There are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union

REGINALD HILL
THERE ARE NO GHOSTS IN THE SOVIET UNION

Copyright

These stories are entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in them are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This edition 2007

First published in Great Britain by Collins Crime Club 1987

Copyright © Reginald Hill 1987

Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007262984

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780007370337

Version: 2015-09-16

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

There are no Ghosts in The Soviet Union

Bring Back the Cat!

The Bull Ring

Auteur Theory

Poor Emma

Crowded Hour

Keep Reading

About the Author

By Reginald Hill

About the Publisher

there are no ghosts in the soviet union

1

For Inspector Lev Chislenko, the affair began on Friday, the thirteenth of July, in a graveyard, but he did not at first think this unlucky.

A man had been spotted behaving suspiciously in the Novodevichy Cemetery which is only a block away from the Gorodok Building. Chislenko answered the call and recognized the man immediately. His name was Starov and he was a black marketeer. He was also a cocky little bastard.

‘What are you doing in the cemetery, Starov?’ asked Chislenko.

‘I like to go places where all men are truly equal,’ replied Starov. ‘I’m thinking of joining the Party.’

‘Why are you carrying two thousand roubles?’

‘It’s money I’ve been collecting for our local old folk’s holiday fund.’

‘Why did you try to run away when the custodian approached you?’

‘He didn’t approach. He jumped out from behind a big marble angel. It’s Friday the thirteenth, remember? That’s a bad kind of date. I thought maybe he was a ghost or something.’

‘There are no ghosts in the Soviet Union,’ said Chislenko unthinkingly.

Starov guffawed and accepted the unintentional invitation to complete the old joke.

‘No, they’ve all been given exit visas to Israel!’

Starov was still laughing when Sub-Inspector Kedin entered. Chislenko had sent him to contact HQ on Petrovka Street to find out what they’d got on Starov. But he returned with other pieces of news.

First, a British tourist had collapsed during a tour of the Novodevichy Convent. When his clothing was loosened to permit first aid, he was found to be wearing six pairs of jeans and twelve T-shirts.

That solved what little mystery surrounded Starov’s intentions.

Secondly, there’d just been an emergency call from the Gorodok Building.

‘A man fell down a lift-shaft from the seventh floor. Or perhaps he was pushed. It seems the caller wasn’t very coherent. Usual emergency services have been dispatched, but I said if they wanted a senior officer in charge, you were just around the corner. Hope you didn’t mind, Chief?’

Kedin was no fool. With Chislenko out of the way, he could claim this Starov case, all neatly tied up. It was a nice collar for an ambitious young officer.

On the other hand, Chislenko was not without ambition either. He knew that the Gorodok Building was the admin HQ of the important Organization of Machinery Supply, Maintenance and Service. A man who sorted out trouble there might get noticed by some very influential people.

It was a consideration Chislenko was later to recall with sad irony.

‘OK, I’ll go,’ he said, knowing that if Kedin had volunteered him, he really had no choice anyway.

‘Wrap him up nice and tight,’ he ordered, nodding at Starov.

The black marketeer grinned and said, ‘Say Inspector, you’re not related to the Chislenko, are you? Used to play for Dynamo?’

‘No. He’s not related to me either,’ retorted Chislenko sourly. He left, carefully not slamming the door.

When he arrived at the Gorodok Building he found the place in chaos. Whoever had made the emergency calls had certainly created a sense of emergency. A frenzy of firemen were trying to clear the building while a panic of police were trying to seal it off. The lift involved in the incident, which was on the south side of the building, was naturally out of use. Unfortunately so many cops, firefighters and emergency technicians had crowded into the north lift that it had broken down between the fourth and fifth floors. This meant that Chislenko, trying to establish order wherever he passed, had to labour up the stairs to the seventh floor. On the fifth landing he passed two medics giving the kiss of life to a third who had collapsed as the team sprinted upstairs to the emergency.

Chislenko did not pause but kept going to the seventh floor where by comparison things seemed almost calm. An elderly grey-faced man in lift-operator’s uniform was leaning against a wall. An out-of-breath medic stood by him with a hypodermic in one hand and a jar of smelling salts in the other, but the liftman was taking his own medication from a battered gun-metal hipflask. The smelling salts could not mask the stink of cheap vodka.

