Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘Eddie hated George’s pets,’ the ballet mistress said unexpectedly.

  ‘Did he poison his pug?’

  ‘I’ve often wondered about that, Mr Noakes.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Eddie, he was always so desperately possessive … even that flatulent yappy little creature would’ve seemed like a threat.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever suspect he might be off his rocker?’ Noakes asked bluntly.

  ‘Maybe I should’ve done, but no… You see, I thought that as far as Eddie was concerned, George had toppled off his pedestal a long time ago and he’d come to terms with it.’ The exquisite hands fluttered expressively. ‘There was lots of drama at the beginning… I remember one time when Eddie saw a situation developing between George and one of his muses, he tried to break it up, sitting outside their hotel room all night. He revelled in that kind of thing… It made his connection to George more romantic and somehow more real.’ Her face very pensive, she added, ‘In George’s work there was always the persistent theme of man seeking his absent beloved – pursuing his ideal – but she always eludes him. Well, that was the story of Eddie’s life too… I just assumed that with age he had mellowed, grown less intense, when all the time…’

  Long slender fingers toyed with the chiffon scarf at her throat. ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘A special hospital is the most likely option, Ms Aroldingen.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘He killed four of your colleagues and most likely Roger Miller too.’ Kind but inexorable.

  ‘I know, Inspector, I know. But Eddie would have paid all his debts tonight.’

  ‘Taking that young lass with him.’ Noakes was implacable.

  ‘In his mind, he was cutting the Gordian knot,’ the ballet mistress said miserably. ‘Setting them both free … heading for that “better place” where he thought Mr B was.’

  There was a long moment’s silence, then Marguerite Aroldingen spoke with decision.

  ‘It’s all a mystery, but Mr B had somehow cracked it. Eddie just wanted to know some of that peace.’

  She met Markham’s eyes almost defiantly.

  ‘You know all this bullshit about the afterlife? Well, there is one. It’s what’s left behind from the way you lived.’ Rising gracefully, she twitched invisible wrinkles out of her full skirt. ‘George Baranov was totally the servant of his art. “In ballet, you have to leave your ego at the door.” That’s what he always told us … and that’s why Nutcracker will go ahead as scheduled. Mr B gave us his example, so he’ll be with us at curtain up.’

  The DI gazed thoughtfully after her retreating form.

  ‘She’s a real tough cookie that one,’ opined Noakes, ‘for all the floaty get-up an’ nonsense.’

  There was a whole other story waiting to be told about Rothbart, but the ballet mistress had turned her back on darkness. For her, the radiance of George Baranov’s legacy could never be eclipsed, even if the sun had been momentarily blotted out.

  And so it would never fade.

  The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.

  Noakes’s voice broke into the DI’s reverie. ‘Why did Bissell kill Roger Miller, Guv? He was just a harmless fruitcake.’

  ‘Not harmless, Noakesy. I think Miller may have seen too much, heard too much … may somehow have intuited that Bissell intended to harm Alexandra and attempted to stop him.’

  ‘Bit of a hero then,’ the DS conceded with grudging respect.

  ‘So, he ended up as Alexandra’s knight in shining armour after all,’ Burton murmured.

  ‘Yes, Kate,’ Markham agreed softly. ‘It was a gallant last stand.’

  *

  Three weeks after the conclusion of what became known as the Nutcracker murders, Markham and Noakes made their way through snow-covered Bromgrove to the suburb of Medway.

  The Newman Hospital, situated behind Bromgrove General, was an incongruous mix of redbrick gothic and twenty-first century modernism, with a Victorian clock tower flanked by low polytunnel-like extensions reminiscent of submarines.

  Normally the architectural hotchpotch had a jarring effect, but today everything was picture-postcard perfect, the harsh angles and starkness softened by powdery filigree ruffles.

  ‘Thank God them daft sculpture things are covered up.’

  ‘Art installations, Sergeant,’ Markham responded patiently.

  The DS had been less than impressed by the psychiatric hospital’s new age holistic artefacts on the occasion of a previous visit. ‘Load of old cobblers,’ he muttered unrepentantly. ‘As if it’d mean owt to the poor sods in this place.’

