This elicited a weak giggle as he had intended it should.
‘What’s the plan for today, sir?’
‘Interviews with all the company and stage crew to establish their movements last night.’ He grimaced. ‘Won’t get us anywhere, of course… The DCI’s made it clear this death gets filed under “tragic accident”… Methylated spirits, detergent, rubbing alcohol … they’ve got all of those knocking about backstage in a ballet company, so a mix-up could easily have occurred, a miracle it never happened before blah blah…’
‘You don’t believe that though, sir.’
‘Not for a moment.’ The DI’s face had the cold set look that denoted a stubborn determination to follow his own path regardless of edicts from above.
‘They’re going ahead with the production, you know.’
‘What?’ Markham was startled. ‘Without one of their principals?’
‘Marguerite Aroldingen rang me this morning. A soloist from ENB’s going to help them out.’
The DS paused, her expression troubled.
‘What is it, Kate?’
‘Alexandra Fairlie told me yesterday she’s had some poison pen letters.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Crazy stuff really. Words cut out of newspapers. “Evil whore.” “Witch.” “You drink men dry and leave them to die of weakness.”’
‘Straight out of the mad fan script book.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Could she be behind this herself? Attention seeking?’
‘Didn’t feel like it, sir. She seemed genuinely rattled.’
‘What about Roger Miller?’
‘Not his style, Guv … at least not unless something’s tipped him over the edge.’
Tension coiled in his stomach. ‘Get hold of the letters, Kate, and tell her we need to see anything else that comes to the theatre. Anything.’
This world of the ballet felt increasingly like some sort of surreal mirage where every lead, every potential clue, was destined to slip through his fingers.
Nothing is but what is not.
‘What do you make of Alexandra Fairlie?’
‘Well, it was always stormy between her and Isobel Kent, boss, especially after she rejoined the company… Fairlie said her technique was rusty to begin with – a grand jeté felt like flying to the moon was how she put it … like she had rigor mortis from the neck down. Anyway, in front of everyone, Kent sneered at her and said, “You’ve been in the kitchen too long.”’
‘Charming.’
‘Yeah, there was a lot of jealousy. It didn’t help that she gave an interview to Dancing Times not long after Fairlie made her comeback … talked about how ballet was becoming a production line for perfect acrobats. She said something like, “It takes a hell of a lot more than a pretty face or triple joints to make a great artist.” Everyone knew who she meant, because Fairlie was getting rave reviews for her gymnastic technique.’
Markham thought about Alexandra Fairlie’s appearance in rehearsal. In profile, she had shone with the allure of a Nefertiti, long legs and long neck making her appear even taller than she was. For all her grace, Isobel Kent’s cool beauty didn’t begin to compare.
Jealousy. Bad blood. And then Isobel Kent had seduced Paul Gayle from Alexandra’s side in what looked almost like an act of calculated revenge.
Had Fairlie finally lashed out at her tormentor and replaced that water bottle with white spirit? Had she intended merely to maim rather than kill? Was this tale of poison pen letters a diversionary tactic?
‘D’you think Alexandra Fairlie was behind what happened last night, Kate?’ he asked bluntly.
‘Even if she was, we won’t be able to prove it, boss.’
‘And what about the other three murders? Is she our killer?’
‘Well, she felt suffocated by Baranov … and by Sheila Bloom too. “Porcelain princess” was what Mr B called her. Captive princess more like… Maybe Brian Shaw guessed…’
‘Can you see her for it?’
‘I don’t know, boss.’ Burton chose her words carefully. ‘Fairlie’s not all sweetness and light, that’s for sure. Marguerite Aroldingen said she “played” Baranov, remember. And she could be unkind to him. Marguerite said there was one time she asked if another girl could stand in for her on a programme so she could have the evening off. His face really crumpled and he said, “But it’s very nice what I did for you!” It was quite callous because he had worked out her role with great care… He always made a ballet with one person in mind, and if another person was to dance it, he would change the steps. He never tried to make a dancer look like someone else.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Fairlie ripped Baranov apart, according to company gossip. Sounds like he had made up his mind he was never going to allow himself to be so miserable again.’
