Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘If Bissell was in love with George Baranov, then he could have become terribly jealous.’

  And dangerous.

  Markham felt numb, but his fingertips had started to tingle.

  ‘The man was transparently devoted to Baranov … that devastation wasn’t feigned,’ he said at last.

  ‘He could be devastated and still have done it, sir,’ his DS persisted.

  The DI realized that this was true…

  What if there was a cankerous sore that had never healed in the depths of Bissell’s soul? What if the realization that he had devoted most of his existence to Baranov – forfeiting any meaningful personal life of his own – suddenly triggered a homicidal rage? What frustrations might have accumulated over the years, what great lakes of resentment been dammed up? And then what happened when the dam finally burst?

  Burton pressed home her advantage. ‘Baranov could’ve pressed Bissell’s buttons … maybe taunted him … made him think the business with Fairlie was the real deal … and this time it didn’t stop at a broken finger.’

  The DI recalled Ned Chester’s verdict on Brian Shaw’s hopeless passion for Baranov. ‘He never looked at anyone else. It was Baranov or bust.’ But what if it was Bissell who had snapped beyond repair?

  They were moving at the speed of light.

  Slow down, slow down.

  ‘You’ve done well, Kate.’ Markham was in control once more. ‘Brian Shaw’s journal ended with that baffling quote: “You did it up to the hilt and broke my heart”. But if Bissell was in love with George Baranov and unable to accept his amours, then it fits… Shaw must have overheard him make some sort of last-ditch declaration.’

  ‘Bissell told us he heard Baranov shouting “You are sinister” at someone… He could’ve heard those words all right, sir, the difference being that they were spoken to him.’

  Burton’s palms were sweating.

  ‘What d’you think happened with the others, sir? Bloom, Shaw and Kent?’

  ‘I think blackmail did for Sheila Bloom,’ Markham said sadly. ‘She guessed or saw something … likely sympathized with Bissell – Mr Baranov had played with her feelings too – and tried to parlay that knowledge into money and power within the company.’ He shook his head. ‘She didn’t see the danger.’

  ‘You think Brian Shaw joined the dots as well, boss?’

  ‘I think it all clicked into place for him when he found about the burglary and the stolen letters.’

  ‘Bissell’s?’

  ‘Yes. Shaw was so heartbroken about Mr Baranov’s death, that I suspect he pretty much gave up on life … practically invited Bissell to kill him by offering the man a chance to turn himself in… Like Sheila Bloom, I suspect he had huge pity for what Bissell had gone through over the years.’

  ‘What about Isobel Kent?’

  ‘Impulse attack. Blind rage after what she said in that piece for the Courier.’

  ‘Even though he probl’y agreed with it at bottom?’

  ‘He was still an idolater and George Baranov the god of his idolatry. The idea of someone else trashing Baranov’s character and legacy was insupportable, even after all that had happened… And even after killing Baranov, he was still in his own private hell.’

  Naught’s had, all’s spent, Where our desire is got without content.

  ‘You’re sorry for him, boss.’

  It was a statement.

  ‘Yes, Kate.’ Markham met her eyes steadily, the compassion in his gaze almost taking her breath away. ‘George Baranov was a man of wonderful sensibilities and taste. Clearly, he was also jealous, manipulative and downright devious too. From all that we’ve heard, his life was a helter-skelter of highs and lows, but he was totally comfortable with himself in a way poor Eddie Bissell could never attain.’

  ‘It must have driven Bissell nuts.’

  ‘I blame myself for not having seen it sooner, Kate.’ Muscles clenched along the DI’s jaw. ‘Bissell gave us a clue in that first interview when he talked about Mr B. “The centre of him was unshakeable, not a tremor.” I remember thinking he sounded envious.’

  ‘D’you think he and Bissell had an affair?’

  ‘I doubt we’ll ever know. Any more than we’ll ever know what happened when they met in the theatre that night. But the important thing is that if George Baranov ever had any same-sex impulses, he took homosexuality in his stride – like he did everything else.’

  ‘While the other—’

  ‘Was tormented by it … bashed around by insecurity and self-loathing all his life.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like there’s any evidence tying Bissell to Baranov or any of the others, boss… No prints, nada.’

