaret Tappertit and other local worthies. Heavy weather inside and out, thought the DI, watching the big wigs spray sausage roll over each other as they brayed comfortable inanities.

  He felt little inclination to join the party in the theatre foyer, preferring to watch from the sidelines. The lower his profile the better.

  At least the DCI’s presence was having a salutorily inhibiting effect on Noakes. Normally the DS behaved as though such events were an all-you-can-eat deal, but with Sidney in the offing, he was pecking away genteelly at assorted finger foods like a pensioner on an outing. Muriel Noakes, mercifully, left Markham alone, save for the bestowal of sundry significant winks and nods to indicate that she considered herself a favoured confidante.

  Paul Gayle was present, in the same dark attire he had worn for the funeral. He and Isobel Kent, elegant in a cashmere jersey dress, studiously ignored each other, but it was an act that fooled no-one. Alexandra Fairlie’s face was set like flint; she stood in a huddle with Marguerite Aroldingen and Ivan Plucis, declining to mix with the hoi polloi. None of the dancers appeared keen to rub shoulders with the press. Well, that ship had well and truly sailed…

  Markham felt tired and chill. Unnervingly, he couldn’t shake the impression that Baranov was there watching them…

  Catching Kate Burton’s eye, he imperceptibly jerked his head towards the door which led to the administrator’s office upstairs and sidled out.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘It all seems to be under control. Presumably Ted Murphy’s somewhere about?’

  The DS grimaced. ‘Busy terrorizing that poor assistant backstage and bawling at the technicians. Doyle’s keeping an eye.’

  ‘To be honest, I just fancied escaping for a few minutes, Kate.’

  Her expression was sympathetic, Markham’s distaste for the rubber chicken circuit being notorious.

  ‘There’s some interesting pictures upstairs on the landing next to the administrator’s office, sir…’

  It was as good a way as any of killing time.

  ‘Lead on,’ he said, thinking how waifish she was with her solemn brown eyes and tip-tilted nose. When her eager beaver approach to life in CID did not happen to be exasperating, she could be unexpectedly soothing company.

  At the top of the stairs, they passed through double wooden doors which gave onto a corridor lined with framed photographs. Together they scrutinized the exhibits, Markham – despite himself – fascinated to see how the round-shouldered pudgy ballerinas in the early sepia pictures were gradually succeeded by far more streamlined specimens.

  As they reached the end of the corridor, Eddie Bissell came out of his office. Come to think of it, the DI hadn’t seen him in the foyer. Must have sneaked away from the crowd for some peace and quiet. After the day he’d had, Markham couldn’t blame him.

  They had come to the last two pictures in the line-up.

  The engraved plaque under the first read: Swan Lake, Act One Polonaise. It showed groups of young men elegantly posed, watched from the side by a character who was obviously the prince.

  ‘Isn’t the prince meant to have a thing for, well, swans?’

  Bissell laughed easily.

  ‘In the original fairy story, yes, Sergeant. But George favoured alternative choreography depicting a Siegfried who was undecided about his sexuality. In his version, the prince’s tutor tries to draw him into an all-male alternative world but he resists and opts for heterosexuality in the form of the swan queen Odette. However, he’s unable to shake himself free of the tutor’s magnetic influence. The tutor eventually gets his revenge by tricking Siegfried into being seduced by the evil Odile and destroying his chance of true happiness.’

  He smiled at their raised eyebrows.

  ‘So, not a fairy story but an allegory of latent homosexuality.’

  ‘It caused quite a stir at the time, Inspector, but that kind of psychosexual interpretation is pretty widely accepted now.’

  ‘There was an all-male Swan Lake, wasn’t there?’ Burton said eagerly.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Matthew Bourne’s production. He drew on George’s ideas quite heavily… You may remember the posters – all those bare-chested men in feather pants.’

  As it happened, Markham did.

  He looked back at the pictures with renewed curiosity.

  The caption under the second was: Swan Lake, The Triumph of Rothbart. The huge painted backdrop showed a lake in front of which stood a tall figure wearing a voluminous cape and what looked like an owl head mask with bulging eyes and proboscis. This figure held the swan queen triumphantly in its claws while the prince looked on with a wild staring expression in his eyes.

  ‘That’s Rothbart, the tutor’s evil alter ego,’ Bissell told them. ‘The whole ballet draws heavily on Freudian analysis.’

  Markham didn’t feel he was any the wiser, but the administrator was clearly so pleased to have the opportunity to reminisce about ENB’s past triumphs that it would have been heartless not to take an interest.

  ‘No happy ending, then?’ Burton said in a small voice, clearly somewhat disconcerted by all the sex talk.

  ‘Well, in the old Soviet version, the prince and the swan queen get married.’ Bissell’s face was inscrutable. ‘But George wanted something darker … more complex.’

  Sounds like he achieved his vision, thought Markham with one last look at the pictures.

  He turned back to the administrator.

  ‘This must be a very trying time for the company, Mr Bissell … made even more difficult by Isobel Kent’s decision to court press interest.’

  ‘Oh, dancers are very spoiled, greedy children, Inspector,’ the other said with a philosophical shrug. ‘Nature red in tooth and claw… You get used to it.’ He smiled wearily. ‘I remember once when I was watching a David Attenborough documentary with George … one of those Planet Earth things. There was a sequence which showed crocodiles in a feeding frenzy. Without missing a beat, George said, “English National Ballet.”’

  Burton laughed, surprised to find that this dried-up husk of a man, with his stoop like a
half-closed penknife, was quite entertaining.

  Bissell glanced at his watch.

  ‘We’d better be getting back down. Time for the “cultural” part of the evening,’ he said with semi-camp theatricality.

  ‘Did Mr Baranov enjoy occasions like this?’ Markham enquired as they made their way towards the stairs.

  ‘Oh, he always refused to smile at the press. I’d say, “Everyone smiles!” but it was still no go. “I am not everyone. I am myself. Only one person.”’ Wistfully, the administrator continued, ‘But he would handle everything with that inimitable panache… You know, greetings for the favoured few à la Russe – three kisses right, left and right again … then a zonking vodka martini and lots of mischievous gossip … maybe a few impersonations of ballet legends if he felt up to it … he was marvellous at that.’

  The DI felt a sudden spasm of compassion for their rail thin guide, wondering if there was anyone waiting at home to give him a welcome once his work at the theatre was over. His concern must have shown on his face.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Inspector. With age, you learn to live with yourself. You finally accept this marriage and you find your own company perfectly satisfactory. Actually, I find Tchaikovsky in any form, my companion of choice … more therapeutic than any medication.’

  It was a brave declaration, but looking at the worn face, Markham wasn’t entirely convinced. Lightly, he steered the conversation into easier channels.