‘Well, that fits with the theme of Giselle. It’s all about spiritual redemption.’ Olivia’s delicate features were tense with fierce concentration. ‘Maybe your nightmare holds a clue to the killer, Gil.’
‘Go on.’
‘Maybe they had some mad idea of saving Baranov from himself – dispatching him to the spirit world beyond the reach of earthly temptation.’
Markham stared at her so intently, that she was covered in confusion.
‘Sorry, Gil,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m reading too much into it. Getting carried away.’
Markham reached across the table and gripped her hand tightly.
‘No, Liv,’ he said eagerly. ‘I think you may be on to something. With the other murders, it may have been about self-preservation, revenge, whatever … but everything points to that first one being deeply personal. George Baranov was a man who inspired powerful emotions. To some extent, he choreographed his associates’ lives…’
‘So, you’re looking for someone whose emotions were turned upside down.’
‘That’s right … someone who carried on a secret life aimed at appeasing inward demons … someone who carried a huge weight of repressed hostility towards Baranov in his heart.’
A spurned lover? But was it man or woman?
Outside the pub, the afternoon air was frosty.
Markham filled his lungs with it, feeling that his brain was now clearer and sharper than before. Olivia slipped her hand into his pocket and for a moment they just stood leaning into each other.
Eventually, reluctantly, they separated. At least, Olivia thought, watching Markham receding into the distance, her lover seemed to have recovered his bounce.
The DI had just got back to CID when his mobile trilled.
It was Kate Burton.
‘Sir.’ Her voice was eager. ‘I think I may have something.’
14. Hidden Malady
AT THE THEATRE, A sense of urgency prevailed, the corps toiling away on stage, striving for synchronicity as though this was some marvellous drill for marionettes.
Marguerite Aroldingen’s pastel chiffons, spidery false eyelashes and heavy perfume struck a decidedly incongruous note as she whirled amongst the sweating performers snapping out strangely accented instructions. Markham grinned as he watched her pounce on one hapless dancer who sat disconsolately at the side of the stage, bent over her pointe shoes.
‘If you can afford meat, for God’s sake, eat it. Don’t put it on your bloody toes!’
Burton was at hand to explain with her customary earnestness, ‘Apparently raw meat’s the thing for blisters and bunions. Dancers absolutely swear by it.’
‘I’m not sure Ms Aroldingen would necessarily agree.’
‘Oh, she’s strictly “old guard” – very proper … no slumping, street food or slacking.’
Markham shivered. ‘They’ll need to get some heating on in here before opening night. It’s so draughty, the dancers’ muscles must be in deep freeze.’
They watched for a few more minutes.
‘How’s it going with the rehearsals?’
‘Well, Marguerite says it’s the ensemble sections which are “sagging”, sir.’ Burton watched the straining performers with a critical eye. ‘She’s not happy with the dance of the snow fairies.’
‘What is it with ballet and all these fairies and sylphs and spirits?’ Markham burst out impatiently.
Burton blinked owlishly. ‘I think that’s the idealistic part, sir,’ she ventured. ‘You know, all airy and fleeting – reaching up to God … almost like angels.’
It sounded as though George Baranov might have found a willing disciple in his sergeant, thought Markham, amused despite himself.
‘Hmm.’ Thinking about some of those pas de deux he had witnessed – dancers’ limbs wrapped around each other as they writhed in an impassioned embrace – the DI was more inclined to see ballet as a distinctly earthly art.
‘Show me more beautiful leg! Reach to Heaven!’
Marguerite Aroldingen at least seemed to share Burton’s conception.
‘Shall we?’ The DI motioned in the direction of their incident room, and the two officers made their way out of the auditorium.
‘Your hands are dead! Dead!’
The ballet mistress’s voice faded behind them.
‘What’ve you got, Kate?’
‘I interviewed Doris like you told me, sir.’
‘Ah yes, Baranov’s cleaner.’ The DI raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Don’t suppose she gave you a name, did she?’