  Once inside the hermetically-sealed universe with its swivelling CCTV, endless Plexiglas, squeaky linoleum and winking sensors, Markham felt the familiar sensations of deadening claustrophobia press down on him.

  As much like an underwater tank as ever, he thought.

  Once through reception, they were on their way, passing the all too familiar acres of glass and brightly-coloured day lounges, the walled-in courtyards and patios, the therapy rooms and assessment suites.

  Eventually they arrived at a set of double doors next to which was a sign marked Forensic. Through the doors, Markham glimpsed the metal detector arch and Plexiglas reinforced nursing station, grim reminders of the disordered personalities confined within this brightly-scrubbed and antiseptic milieu. Involuntarily, his mind travelled back to previous visits he and Noakes had made to the facility and the terrible secrets they had uncovered…

  A chirpy blonde nurse in civvies who introduced herself as Sister Claire (‘all first names here’) escorted them through to the day-care area, Noakes turning his eyes away from the heavy-duty steel doors which marked off the living quarters of the most dangerously disturbed as though he hoped, by that means, to deflect their sullen hatred.

  ‘Your patient’s over there,’ their escort informed them cheerfully, gesturing to the far end of the long room dotted with easy chairs and pine tables.

  ‘What the heck’s he doing?’

  The nurse’s determinedly breezy manner did not falter.

  ‘Mr Bissell quite often demonstrates physical exercises for the other patients,’ she said. ‘Just some simple flexibility and balancing … nothing too strenuous.’

  Noakes stared incredulously at Eddie Bissell, who appeared to be holding on to an imaginary barre, gracefully bending and stretching. Then he looked round at the shambling figures of Bissell’s fellow patients. Some walked like zombies, tranquilized by heavy doses of medication, occasionally pausing to watch the sideshow or spewing word garbage. Others did not move at all, as if constrained by chemical straitjackets.

  ‘D’you reckon they’re up to that kind of caper, luv?’

  ‘Obviously, it’s early days.’ She cleared her throat, momentarily disconcerted before the professional smile was nailed firmly back in place. ‘But given Mr Bissell’s background in ballet, it could have therapeutic benefits.’

  Good luck with that.

  Sister Claire smiled uncertainly. ‘The psychologist says his response to Rorschach inkblots is interesting – he only sees pointe shoes, music scores and stage sets.’

  Before Noakes could open his mouth, Markham murmured, ‘Indeed. It would be most helpful if we could see a copy of Mr Bissell’s individual treatment plan at some point, Sister.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’ She beamed at him, doubtless feeling that she was on safer ground. ‘If you’d like to take a seat at this table here, I’ll just go and get Mr Bissell for you.’ Noticing Noakes’s furtive glances around the lounge, she gestured to the nursing station in its Perspex bubble. ‘I’ll be over there at the nursing station. The duty psychiatrist Dr Mengham is in the therapy room next to the vending machines. Just give us a shout if you need anything.’

  ‘All too bloody casual, if you ask me.’ Noakes appeared far from reassured. ‘The bloke’s a se
rial killer an’ he’s wandering about giving chuffing ballet lessons. He should be in Stabbuck House,’ referring to the high security hospital on the other side of Medway, ‘not a holiday camp like this place.’

  ‘The Trust and gold-braid mob wanted him in the Newman, Sergeant. Ours not to reason why.’ Markham tempered the reproof. ‘He’ll be found unfit to plead in any event.’ Despite the airlessness of the ward, he shivered. ‘Stabbuck House is brutal. Better by far that Bissell should have wound up here.’

  As they watched, an orderly came up to Bissell with what looked like a glass of water and something in a plastic dish. Presumably anti-psychotics…

  Then he was sitting down at the table, regarding his visitors with a dreamy smile. A high-necked sweater hid all signs of physical trauma.

  ‘Mr B didn’t like to see anyone taking unnecessary medicines,’ he said as though to excuse his acceptance of the drugs. ‘If anyone took an aspirin in front of him, he would make such a face.’

  Still the same monomania, thought Markham compassionately. Still that ever-fixed mark.