‘And never allow her the same degree of influence.’
‘That too.’
Pity for George Baranov found its way under the DI’s ribs and stayed with him.
‘I don’t think Baranov was some sort of pervert like Isobel Kent hinted in that interview,’ Burton said suddenly, as though intuiting his thoughts. ‘Some of the girls in the corps described him as the perfect gentleman. They said he was “courtly” and really fussy when it came to partnering … right down to how a boy should take the girl’s hand. You know,’ to Markham’s amusement, the DS so far forgot herself as to demonstrate, ‘the fingers held gently over the top… He always said Fred Astaire was his ideal cos he always held his partner’s fingertips delicately.’
‘Fred Astaire, hey. Maybe ballet and Noakesy aren’t poles apart after all.’
The DS looked sceptical but politely refrained from commenting.
‘So, the corps girls figured Baranov was a gent.’
‘Yeah, sounded like it. A couple of them spoke as if he’d been like an older brother, or even a father… Looks like until the end of his life he avoided anything like a normal family situation, boss. Women, yes. Real wives, no. Kids, never. He couldn’t really do human relationships… But with the dancers he found some sort of family.’
‘What about the boys? I mean, Ivan Plucis and Paul Gayle couldn’t exactly be described as fans.’
‘There were definitely problems on that front. One of the male soloists said it was a case of swallowing hard and putting up with what Baranov dished out … they had to carry round any feelings of pain and rejection because they couldn’t express them to his face. I mean, even Eddie Bissell had a rollercoaster ride with him.’
Markham smiled.
‘I enjoyed that picture tour Mr Bissell gave us.’
The DS grinned. ‘Difficult to imagine those old ballerinas as stars, what with their big busts and behinds and their corsets and all that hair piled up with feathers in it…’
‘Quite extraordinary how ballet’s evolved,’ the DI agreed.
‘Marguerite Aroldingen says in a hundred years’ time there won’t be any ballet as we know it. She says we’d laugh if we saw any of the “greats” from that picture gallery dance now, and we’ve got to enjoy the present because today’s performers will go the same way.’
‘You took quite a shine to Ms Aroldingen, didn’t you, Kate?’ There was a teasing inflection in the DI’s voice as his haggard expression momentarily lifted.
‘She’s a great storyteller, boss. Brings it all to life. She was very funny describing one of ENB’s Swan Lakes back in the day. When Eddie Bissell came on as Rothbart – you know, the sorcerer – some kid at the front ended up on the floor underneath his seat. Kept screaming, “I don’t like that man!”’
‘Must’ve been quite a performance.’
‘The mother couldn’t stop apologizing afterwards. Said the kid thought he was more like an animal than a man and that’s what frightened him … he liked everyone else on stage, but Rothbart spooked him.’
‘I’d be scared of some bloke in a socking great owl costume too.’
‘Oh, Eddie took it i
n great part. He was a terrific character dancer apparently.’
‘When he wasn’t playing peacemaker,’ Markham observed drily.
‘He had a lot to put up with by all accounts,’ Burton laughed, ‘but he was with Baranov from the beginning… Even coped with that awful little mutt of his crapping all over the place.’
‘I hadn’t pegged Mr Baranov as a dog lover.’
‘Oh, he had a little wheezy pug called Nijinsky … suffered from some lung disorder like asthma, so every time he drew a breath it sounded like he was growling, and the more excited he got the more it sounded like he was growling.’
Nijinsky. Showed a nice sense of irony.
‘Like a little wind-up toy … people were always tripping over him. Drove everyone nuts. There was a story that did the rounds about him doing his business in a studio when some poor sod was in the middle of making passionate love to Baranov … nobody remembers who, but the dog’s antics must’ve put the mockers on it good and proper.’
The DI chuckled. ‘Oh yes, didn’t Isobel Kent mention something about it in her interview with the Courier? Presumably that’s what journalists call “adding local colour”.’