A second medic crouched before the open lift making cooing and clicking sounds as if trying to coax a reluctant puppy out from under a low bed. Two firemen in green overalls stood indifferently by. Along the corridor, fractionally opened office doors were alive with curious eyes.

Chislenko advanced and looked into the lift.

There were two women in it. One of them was middle-aged and stout. She was sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up under her several chins and her body pressed as close as it could get to the back wall. In addition her fingers were gripping a length of ornamental ribbing along the wall with a knuckle-whitening tightness which might have made sense if she were perched on a narrow ledge overlooking a precipice. Her eyes were wide and round and terrified.

Beside her knelt the other woman, in her twenties, slim and pretty, her arms wrapped comfortingly round the fat woman’s shoulders.

‘All right,’ said Chislenko in his best official manner. ‘Let’s get you out of there, shall we, madam?’

He stepped into the lift and reached down to pull the fat woman out on to the landing. Her reaction was startling. She opened her large, red, damp mouth, and started to scream.

‘You bloody idiot!’ yelled the younger woman, her face still pretty in its rage. ‘Sod off, will you? Get out! Half-wit!’

Baffled, Chislenko retreated.

The liftman was looking only slightly less grey than his gun-metal flask, but Chislenko was running short of sympathetic patience.

‘You the one who made the calls?’ he demanded.

‘That’s right, boss,’ said the man. ‘Muntjan. Josif Muntjan. Oh Christ!’

He took another drink.

‘All right, Muntjan. What happened?’

The man shook his head as if this were a question beyond reach of any answer he could give.

‘You reported a man had fallen down the lift-shaft, is that true?’

‘Pushed,’ said Muntjan. ‘Not fallen. Pushed.’

There was a phone on the wall a little way down the corridor. Chislenko went to it, studied the directory sheet, and dialled the code for the basement.

A voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘Who’s that?’ said Chislenko.

‘Who’s that?’ echoed the voice.

‘Chislenko. Inspector, MVD. I’m in charge,’ said Chislenko challengingly.

To his surprise the man laughed.

‘You’ll get no quarrel from me, Inspector. Brodsky, Fire Officer. How can I help you?’

‘I assume you’re examining the bottom of the lift-shaft. What have you found?’

‘Fag-packets. Dust. Cockroaches. Spiders. I can send up samples if you like.’

‘No body?’ said Chislenko.

‘No body. Nobody. No sign of any body or anybody. Not in the shaft or up the shaft. Oh, and before you ask, Inspector, we’ve checked the north lift too. The same. We’ve been hoaxed.’

Slowly Chislenko replaced the receiver. No wonder the man had laughed. It was a well-known injustice of the security service world that the man in charge of a wild goose chase usually ended up with bird-shit on his head.

‘All right, Muntjan,’ he said, putting on what he thought of as his KGB expression. ‘Start talking. And this time I want the truth! What the hell’s been going on here?’

Muntjan belched, then began to laugh. True, there was something hysterical in it, but Chislenko was growing tired of people laughing every time he spoke. He clenched his right fist. The medic looked away. Only a fool let himself become a witness to police brutality.

Muntjan saw the fist too and shrugged. Suddenly he was the sempiternal peasant who knows all things are sent to try him and resistance is pointless.

He began to talk.

By the time he’d finished, Chislenko wished he’d never begun.

According to Muntjan, the lift had been descending from the upper floors. In it were the two women and a middle-aged man.

On the seventh floor the lift had stopped. When the doors opened, there was one man waiting there.

‘Going down,’ said Muntjan.

The man hadn’t moved. He didn’t seem to have noticed the lift’s arrival. Muntjan looked closely at him to make sure he wasn’t anyone important. He was slightly built, in his mid-twenties, very blond, wearing a double-breasted suit of old-fashioned cut. He wasn’t one of the Building’s regulars.

Deciding he didn’t look all that important, Muntjan said, ‘If you’re coming, boss, get your skates on. These folk have got places they want to be!’

