There are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union

by Reginald Hill

  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

  All rights reserved under International and PanAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  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 stut
tered.

  ‘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.