  Bissell looked frail, almost gaunt, with moth-eaten hair, but his nail beds were no longer torn and bloody. For a moment or two, it seemed as though a tree just visible through the barred window, its branches delicately dusted with snow, held more life and interest for him than the faces of the two policemen. Markham felt that only a thread connected him to the everyday world and it might snap at any moment…

  Taking nothing for granted, the DI made the introductions.

  ‘Of course I remember you, Inspector. And you too, Sergeant.’ He contemplated Noakes’s paunch with rueful amusement. ‘You know a teacher’s struggling when you watch him enter a ballet studio and see the stomach come in first.’

  Cheeky bugger. But the DS too was struck with pity as he observed the way Bissell ducked his head like a child that wanted to hide tears.

  ‘Did we see you doing some barre work earlier?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’ A faint gleam of reanimation. ‘I don’t want to forget my training… George used to call me Paddlefoot Bissell, but I always took class even after I stopped performing regularly… He was a hard taskmaster … would make us do one movement – tendu, glissade, grand battement – over and over again… It was so important to him to get it right… You were at his funeral, I think… Do you remember, when we left the church there were so many mourners outside waiting for the casket to come out that we had to twine our way down the stairs… There we were, unconsciously holding just hands as he had taught us and slowly winding down through people on the stairs as if in a ballet… I don’t think ballet was as important to anybody else as it was to him. Everybody else wanted to have a little life on the side.’

  A little life on the side.

  ‘George told me, “For dance you have to see everywhere, everything, all the time. Look at the grass in the concrete when it’s broken, children and little dogs, and the ceiling and the roof. Your eyes are a camera and your brain is a filing cabinet”.’

  Horribly ironic, given that the poor wretch in front of them would never again be free from electronic surveillance, nor see the world except through bars.

  ‘I know you miss George very much.’ The DI spoke with calm sincerity.

  ‘Oh, there was some kind of black cat that ran between us for many years.’

  A stillness fell over the two policemen as they remembered the apparition in the tunnel. The riddle that had never been solved. The animal control search had yielded nothing and the search for the mysterious predator had been quietly abandoned.

  ‘I see George in here sometimes… I can tell if he’s not pleased with my barre … that hard face of his appears and I just know there’s trouble somewhere.’ A wistful sigh. ‘He could do anything. His whole body spoke… He had such high standards.’ Suddenly, Bissell’s face held an intensity of anger, the dreaminess gone. ‘And now his legacy will be ruined… No-one will care… He knew it of course. I asked him once, “Where do you think your place is going to be?” And he said, “My place is with ghosts.”’

  Noakes’s discomfort was tangible.

  Someone else was with them, almost as if this was a séance and they’d conjured him up between them.

  A shadowy figure – lean and dark, with a hawk-like bony face.

  ‘You feel it too, don’t you, Inspector?’ Bissell’s tone was gleeful.

  ‘Yes.’ The DI opted for simplicity, which seemed to satisfy the other.

  ‘George was very mystical. He used to insist, “God is real before me. Through Christ I know how God looks, I know His face, I know His beard, I know how He’ll talk, and I know that in the end we’ll go to God. That’s how I believe and it’s fantastic.”’

  As he thought of the icon-loving impresario, Markham could only hope that it was so.

  Unexpectedly, Bissell chuckled. Startled, Noakes half-rose.

  ‘Everything all right there, folks?’

  Sister Claire was watching from the nursing station.

  The DS waved a beefy paw and sank back down. Bissell had barely registered the interruption, lost in reminiscence.

  ‘When we did Nutcracker for ENB, at curtain time on opening night, none of the costumes for act two had arrived. It seemed as if we would have to end the performance at the interval. But Mr B just did a few nose twitches and said, “Don’t worry, I spoke to Tchaikovsky and they’ll be here.” Sure enough, the costumes began drifting in.’

  Bissell, who up till then had been talking a blue streak, suddenly appeared to run out of steam and fell silent.

  Easy and apparently relaxed, Markham sat and waited.

  After a few minutes, he appeared to recollect himself and with effort enquired, ‘How was George’s production, Inspector? Did the audience like it?’