Still the man didn’t move. The middle-aged man in the lift cleared his throat impatiently. The two women went on chattering away to each other. And now someone else appeared, an older man in his early thirties who must have been wearing rubber-soled shoes, so silent was his approach. The first man glanced round at him with a smile of recognition. The newcomer responded by putting his arm round the first man’s shoulders in what seemed a simple gesture of greeting.

And then he thrust the blond man violently into the lift.

The smile vanished from his face, being replaced by amazement modulating into terror.

He attempted to draw back, teetering like a frightened child on the edge of a swimming pool. But his centre of balance was too far forward and, willy-nilly he stepped into the lift.

And now Muntjan hesitated in his hitherto fluent and detailed tale.

‘Go on,’ prompted Chislenko.

Muntjan took a last suck at his flask. It was clearly empty. He shrugged and said, ‘He went through the floor, boss.’

‘Went through the floor?’

Chislenko stepped up to the lift again and looked inside. The two women had not changed position. The floor on which he had stood in his vain attempt to get the fat woman out looked as solid as it had felt. He went back to Muntjan.

‘Went through the floor!’ he said angrily.

‘You’ve got it, boss. Went through it like it didn’t exist. Clean through it, flapping his arms like a fledgeling too young to fly. And that was it. All over in a second. Clean through. No trace, except …’

‘Except what?’ said Chislenko, eager for something – anything – to get a hold of.

‘I thought there was kind of a long shriek, tailing away, but very distant, like a train at night, a long long way off, you know what I mean?’

‘No,’ said Chislenko. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t begin to know what you mean.’

He returned to the lift. The two pairs of eyes looked at him, one pair terrified, the other angry.

‘Right through?’ he said. ‘You mean, here?’

He pointed down.

‘That’s right, boss.’

Gingerly he stepped forward on to the solid floor, rocked gently from heel to toe, and finally jumped a foot in the air and crashed down with all his weight.

This experiment had an unexpected bonus. The fat woman shrieked out loud and swooned away, releasing her grip on the ribbing.

‘You insensitive bastard!’ exploded the young woman in a new extreme of fury which still did not touch her beauty.

Chislenko stepped back and said to the medics. ‘For God’s sake, get that lump out of there!’

Once they had dragged her into the corridor, the medics started ministering to the recumbent woman and the firemen started examining the lift. The younger woman looked as if she was ready for another explosion, but Chislenko had had enough.

‘Papers,’ he said, snapping his fingers.

She glowered at him, but said nothing as she opened her bag. The ritual of examining identity papers has assumed an almost sacramental status in Moscow and employees of the state know better than to risk any official blasphemy.

‘You are Natasha Lovchev?’

‘Yes.’

‘Employed in the Organization of Machinery Supply, Maintenance, and Service?’

‘Yes.’

‘As a secretary/typist in the Engineering Resources Division?’

‘As personal assistant to the Deputy Chief Costings Officer,’ she retorted indignantly.

Chislenko was amused but didn’t show it.

‘It says secretary/typist here,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know. It was a recent promotion and I haven’t had my papers changed yet.’

Chislenko allowed himself to look dubious and the girl continued, ‘I have an office of my own; at least, I only share it with one other assistant. It’s on the eighth floor. I was showing it to my mother here before we went to lunch.’

‘Ah. This lady is your mother,’ said Chislenko, looking down at the fat woman who now opened her eyes and looked around in bewilderment.

‘Yes. She’s here in Moscow visiting me. Please, Comrade Inspector, may I now take her home? You can see she is not well. All this has been far too much for her.’

These were the first truly unaggressive words she had addressed to Chislenko and he was touched by her filial concern, and also by her big brown eyes which were as lovely in appeal as they were in anger. But there was still work to be done.

‘All what has been too much for her?’ he inquired. ‘Perhaps you could give me your version of what happened here, Miss Lovchev.’

‘You want to hear it again?’

Chislenko’s heart stuttered.

‘Again?’

‘Yes. I heard Josif here tell you all about it just now.’

She gestured at the liftman, who nodded at the mention of his name and said, ‘There you are, boss,’ defiantly.