  ‘He’s forensically aware, Kate.’

  ‘So, Baranov wasn’t a spur of the minute attack?’

  ‘I think he went to that meeting gloved-up … intending to have it out with Mr B … but knowing in the back of his mind that he’d reached end game… He was the one stalking Baranov. The threatening letter … the parcel with the photos and Baranov’s face cut out … that was all down to him.’

  The DS shivered.

  ‘What about Roger Miller, Guv?’ Her face was anxious. ‘Where does he fit in? Was Miller in on the murders with Bissell? Was Bissell setting him up as the fall guy?’

  In his mind’s eye, Markham saw two heads bent close together at Baranov’s grave.

  ‘I don’t know, Kate.’ It was as though the entire history of the case flashed in an instant before the DI’s eyes. ‘Miller’s obsession with Alexandra Fairlie might mean he could be brainwashed into punishing anyone he perceived as hurting or threatening her…’

  ‘Baranov was suffocating Fairlie, boss,’ Burton said eagerly. ‘Cutting her off from everyone … taking away her freedom … making her unhappy. Maybe that was enough to justify murder in Miller’s eyes… Bloom and Shaw were collateral damage… Isobel Kent deserved to die cos she was Fairlie’s rival and having it away with her husband. Yeah,’ she breathed, ‘I could see him helping Bissell.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten something, Kate.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Remember how Alexandra Fairlie extolled the magic of her partnership with Mr Baranov. She said she loved him … not in the way he wanted, perhaps, but at a level beyond the physical. She said that the two of them were “accomplices” with the same goal … totally dedicated to dance.’

  ‘You reckon that’d be enough to stop Miller offing Baranov?’

  Markham met her gaze squarely.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think Roger Miller’s acting out some idealized fantasy of “courtly love” … serving his idol’s interests… That’s the nature of his monomania.’

  ‘And Alexandra Fairlie’s interests were bound up with Baranov.’ Burton was crestfallen. ‘She would never have wanted him to come to any harm.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What about Isobel Kent? Fairlie was furious about her affair with Paul Gayle. Maybe Miller decided to avenge her.’

  ‘To Mr Baranov, the ballerina was almost a sacred being,’ Markham said slowly. ‘I think Roger Miller felt the same. He might have hated Isobel Kent for betraying Alexandra, but I don’t think he could have killed her. It would have been a desecration … ignoble… No,’ Markham’s voice was stronger now, ‘dangerously unstable he may be, but I don’t believe he could have done it.’

  ‘D’you think Bissell was out to frame Miller?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ The DI’s face was dark with anger. ‘He wanted Mr Baranov to go to the police about the threatening mail and point the finger at Miller. Made plenty of noise about it in front of the company. And he tried to lay a false trail for me at Mr B’s funeral when he said Roger wanted to see George well and truly buried.’

  ‘Meaning that Miller wanted Baranov dead…’ Burton’s voice was faint. ‘God, that’s horrible.’

  The two officers looked at each other wordlessly.

  Finally, Burton spoke in strangled tones. ‘Maybe we’l
l get DNA back,’ she said desperately, ‘though there could be problems cos of all the chemical garbage in theatres – paint, make-up, cleaning fluid…’

  ‘We can’t wait for that.’

  ‘You think Bissell’s going to do another?’

  ‘The way he looks at it, he’s signed a pact with the devil … nothing to lose…’

  The two detectives contemplated each other.

  ‘Alexandra Fairlie,’ the DS said, and Markham nodded in grim assent.

  At that moment, the door banged open and Noakes appeared.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said as he registered their tense expressions.

  ‘First things first, Sergeant.’ Markham was crisply decisive. ‘Do you know the whereabouts of Alexandra Fairlie?’

  ‘Jus’ seen her onstage bobbing around doing all them fancy twists and turns with the foreign fella – pretty as a picture – while Maggie Whatserface yells at them. Some other lass has turned up too – she’s the one that’s gonna save the day… What with it being opening night Monday, they’ve got to look lively.’

  The DI felt weak with relief.