‘Not a name, sir. But from what she said, there was a man on the scene at one time.’ The DS thumbed through her notebook.
‘A lover?’
‘More like someone Baranov exploited… Doris heard this bloke shouting that he was fed up of being mocked and “treated like something the cat brought in”… Then she heard Baranov say, “You strangle me. The only place I don’t see you is in my bath!”’
‘Interesting. So, this was someone who was bitter about being thought of as an accessory.’
‘Right. Another time, she heard the same man complain about being treated like a puppy … like Baranov’s “horrible little pug”.’
Nijinsky. The dog that died.
‘There was one terrible row—’
‘When no doubt Doris had her ear pressed up against the keyhole…’
‘Yeah, something like that … well, she heard him say, “I’m not your fucking Prince Consort!”’
‘Wasn’t that Paul Gayle’s nickname?’ Markham’s voice was sharp.
‘Looks like this bloke coined it first, sir.’
‘When was all this?’
‘Doris is a bit vague about dates.’
God, she would be. Earwigging for England, but no recollection of when.
‘It was a good while back, at any rate, because she said Baranov gradually became much more reclusive and liked to be on his own. All the fighting and hissy fits were in the early days when he kept pretty much open house.’
‘Any other juicy tidbits from Deep Throat?’ the DI enquired with weary sarcasm.
‘She thinks Baranov’s friend, lover, whatever, may have gone to hospital after staging an overdose of Valium to get back at Baranov, but it was all very hush hush. The fights eased off for a while, but he still ranted about Baranov not seeing him as an equal and treating him like a prop or a piece of furniture.’
‘Sounds like the shouting was pretty much one-sided. Did Baranov rant back?’
‘According to Doris, he was always very correct. Very controlled. But she heard him say, “Mind your own business and stop playing the martyr. Don’t push me.”’ Another quick check of her notes. ‘That was after Mr X told Baranov he was “morally colour blind”.’
‘What did she take him to mean?’
‘That he disapproved of the way Baranov carried on with women.’
Markham thought about the choreographer’s ballet muses who rose and faded like a succession of mountain peaks, inspiring him to near obsessive passion.
‘From what we’ve heard of Baranov, he was Don Juan, Pygmalion and Svengali rolled into one,’ the DI mused aloud. ‘And yet…’
Burton was all ears.
‘He must have had a certain element of insecurity about himself in relation to women, which led him to choose young girls from his company – as if he needed to bolster his role as lover by that of ballet master…’
‘I suppose if you’re dating a ballerina, you never have to worry about whether she’s running around with somebody else or anything like that, sir. You always know exactly where she is – in the studio, working.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Doris remembered Mr X getting really wound up about Baranov using him to court girls.’ The DS consulted her notes. ‘Always going out as a threesome to reassure them, with him having to sit like a spare part while Mr B reeled them in.’
Something about this account was setting off all kinds of depth charges…
‘Go on.’
‘He said it made him feel like a pimp… Baranov even got him to have a word with one girl he was mad about.’
‘Charming.’
‘Yeah, Baranov seems to have treated him pretty badly. Whenever he didn’t want another guy getting too close to his current love interest, he’d send our man to break it up. “Mr B needs her onstage,” or some such ploy.’
‘Hmm. As you say, demeaning… What else did Doris pick up?’
‘Well, there was stuff about Baranov using him as an errand boy and no gratitude… “Come and pick me up. Do this, do that.” He’d helped with some ballet or other, apparently, but never got acknowledged in the programme… And he accused Baranov of basing a character on him … not a hero … a figure of fun… “Pathetic and contemptible” was how he described it….’
‘Did Mr Baranov say anything in his own defence?’
‘Quoted poetry. “Love is never equal. There’s always one who loves and one who is loved.”’ The DS pulled a face. ‘Went down like a lead balloon. He told Baranov to fuck off.’
‘What did Doris think of Baranov?’ Markham asked curiously, remembering the neighbour Mrs Dade’s acidic reference to a mutual admiration society.