‘You mean you confirm what this … fellow has just told me? About a passenger being pushed into the lift and going through the floor?’

‘Yes, of course I do. I don’t pretend to understand it, but that’s what happened,’ she retorted, defiant in her turn.

‘Then please tell me this, Comrade Personal Assistant to the Deputy Chief Costings Officer,’ said Chislenko sarcastically. ‘Where is this man? There’s no one down the lift-shaft because we’ve looked there. So where is he? Come to that, where’s the man who pushed him? And didn’t you say there was another man in the lift, Muntjan?’

The liftman nodded.

‘Did you see him too, Miss Lovchev?’

‘Of course I did,’ snapped the girl.

‘Then where is he, too?’ demanded Chislenko. ‘Tell me that, if you can!’

He paused to enjoy his rhetorical triumph, but it was spoilt almost instantly by Muntjan who said, ‘He’s there, boss. That’s him,’ and pointed over Chislenko’s shoulder.

The Inspector turned. Three men had appeared at the head of the stairway next to the lift-shaft. Two of them were uniformed policemen flanking the third, a man of middle age, bespectacled, carrying a briefcase and slightly out of breath after his ascent.

‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Natasha. ‘Now can I get my mother out of here?’

She knelt beside the fat woman, angrily waving the medics aside. The newly arrived trio came to a halt. Chislenko had a sense of things slipping out of control. There were far too many spectators for a start. Doors which had been opened just a crack were now wide ajar as those behind them grew more confident. He had no doubt the stairs were jammed with inquisitive auditors from other floors. He really ought to clear everyone away and start from scratch, in an empty room, seeing individual witnesses one at a time. But in some odd illogical way he felt this would make him lose face in the eyes of the young woman.

‘Report,’ he barked at the policemen.

‘We caught this one trying to escape out of the back of the building, sir,’ replied one of the officers.

‘Rubbish,’ said their prisoner calmly.

‘Speak when you’re spoken to!’ snarled the policeman.

‘Certainly. You’ve just spoken to me, haven’t you? I said, rubbish. Far from trying to escape, I merely walked at a normal pace out of a normal exit from this building. And far from being caught, I stopped the moment you addressed me and returned here at your request without demur.’

‘Identification,’ rapped Chislenko.

The man produced a set of papers which identified him as Alexei Rudakov, a mechanical engineer currently working at a high level in the planning department of the new Dnieper dam project. Also he was a Party member. Chislenko’s eyes drifted from the papers to Rudakov’s person, to the good cloth of his well-cut suit, to the soft leather of his shoes.

‘Thank you, Comrade,’ he said courteously, returning the papers. ‘Would you mind answering a few questions?’

‘If I must,’ sighed the man.

‘First of all, can you confirm that you were travelling in this lift when the … er … incident occurred.’

‘I can,’ said Rudakov.

‘I see,’ said Chislenko. ‘Now I find that very curious, Comrade.’

‘It was curious,’ said the man.

‘No. I mean I find it curious that a man of your standing, a Party member too, should have left the scene of an … er … incident so rapidly when you must have known it was your duty to stay.’

‘I heard the operator here ringing the emergency services,’ offered the engineer in what was clearly only a token excuse.

‘Nevertheless.’

Rudakov sighed again.

‘I’m sorry. Yes, of course, you’re quite right. I should have stayed. But for what, Comrade Inspector? You put your finger on it just now. I am a man of standing and reputation, both in my profession and in the Party too. That’s just what I was thinking of when I left. Let me explain. In my job, I deal with facts and figures, with exact calculation, with solid materials. The Party too, as you well know, is based upon figures and facts, on historic inevitability and economic practicality.’

He paused to permit Chislenko and most of the others present to nod their grave agreement. The kneeling girl, however, permitted her filial feelings to overcome her patriotism to the point of rolling her lovely eyes to the ceiling in exasperation at all this male verbiage, and one of the firemen, who had finished their examination of the lift and lit cigarettes, broke wind gently.

Chislenko suspected this was an offence, but he already felt ridiculous enough without pursuing a charge of ‘farting against the State’.