‘Well, the dog copped it apparently.’
‘Oh?’
‘Drank some turps or rat poison or something, so it was RIP Nijinsky. Baranov never got a replacement. He went in for cats after that.’
Much as he was enjoying the anecdotes, Markham knew he desperately needed a break in this case.
‘Kate, I want you to track down the cleaner for Mr Baranov’s place in the country. First name Doris. The neighbour Mrs Dade – her garden backs onto his – will be able to put you on to her. Noakes has got the number.’
‘What am I looking for, sir?’
‘Any clue to lovers’ tiffs… We know there were rows and fights… I could do with a name … something … anything.’
Voices were audible in the outer office. Her fellow DS lumbered in with Doyle at his heels. He cast a chary look at Burton, who burst out laughing. ‘It’s all right, Sarge, I’m not going to bore you to death with my ballet insights.’
Noakes looked as if he wished he could be sure of that.
Markham succumbed to a mischievous urge.
‘Don’t you find ballet grows on you, Sergeant?’
‘Eh?’
‘Like when you go to an art gallery and see a great painting, you might not notice anything special in the beginning, but the longer you look the more you begin to appreciate it … colour, perspective, use of space, everything. So you want to see more.’
‘I don’t,’ was the stolid reply. ‘’Cept the guy who did the Matchstick Men. Knew what he was about that bloke.’
He glared suspiciously round Markham’s office as though to invite a challenge. When none was forthcoming, he grunted, ‘What’s the game plan with this lot at the theatre?’
The DI duly filled him in.
‘Look,’ he concluded, ‘we need something to break on this case. I think our killer’s decompensating. Coming apart at the seams. Isobel Kent’s murder was disorganized, almost random … as if that piece in the Courier triggered something…’
‘She mainly slagged off Baranov,’ Doyle ventured. ‘Painted him as some kind of saddo perv.’
‘An’ sniggered at folk who had the hots for him,’ added Noakes.
‘So let’s assume sex is the key, team. Focus on personal relationships and don’t rule anyone out.’
‘Right,’ Noakes turned to Doyle. ‘You can take Ted Murphy cos he’s got as much nous as a retarded J-cloth. I’ll speak to the young lad.’
‘I’ll do the dancers,’ Markham said. ‘Kate, you’re going to check out the poison pen letters and see if Doris can give us a lead.’
As soon as the trio stepped into the outside world, they were greeted with a blast of swirling snowflakes that stung their eyes like so many needles.
White Christmas, thought Markham. Perfect for Nutcracker’s winter phantasmagoria.
Please God let them catch their killer before curtain up.
*
The Grapes was one of the oldest pubs in Bromgrove. The fact that it was by and large disdained by the chichi crowd, only endearing it the more to Markham and Olivia.
Like an arthritic old dowager, its crooked and uneven floors and ceilings – beams and timbers blackened by the time – were a source of perennial delight.
The front lounge next to the bar boasted a crackling log fire with two high-backed oak settles on either side like guardians of the place. Goblets, tankards, toby jugs and other curios hung from hooks above the mantelpiece, while brasses, warming pans and assorted nautical instruments jostled for space in every nook and cranny. Patriotically carpeted with red and black Prince of Wales feathers, it was a snug retreat whose glowing hearth and gleaming accoutrements offered a hospitable bulwark against sleet and snow outside.
Behind the lounge was a smaller, more intimate room lined with oak booths, allowing patrons greater privacy. Here too a fire blazed cosily, with capering shadows crossing and recrossing the knotty floorboards. With quaint little chinks, recesses and inglenooks, everything in the place seemed to bulge and project at lopsided angles, so it looked almost as though the pub was drowsily nodding off to sleep.
The hostelry’s warmth was exceeded only by the rapturous greeting of its bosomy landlady. Denise was delighted to see her ‘favourite policeman’, the DI gamely parrying her flirtatious overtures in a fashion that would have astounded his colleagues. For his part, Markham admired the peroxide blonde powerhouse, who brooked no nonsense from anyone, and enjoyed her frequently hilarious asides. Although she had initially regarded the advent of Olivia with a certain suspicion, Markham’s girlfriend too was now a favoured customer having come through her ‘probation’ with flying colours.