‘Oh, she thought the sun rose and set on him … adored him for all his faults. It was quite sweet, actually,’ Burton conceded half-reluctantly. ‘I think she liked the fact that he was a bit of a dandy … you know, handsome suit, a flower in his buttonhole, beautifully brushed hair, polished shoes…’ She grinned. ‘Flirted with her like crazy too from the sound of it.’
‘His neighbour said he took her to the ballet.’
‘Yeah, she mentioned that. He liked to chat to her about all sorts. Was always banging on about his hotline to various composers in heaven, said they only bothered to help the people who really liked their work and they could tell the difference between fake admiration and the real thing.’
Markham laughed. ‘She sounds quite a character.’
‘I think Baranov scandalized her a bit, but she enjoyed it.’
‘What d’you reckon she thought of this boyfriend or whoever he was?’
‘That he was a bit pathetic, sir … bit of a limp dick…’ Realizing what she’d said, Burton got flustered. ‘Sorry, sir, I meant a doormat… Doris says he accused Baranov of sending back his love letters after correcting the spelling … can you imagine!’
‘Given what we know of Mr B, all too well,’ was the wry response.
‘Doris said Baranov was ruthless in a gentle sort of way … something to do with his early life… She thought that deep down he was quite lonely and had trouble connecting with people.’
‘Manipulative?’
‘Sort of… Mr X called him that … said he was like that doll-maker in The Nutcracker—’
‘Drosselmeyer.’
‘Yeah … said Baranov liked his dancers to be dolls, then gave them a makeover … doll to woman, woman to ballerina… Called him a “fucking creepy alchemist”.’
‘Something of a wordsmith, our Mr X.’
Markham fell into a brown study then, aware that the DS was regarding him expectantly, resumed a business-like tone.
‘You took some photos along, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that Doris recognized anyone?’
‘Marguerite Aroldingen, Isobel Kent and Alex Fairlie.’ Burton grimaced. ‘She remembered Fairlie used to wear her hair caught up in two bunches cos Baranov liked it that way … used to stand with one palm under each ponytail like he was weighing them.’
The juvenile look. That figured.
‘Apparently he nicknamed Aroldingen “Brigitte Bardot” on account of the tight sweaters and the long eyelashes … like a jungle, Doris called them. Isobel Kent was the “Ice Maiden”.’
‘What about the men?’
‘She picked out Shaw, Plucis and Bissell. Thought Paul Gayle may have been on the scene at some point as well. There were designers and conductors in and out all the time too. Plus the Russians… Like a revolving door, she said … all very bohemian.’
‘Presumably Doris knew to keep her eyes averted.’
‘Well, I think she’s unshockable – no spinster goody-goody – and genuinely fond of Baranov… He liked her to watch soap operas with him over a plate of scrambled eggs so they could discuss the plot. And he always tried to talk her into playing draughts to stop her going home.’
‘Sounds a real Darby and Joan set-up.’
‘I think at the end it was, sir. The Baranov Trust got in touch to say she’s been looked after.’ The DS sounded pleased at this outcome.
‘But she couldn’t identify Mr X?’
‘There was so much drama, or “hanky panky” as she put it, that she just turned a blind eye and got on with it.’ Burton chuckled. ‘The nosy neighbour was always angling for juicy tidbits, but Doris kept shtum.’
‘Sounds worth her weight in gold. But dammit, Kate,’ Markham broke out exasperatedly, ‘she must have had some notion which of them was rowing with Mr Baranov.’
‘Probably all of them at some point. Doris said he could be appallingly rude, dropping clangers all over the shop… “Never trust anyone with fair eyelashes,” he announced one day after one of the men dragged some poor washed-out little girl from the corps along for the ride. That was the last Doris ever saw of her.’
A memory stirred.
‘Didn’t he accuse one of the gang of wanting to pinch the silver?’
‘Oh yeah, that was poor Eddie Bissell. “The Old Reliable”… He was kind and thoughtful and helpful. Doris says he was never bitter even when Baranov behaved badly … really took care of him. Would have died for him…’
Burton’s voice tailed off, as though a thought had suddenly struck her.