‘So, Comrade Inspector,’ resumed the engineer, ‘you can see how unattractive I found the idea of having to wait here and bear testimony to something as bizarre as this … incident. Duty is not the only imperative. Suddenly I found myself walking down the stairs. I’m sorry, but I’m sure that an intelligent man like yourself will sympathize and understand.’

Oh yes! thought Chislenko. You’re so bloody right, Comrade!

He looked with loathing at the escorting policemen. If only they hadn’t been so fucking conscientious! This whole ridiculous business was beginning to smell like bad news for clever Inspector Chislenko’s bright future. Up to this point, things had remained manageable – just! The testimony of an hysterical woman (in official terms, Mrs Lovchev’s hysteria was abundant enough to cover her daughter also), and of a drunken and superstitious peasant (in official terms, this description fitted anyone in an unskilled job whose testimony did not suit the police), could have been easily disposed of. But how the hell was he to deal with this pillar of respectability? One thing was certain; his previous instinct had been right. He must get away from all these inquisitive eyes and ears.

He said carefully, ‘It is, of course, every citizen’s duty to act in the best interests of the State, as he sees them, Comrade. Let us see if we can find somewhere quiet to take your statement.’

‘No!’ exclaimed the girl, Natasha, beautifully angry once again. ‘Let him tell what he saw here, in front of everyone like the rest of us!’

There was a murmur of agreement the whole length of the corridor, stilled as Chislenko glared angrily around. Who the hell did these people think they were dealing with?

But before he could let them know quite clearly who was in charge here, Rudakov cut the ground from under his feet by saying, ‘The young lady may be right, Comrade Inspector. I wished to remain silent and uninvolved, but your efficiency has prevented that. Now that you’ve shown me my duty, the least I can do is to tell you simply and without prevarication what has taken place. So here goes.’

It was disastrous. He confirmed in precise unemotional tones every detail of what the others had said.

Chislenko let out a deep sigh. There was only one thing left to do, pass the buck upwards and hope to be agile enough to dodge out of the way when as usual it came bouncing straight back down.

2

There had been two days of silence from the Procurator’s office and Chislenko was beginning to hope that his initial report had been allowed to sink to the bed of that ocean of paper which washed around the basement of Petrovka, the Moscow Headquarters of the MVD.

Unfortunately he himself did not dare let things lie. Official procedure required the making of follow-up reports, each one of which increased the risk of drawing unwelcome attention. It was necessary, for example, to visit Mrs Lovchev to get her version of events once she had recovered sufficiently to speak. He found her clearly enjoying the role of convalescent, sitting up in bed in her daughter’s apartment, eating cream chocolates.

The apartment was tiny and Natasha had given up the bed for the duration of her mother’s visit and moved on to a narrow, age-corrugated sofa. Mrs Lovchev’s version of events differed from the others only in style. It was colourful, melodramatic and drawn out beyond belief and tolerance by family reminiscence, folklore analogy, and in-depth analysis of the lady’s own emotions at each stage of the narrative.

The positive side of the interview was that it gave him a chance to get to know Natasha Lovchev rather better. He’d checked her records in the State Employees computer, of course, and found nothing against her. It had been necessary to mention in his report that she had had no official authority for inviting her mother to see her new office, but he pointed to this as evidence of the extremely lax security at the Gorodok Building rather than dereliction of duty on Natasha’s part. After all, pride in one’s work and love of one’s mother were both figured in the official list of virtues published by the Committee on Internal Morale and Propaganda each year.

Natasha was present during his interview of Mrs Lovchev. From time to time she interrupted, but Chislenko didn’t mind, especially as her interruptions, which were at first defensive of her mother, became increasingly more embarrassed and irritated as that good lady rambled on and on, till finally she rescued the Inspector from the little bedroom and led him out in to the equally small living-room, closing the door firmly behind her.

She didn’t apologize for her mother and Chislenko admired her for that. Children should never apologize for their parents. But her offer of a cup of tea was clearly compensatory and conciliatory. And as they drank and talked, Chislenko found himself aware with his male receptors of what he had already noted with his policeman’s eye, that Natasha was very pretty indeed. Not only pretty, but pleasant, interesting and bright. Chislenko felt able to relax a little, and enjoy the tea and her company and a brief moment off duty.

