Catherine Moloney [Moloney - Crime in the Ballet

CRIME IN

THE BALLET

(Detective Markham Book 5)

CATHERINE MOLONEY

Published by Joffe Books, London, 2019.

www.joffebooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the authors rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Catherine Moloney to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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CONTENTS

Dedication

For Jacquel, Simon and Family.

Prologue

PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT THEATRES were dead romantic should take a shufti backstage, thought Jake Porter, assistant stage manager of the Bromgrove Royal Court, sniffing grimly as he inhaled a pungent potpourri of smells: over one hundred years of dust; horse glue; fire-retardant spray; methylated spirits; rotting costumes; plus an all-pervading smell of sweaty feet and bodies which seemed to seep through every crack, joist and beam in the building. To say nothing of additional aromatherapy provided by the under-stage canteen whose last weeks lasagne, carrots and cabbage came wafting up through the dip-traps, where innumerable cables were plugged safely out of the way under the stage floor.

And yet, blinking mole-like in the gloom of the unlighted theatre, Jake felt the familiar excitement. A curious sense of wonder and mystery, as though the powdery labyrinth of scenery, props and make-up boxes were the portals to an enchanted kingdom.

He had never expected to feel like this when he applied for the job on completion of his HNC Diploma in Performing Arts at Bromgrove University. Saw it as a stepping stone to a career in corporate events management more blue-chip, as his trainee solicitor girlfriend put it. But something about the outwardly unprepossessing little red-brick theatre behind the council offices in Bromgrove town centre had seized hold of his imagination, so that the peacock-blue and gold auditorium, its tiers rising trimly like some celestial confectionary, whispered to him of bewitched palaces, princes and princesses a world utterly removed from the grey reality of everyday. And then came the dancers whose steps seemed to grow out of their bodies as if they had drawn them on the air.

The theatre was home to two companies, Bromgrove Ballet and The Bromgrove Players, which shared its facilities (more or less amicably) on a rotating basis. For the next fortnight, in the run-up to Christmas, the ballet company would be preparing The Nutcracker as its seasonal offering for the good burghers of Bromgrove. It was a safe bet for the festive period, thought Jake, with all the fantasy toys and animals. The kids were bound to love it, especially the bit where the Rat King and his mice fought the Nutcracker Doll. He gave a pleasurable shudder as he recalled the sinister be-whiskered headdresses created for the production by students at Bromgrove College of Art. Harry Potter, eat your heart out!

Come to think of it, he should check the inventory for the Sunday load-in, now that the removal lorries had disgorged The Nutcracker props and scenery through the dock doors. Better get down to the basement and crack on, otherwise it would be evening before he knew it. He didnt much fancy the idea of being alone with the Royal Courts resident ghost a doorkeeper who, so the story went, murdered the young ballerina with whom he had been infatuated and would nightly haunt the upper circle to watch her perform. Its a load of old bollocks, was Jakes invariable response to reports of a cold spot or icy draughts, but he nevertheless tried to avoid late nights on his own.

Making his way to the side door at the front of the auditorium, Jake ascertained that it was already dark outside. After the mustiness backstage, the cold crisp winter air made him feel giddy, like wine that had gone straight to his head. He took two or three deep breaths and then slipped back inside.

Then it was round to the basement via the infamously named back passage, and along twisting corridors painted institutional green and cream, avoiding caged-in belching hot pipes, till he came to the docking area.

Incredible to think that, from this forest of painted flats, endless wicker baskets and rail after rail of costumes, there would emerge a magical dream world of incredible effects. At that moment, the dingy subterranean space felt more like a mortuary.

Unfortunate comparison.

Jake was suddenly acutely aware of the silence, broken only by the hollow percussive rattling and creaking of assorted pipes and rafters.

Clearing his throat, he squinted at his clipboard and sighed.

God, it would take forever to work through this lot. For all that he badly wanted to impress his pernickety superior Ted Murphy, Jakes enthusiasm took a sharp nosedive as he surveyed all the paraphernalia of the new ballet wigs, shoes and box after box of accessories. All in marked white canvas bags, like schoolkids luggage at boarding school. The thought made him grin. Thats what some of the dancers were like. Big overgrown kids. Hed never forget his shock when one tiny bejewelled ballerina came off stage swearing like a trooper. If your fucking boss cant sort out that fucking scenery how I fucking want it, then him and me are gonna fall out. And with that she splay-footed her way crossly up the wings before floating ethereally back onstage, the perfect incarnation of a swan princess. The memory made him laugh out loud and he suddenly felt better.

A low thrumming made him start.

Just some black relay speakers humming quietly.

No cause for alarm.

Jake returned his attention to the clipboard.

Hold on.

Mannequins . What was that all about?

Then his brain cleared. Oh yeah, that must be for the Land of Sweets in the second act. Life-size lollipops Liquorice Allsorts or some such

But where were they, these mannequins?

Wait a minute wasnt that a dummy propped up against the rail with the drapes and cloths for the masking flats?

Jake frowned. The figure didnt have the right headdress It looked like it was wearing the Rat King mask

He felt an unaccountable repugnance creep over him at the sight of the eerily lifelike costume, coupled with a strange reluctance to go nearer.

Come on, lad, get a grip, he told himself. Its a kiddies fairy tale, not Nightmare on Elm Street.

And still he stood there, irresolute.

Above, in the auditorium, he thought he heard a door slam. But he knew he was the only one left in the building. Everyone else had gone for the night

Bracing his shoulders, Jake returned to the matter in hand. Time to check out these mismatched props.

One foot nearer. Two feet nearer. And then his heart stopped.

The dummy wasnt a dummy.

Some bloke was sitting there wearing the Rat Kings fibreglass head.

God, hed kill the lads for this. Nearly gave him a coronary. Bloody stupid stunt to pull.

Okay, mate, he said hoarsely, looking around as though expecting a bevy of sniggering stagehands to emerge from the shadows. Jokes over. Youve had your fun. He cleared his throat. Take that thing off. Ive got work to do here.