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There are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union
Reginald Hill
A superb collection of short stories from Reginald Hill, the award-winning author of the Dalziel and Pascoe novels and ‘the best living male crime writer in the English-speaking world’ (Independent)In suburban Luton, a private detective on his first case discovers that curiosity can kill more than just the cat…Meanwhile, in wartime Boulogne, one officer will do anything to ensure that his men are ready to kill for their country…And in Stalinist Moscow, Inspector Chislenko must find out why three people have just witnessed a 50-year-old murder…From France to Russia, the 1830s to 1916 and the present day, Reginald Hill has crafted half a dozen tantalizing tales of the unexpected, featuring best-loved characters such as Joe Sixmith and, of course, Andy Dalziel and Peter Pascoe.
REGINALD HILL
THERE ARE NO GHOSTS IN THE SOVIET UNION
Copyright (#ulink_c025af66-958d-5483-a51a-edbeb6601cc0)
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 (http://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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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 (#u5b3073fe-4098-5310-bde2-8e9616616863)
Title Page (#u01dea68c-e1fb-5869-bef5-911d53bac7bf)
Copyright (#u6e4a5b92-0657-5f64-a5db-c2e7d5f81df3)
There are no Ghosts in The Soviet Union (#u8bdcae61-9ec0-5bcf-bc59-6b1f828c6301)
Bring Back the Cat! (#litres_trial_promo)
The Bull Ring (#litres_trial_promo)
Auteur Theory (#litres_trial_promo)
Poor Emma (#litres_trial_promo)
Crowded Hour (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By Reginald Hill (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
there are no ghosts in the soviet union (#ulink_20145efc-a26d-5c27-a44b-3e8909cce9f1)
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.