  ‘Any sign of Mr Bissell?’

  ‘Doyle’s with him and Ted Murphy. Some argy-bargy ’bout overtime for the stage crew. I left ’em to fight it out.’

  Markham noticed Noakes was holding a package.

  ‘What’ve you got there?’

  His colleague looked mildly embarrassed.

  ‘I was poking around in the basement looking at props an’ stuff… Most of it’s a load of old tat, but in a corner right at the back there was this cupboard with a marble top – sort of thing the missus likes. The bottom drawer looked kind of lopsided, so I thought I’d straighten it up … make it shipshape in case they needed it for the show… It sort of popped out an’ … well, there was this packet of old letters wedged inside.’

  He handed them over to Markham.

  ‘Jus’ a load of soppy drivel from some poof—’

  Observing the DI’s flinty expression, he hastily amended whatever he had been going to say. ‘Love letters, Guv. Written by some fella to another guy, Georgi somebody.’ Noakes’s bushy eyebrows contracted in genuine bewilderment. ‘Can’t understand the half of it.’ He stopped short at the look on Markham’s face. ‘What is it, Guv?’

  ‘I think we may have him,’ Markham whispered, holding out a crumpled sheet of paper to Burton. ‘The signature’s the same on all of them. Staryy nadezhnyy.’

  ‘There’s a Russian-English dictionary somewhere in here.’ Burton started rummaging distractedly through a row of dog-eared books in the broken-backed bookcase wedged next to the sink in the narrow galley space. ‘I remember thinking it was out of place amongst all the health and safety stuff…’ She sounded almost feverish. ‘The stage managers probably used it dealing with Baranov and the Russians… Ah, got it!’

  The expression of bafflement on Noakes’s face deepened, but he kept his counsel.

  ‘Staryy nadezhnyy. Staryy nadezhnyy,’ she muttered, thumbing frantically backwards and forwards through the pages. Then, ‘Holy fuck.’ All the colour had drained from her face. ‘It means “Old Reliable”, sir.’

  ‘Would someone mind telling me what the heck’s going on?’ Noakes enquired plaintively, looking from one to the other.

  Tersely, his hands balled into fists, Markham explained.

  ‘After the burglary at Baranov’s house, Bissell must’ve decided to hide his letters in the theatre. Only, you found them,’ he concluded.

  DC Doyle’s cheerful freckled face peered round the door.

  ‘Afternoon all.’ Then, as he took in their faces, ‘What’s happened?’

  The DI sprang from his armchair.

  ‘You were with Eddie Bissell, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Dunno, sir. He and Ted Murphy split … to do their own thing, I guess.’

  ‘Where are the dancers?’

  Something in the electric atmosphere registered with the young detective.

  ‘They’re on a break now, boss.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Prob’ly just coffee and ciggies … that’s what they seem to survive on.’

  ‘What about Alexandra Fairlie?’

  ‘She had her mobile out … looked like she wanted to answer a text message.’

  ‘Doyle, I want you to locate her right now and bring her here. Don’t make a big thing of it, I don’t want the rest of them getting spooked. Get Jake Porter to track down Mr Bissell.’

  From the DI’s stance – like a coiled spring – the DC knew better than to ask any questions and promptly disappeared on his errand.

  Markham whirled round upon Burton.

  ‘Those poison pen letters you said Alex Fairlie received, Kate… Was it just insults or was there any clue as to what Bissell might have in store for her?’

  The DS frowned.

  ‘Pretty much just incoherent rambling, sir…’

  ‘Any mention of a special place… anything like that?’

  ‘Not that I… Oh, hold on a minute… There was something about putting her on a train to the underworld … completely bonkers…’

  ‘Did you say a train?’ Noakes’s massive head came up.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Well it might be nothing, but…’

  ‘Go on, Noakesy.’

  The DS took heart from Markham’s use of the diminutive.

  ‘One of the stagehands said summat about there being a little railway round the back of the basement … more like an electric tram really. The idea was that important people could go between the VIP entrance down by the stage door an’ the royal box – the one with them fancy gold curtains – without having to mix with any ordinary folk.’ The DS telegraphed his disapproval with a portentous sniff. ‘Proper snobby if you ask me.’