‘Go on through,’ Denise said after the ritual banter. ‘She’s already ordered for you.’
Olivia was waiting in their favourite booth, and in what seemed like no time at all they were tucking into steak and kidney pie and mash.
‘God, I needed that,’ he said at last.
‘’Course you did, Gil. Food’s therapeutic.’
‘Funny you should say so.’ He smiled at her. ‘Apparently, that’s exactly what George Baranov used to say. Every year he’d serve some sort of traditional Easter feast that was the highlight of his domestic calendar … wonderful-sounding dishes like sturgeon in aspic and all sorts of exotic delights.’
‘So he wasn’t a monster who starved those anorexic dancers with their pipestem legs?’
‘Well, dancers have to watch their weight. An extra bulge or ripple can distort their “line”, so Kate Burton tells me.’
‘Doesn’t seem to worry Noakes.’ She laughed.
‘Noakesy’s metabolism’s a law unto itself,’ he agreed. Then more soberly, ‘Isobel Kent made Baranov sound like some sort of balletic Bluebeard, but I don’t think his attitude was that unusual.’
‘And dancers themselves are preternaturally body-conscious in any case.’
‘Oh yes. Endless rounds of cosmetic surgery, according to Kate. Earlobes snipped off, silicone injected into ankle and lips, breast reductions … you name it, they’ve had it done.’
They began to talk about Markham’s dream of the previous night.
‘I realized afterwards it must’ve been triggered by an article in one of those dance magazines I was flipping through in the office,’ he said. ‘There was a piece about ENB’s production of Giselle.’
‘I loved that one.’ Olivia’s face lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Channel 4 showed it last Christmas, remember?’
‘Hmm. Well, if I’ve got it right the story goes as follows: this peasant girl Giselle is being courted by some dashing young buck called Albrecht. Problem is, he turns out to be a nobleman who’s two-timing her with someone else.’
‘Spot on. Yes, Albrecht is engaged to the local Duke’s daughter.’
‘When Giselle finds out he’s betrayed
her, she goes mad and dies of a broken heart.’
‘Yep, though some versions have her killing herself with Albrecht’s sword.’
‘Anyway, she comes back from the dead to save Albrecht from the curse of the Wilis – ghosts of women betrayed by their lovers – who have condemned him to dance himself to death.’
Markham rolled his eyes. ‘It all sounds bloody silly and twee, doesn’t it? But this article said Baranov had added a few unusual touches including a homosexual romance between Albrecht and one of the other characters.’
Olivia’s eyes gleamed.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said eagerly. ‘Hilarion, the huntsman. In the traditional version, he exposes Albrecht’s engagement to the Duke’s daughter because he’s in love with Giselle and wants her for himself. But in Baranov’s version, Hilarion has a secret passion for Albrecht and can’t bear watching him experience genuine love for the first time in his life. So, he tries to smash the romance…’
‘What happens to him in the end?’
‘Oh, the Wilis hunt him down and kill him.’
‘Poetic justice.’ It was said lightly, but Markham’s mind was racing.
Was that the message buried in his subconscious? Look for a rejected male lover.
Was that what Baranov really wanted to tell him?
‘Isobel Kent pulled off the performance of her career,’ he mused, his thoughts returning to the dead ballerina. ‘The magazine talked about her having a trancelike pathos and dead eyes… There was a picture of her too, with a long veil over her face on pointe next to a cross.’
‘The graveyard scene. So that’s why it was Isobel in your nightmare.’
‘That and the fact that I’d watched her die.’
Olivia was thoughtful.
‘Baranov was in the dream too, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but Isobel barred the way … like she was some sort of guardian…’
‘Mediating between the visible and invisible worlds?’
‘Something like that. But I had this sense that she was protecting Baranov from human corruption … saving him for higher things… You know, like the old cliché, he’s in a better place now.’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 97