‘What do you really make of all this?’ he asked her. ‘Now you’ve had time to think about it. Off the record.’

‘Off the record?’ She regarded him with an open scepticism and then shrugged and wiped it off with a stunning smile. ‘Well, off the record, it has to be a ghost, don’t you think?’

‘A ghost?’ he echoed. He must have sounded disappointed.

‘All right, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know that’s what my mother’s been going on about for the past half-hour and you hoped for something more original from me. Perhaps I could dress it up for you. A para-psychological phenomenon, how would that sound in your report? Or perhaps you prefer a delusive projection produced by localized mass-hysteria, perhaps relatable to repressed claustrophobia triggered by the lift.’

‘Now I like the sound of that,’ he said, only half joking. So far, until his reports were complete, he had avoided anything like a conclusion, opinion or recommendation. This kind of phraseology sounded just the ticket.

Natasha snorted derisively.

‘Use any jargon you like,’ she said firmly. ‘In my book, any human figure which passes clean through a material barrier is a ghost. Go back in records and look for an accident happening in that lift-shaft. The past is where your investigation should be, if you’ve got the nerve.’

She was mocking him, but the gibe struck home. The idea had actually occurred to him, but he had dismissed it at once, and not merely because it was absurd. No; an ambitious thirty-year-old inspector of police knew that his every move was scrutinized with great care, and he had no desire to find himself explaining that he was examining old records in order to test a ghost hypothesis!

He covered his discomfiture with a smile, and returning mockery for mockery, he said, ‘Why the past? What’s wrong with precognition? If you believe in ghosts, surely, you believe in visions too? Perhaps this was an event which has yet to happen.’

‘Oh no,’ she said sombrely. ‘It’s happened.’

‘How so sure?’

‘The clothes,’ she said.

‘The clothes?’ He cast his mind back to the witness statements. ‘Yes, I recall, there was something about an old-fashioned suit. But, good lord, Moscow’s full of old-fashioned suits! Who can afford a new-fashioned suit these days?’

The question was rhetorical since any attempt to answer it would almost certainly have involved a slander of the State.

She said, ‘It was more than that. It was, well, a new old-fashioned suit, if you follow me. And he was wearing a celluloid collar too. Now, old-fashioned suits may be plentiful still, but you don’t see many celluloid collars about, do you? And he had button-up shoes!’

‘Now there’s a thing!’ said Chislenko. ‘So what kind of dating would you put on this outfit?’

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. It would have been very easy to lean forward and kiss them but Chislenko was not letting himself relax that far. Not yet anyway; the thought popped up unexpectedly, surprisingly, but not unwelcomely.

‘’Thirties, late ’twenties, somewhere around then, I’d say,’ she said.

He laughed out loud and said, ‘Now that is interesting. When you go to work in the morning do you ever look up?’

‘Look up?’ She was puzzled.

‘Yes, up.’ He raised his head and his eyes till he was looking at the angle where the yellowing paper on the walls met the flaking whitewash on the ceiling. ‘Or is it head down, eyes half closed, drift along till you reach your desk?’

‘I’m very alert in the mornings,’ she retorted spiritedly.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Then you must have noticed that huge concrete slab above the main door. The one inscribed. The Gorodok Building. Dedicated to the Greater Glory of the USSR and opened by Georgiy Malenkov in June 1949.

‘Nineteen forty-nine,’ she echoed. ‘Oh. I see. Nineteen forty-nine.’

‘Yes. Part of our great post-war reconstruction programme,’ he said, rising. ‘A little late for celluloid collars and button-up shoes, don’t you think? Thank you for the tea, Comrade Natasha. I’m sure we’ll meet again, I’ll need to keep in touch with you till this strange business is settled.’

He offered his hand formally. She shook it and said, ‘And I’ll be very interested to learn how you manage to settle it, Comrade Inspector.’

He smiled and squeezed her hand. She returned neither squeeze nor smile. He didn’t blame her. Only a fool would allow a couple of minutes’ friendly chat to break down the barriers of caution and suspicion which always exist between public and police.