‘Jesus,’ she breathed as though in the grip of an epiphany.
‘What is it?’
‘Sir,’ she said uncertainly, ‘d’you remember what Ivan Plucis called Bissell?’
A flicker of distaste crossed the DI’s austere features.
‘Remind me.’
‘Steady Eddie.’
Brian Shaw also used the nickname in his journal. But Markham had seen no reason to attach any particular significance to it.
‘Typical of Plucis’s backbiting, wouldn’t you say? He was desperate for Baranov’s attention and approval – like a small boy with his father – but it was Bissell who held the top spot in Mr B’s affections.’
‘But did he, boss?’
Markham stared at her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you remember, sir?’ There was urgency in the DS’s tone and she was suddenly flushed with excitement. ‘Plucis said something about Bissell having “been in service all his life” … talked about him being a “beard”…’
There was something discouraging about the DI’s silence, but she ploughed gamely on.
‘Doris said our mystery man was angry about Baranov turning him into a pimp.’ She was tripping over her words now. ‘Well, Plucis talked about Baranov always dragging Bissell or Bloom along on dates with Alex Fairlie. He called them her “bodyguards”.’
‘You’re pinning a lot on Mr Plucis, aren’t you, Sergeant?’
Burton’s shoulders drooped and she looked deflated.
Markham looked keenly at his colleague whose intelligence and investigative instincts he had learned to respect.
‘But let’s stay with this, Kate,’ he said slowly. ‘Doris didn’t say that the man she heard shouting at Mr Baranov was Eddie Bissell, right?’
‘No, sir. But,’ the DS doggedly pursued her thread, ‘she wasn’t expecting it to be Eddie Bissell… And maybe he sounded totally different … deeper, hoarser, growlier … like some people’s voices change when they’re angry…’
Images rose unbidden into Markham’s mind.
Eddie Bissell as the owl sorcerer Rothbart. And a child screaming, ‘I don’t like that man.’
God, it wasn’t possible. The cultured, patient administrator holding Baranov’s company together, looking as ravaged as any widower…
Widower.
The DI remembered Bissell watching himself and Burton as they looked at the pictures in the corridor outside his office. Remembered how Bissell had looked at them round the corner of his eyes as he talked about evil alter egos and Freudian analysis…
‘What do we know about Bissell’s sexual preferences, Kate?’ he asked quietly.
‘One of the pieces in Dancing Times implied he was a closeted gay dancer who then crossed over to the administrative side… But that’s par for the course in ballet.’
‘Circumspect about his sexuality, then?’
‘Very much so. Commanded a lot of respect. “Lifelong servant to dance and dancers,” that sort of thing. In thrall to Baranov, so he didn’t have much of a personal life outside the theatre.’
In thrall to Baranov.
Markham felt his pulse quicken.
‘What about his dancing career?’
‘Late starter, so he never made it to the top rank. Specialized in “monster” roles. Magicians, evil wizards … had quite a flair for them by all accounts.’
Monsters.
‘Someone fractured Baranov’s finger,’ the DI muttered, almost as though talking to himself. ‘Someone who was trying to wrench a ring off…’
He rounded on Burton so suddenly that she started.
‘Did Doris say anything about that?’ he rapped. ‘Did she know who gave Mr Baranov the ring?’
The DS shook her head despondently. ‘She just heard there was some sort of fight and Baranov refused to get his finger reset as a reminder…’
‘A reminder of what?’
‘The dangers of romantic obsession, boss?’ she suggested timidly. ‘What if it was Bissell who gave Baranov the ring as a way of saying they were symbolically attached to each other and then, when Baranov started tormenting him over affairs with women, tried to snatch it back?’ Her face taut with concentration, she added, ‘Or it could have been one of Baranov’s girlfriends who gave Mr B the ring and then Bissell tried to rip it off one day in a fit of rage… Either way, Baranov might’ve enjoyed reminding Bissell that he’d totally lost it … held it over him…’
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 98