  ‘Indeed they did, Mr Bissell. Some of the stage mechanics were a bit sticky—’

  ‘That’s always the way with Nutcracker.’

  ‘Just a few technical hiccoughs, but the dancing got a great reception.’ Having attended the opening night with Olivia, Markham could speak with conviction.

  ‘What about Alexandra? Did she dazzle?’

  ‘Well, she took numerous curtain calls.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Bissell muttered as though to himself. ‘Good girl.’ And then, ‘Have you ever seen a crane in flight, Inspector? They’re magnificent birds with long necks and long legs… Their rear feathers are long and loose, and they flutter in the wind as the bird is landing. George always said Alexandra’s movement reminded him of a crane… She was incomparable in Firebird.’

  ‘The costumes were magnificent,’ Markham said with apparent casualness.

  ‘Ah, Sheila always had things well in hand.’ Bissell’s face darkened. ‘Shouldn’t have been greedy, though … she’d have been a millstone round my neck forever.’ His expression was vague, unfocused. ‘I’ll make it up to her, though … take her to the Saint Petersburg for lunch… She’ll like that…’

  We’re losing him, Markham thought. Over at the nursing station, Sister Claire was pointing to her watch.

  Bissell gathered his wandering wits.

  ‘Brian was different. Not a mercenary bone in his body… And he had total respect for the maestro. He understood that you didn’t even have to have a personality provided you put yourself in George’s hands. If you were touched by God and could learn what Mr B had to teach, then you became the most wonderful thing in the world.’ He blinked round at the two policemen earnestly. ‘I did Brian a favour. He wanted to go. He wanted to be out of it.’ A dismissive wave of his hand at the world beyond the window. ‘He wanted to follow George.’

  Maybe so, but Isobel Kent bleeding didn’t. Nor did that pathetic nutter.

  It was as though Noakes had said the words out loud. Bissell’s eyes were narrowed, as though he was seeing dangerous penumbras, shadows from the past.

  ‘That bitch Kent made it all dirty,’ he said, spraying the two men with saliva in his vehemence. ‘George was a sort
of a father figure and a mother figure and a brother to his ballerinas. It was a personal matter, and things aren’t done that way anymore… Sure, he had a sense of humour… If he wanted one of the girls to loosen up, he’d get me to whisper terrible things in her ear during rehearsal. But dance to him was a sacred thing… He would always say to them, “What’s wrong with now?” Some little whiny girl would stand there being lazy and he would say, “Why not now? Perhaps tomorrow you feel more comfortable about doing it, doing it tomorrow?” And she would say, “Yes,” and he would tell her, “Why? Now! Maybe you leave now and a bus – wham! Do it now! Don’t wait!”’

  There was something almost shocking in Eddie Bissell’s sudden fervour. Markham was never to forget the way in which he brought George Baranov right into that sterile place, so that he could almost hear the Russian’s ballet master’s imperious commands and the impatient click of his fingers.

  ‘Then there was poor Roger.’

  Bissell’s eyes now had a strange kind of watery brightness and his fingers began plaiting the material of his sweater, half irresolutely, half passionately. His voice sank to a self-pitying whimper.

  ‘Always spying and snooping… Hanging about Alexandra … poisoning her against me.’

  Then, with shocking triumphalism, ‘Well, I soon settled his hash.’

  Sister Claire was signalling again. Time to wind it up.

  ‘We’re keeping you from class, Mr Bissell,’ the DI said easily.

  ‘Yes, I must work on my tendus … all that movement so beautifully dovetailed, like lace.’

  His voice tailed off uncertainly. Then he stood up and offered his hand to the two men in turn. Noakes hardly knew where to look but the DI was as gracious as if the encounter had taken place in the peacock-blue and gold auditorium of the Royal.

  ‘I think you understand, Inspector.’ Markham nodded gravely. ‘George had so much, he was like an ocean. The waves kept coming to him, waves of extraordinary creativity, always alive like an ocean…’

  He shuffled away from them back towards the other end of the lounge.

  And then a remarkable transformation took place.