  ‘What happened to this tram car or whatever it was?’

  ‘Broke down on the very first day.’ Noakes smirked. ‘So, all the posh types had to walk after all. Don’t think it was used much after that.’

  ‘So, there’s some sort of door at the back of the basement?’

  ‘Yeah, like one of them old-fashioned lift gates… But no-one’s opened it in years. The key went walkabout an’ no-one’s bothered since … unless…’ He sputtered to a halt.

  ‘It may be a long shot,’ the DI said quietly, ‘but what if Eddie Bissell has the key?’

  ‘Bissell doesn’t know we’re on to him yet does he, Guv? I mean, you don’ think…’ Noakes’s pudgy features were creased with concern. ‘Why would he go after that pretty lass?’

  ‘Because he’s given up, Sergeant. Madness and paranoia have overwhelmed the man’s psychic defences… His beloved Georgi is gone and never coming back… He has killed and killed again – sacrificed his one-time friends – all for nothing.’

  ‘But she’s nobbut a little girl.’

  Markham recalled that Noakes was the only parent amongst them.

  ‘To Bissell she represents those who seduced George Baranov away from him,’ he said gently. ‘All those ballerinas Baranov worshipped and idealized while Bissell was forced to watch from the sidelines.’

  The DS swallowed hard, his thoughts travelling to the vision of Alexandra Fairlie onstage, skimming and swooping like a little kingfisher in her bright-blue sweater and black tights, copper hair swept up into a shining topknot.

  ‘Right, well, we need to nab this sicko pronto,’ he said gruffly.

  Suddenly, DC Doyle was with them again, breathing hard.

  ‘No sign of either Fairlie or Bissell,’ he said desperately. ‘It’s like they’ve vanished into thin air.’

  The final act had begun.

  15. Final Curtain

  BACK IN THE AUDITORIUM, the DI absorbed his surroundings with a heightened awareness so acute that it enveloped everything – stagehands, technicians, dancers, lights, curtains…

  Onstage, some members of the corps were limbering up with a swish of feet backwar
ds and forwards, slowly then rapidly, with an accentuated thump when the ball of the foot hit the floor. Thud, thud, thud, as though echoing the pounding of Markham’s heart. Others appeared to be psyching themselves up, chest out, head high, arms out to the side, before jumping and turning to land more or less accurately. Dissatisfied, they stopped, hands on hips, looking at their feet before repeating the movement. On the floor sat a small group, legs akimbo, mopping their dripping faces, necks and chests. One or two sewed ribbons or treated their shoes with wax, dabbing it on the soles with a toothbrush, while their colleagues gloomily contemplated bruised and blistered feet that looked like something out of a butcher’s front window. It was hardly a scene from Degas, the knitted hats, rolled-down jumpsuits and leg warmers redolent more of ragamuffins than fairy tale royalty. Marguerite Aroldingen stood in the wings with a tall blonde dancer in a practice skirt, the two women facing each other while both danced. Occasionally they stopped for a few words of comment, then they sprang into action again, like eerie mirror images of each other.

  The dancers were one and all oblivious of the hustle and bustle around them as the theatre throbbed with frantic activity.

  A snow machine gurgled in readiness, its unsightly grey pipes concealed behind the masking flats, primed to create atmosphere. Technicians bustled about importantly, checking cue lights. Follow-spot operators practised where to pick up the principals onstage. The lighting director circled the stage, issuing instructions via a microphone to crew in the lighting box at the back of the stalls. Metallic clanks echoed down from the flys as stagehands loaded up a weights cradle. The sound of a television set came through a platform from somewhere high above, clashing discordantly with the lush, poignant tones of Tchaikovsky playing through speakers. Stagehands joshed with a tiny soloist. ‘Listen, sweetheart, the greatest prima ballerina in the world can’t function unless the little guy who pulls the rope opens the curtain!’ ‘That last piece of yours had that many lifts and spins, reckon you’ll be needing a road map to get through it.’ Seeing Ted Murphy bearing down on them with a thunderous expression, they winked and made a swift getaway.