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 youve 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 Procurators 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 daughters apartment, eating cream chocolates.
The apartment was tiny and Natasha had given up the bed for the duration of her mothers visit and moved on to a narrow, age-corrugated sofa. Mrs Lovchevs 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 ladys 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. Hed 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 Natashas part. After all, pride in ones work and love of ones 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 didnt 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 didnt 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 policemans 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 youve 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, dont you think?
A ghost? he echoed. He must have sounded disappointed.
All right, Im sorry, she said. I know thats what my mothers 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 youve 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? Whats 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. Its 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, Moscows 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 dont see many celluloid collars about, do you? And he had button-up shoes!
Now theres 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, Id 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?
Thirties, late twenties, somewhere around then, Id 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?
Im very alert in the mornings, she retorted spiritedly.
Im 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, dont you think? Thank you for the tea, Comrade Natasha. Im sure well meet again, Ill need to keep in touch with you till this strange business is settled.
He offered his hand formally. She shook it and said, And Ill 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 didnt 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.
And Natasha, he guessed, was no fool.
Checking Josif Muntjan, the liftman, wasnt half as pleasant but just as easy. The State makes no social distinction in its records. Menial or master, once you come into its employ, you get the womb-to-tomb X-ray treatment.
Muntjan came out pretty clear. There was a record of minor offences, all involving drunkenness, but none recent, and nothing while on duty.
Indeed, the supervisor, who didnt look like a man in whom the milk of compassion flowed very freely, spoke surprisingly well of him. He expressed surprise rather than outrage at the mention of the hip-flask.
Its not an offence to own one, is it? he said. No need to report it, though, is there? Ill see he doesnt bring it to work with him again. Hell take notice of what I say. Jobs arent easy to come by when youre old and unqualified.
Chislenko nodded; the mans sympathetic understanding touched him. He clearly knew that if Muntjan were tossed out of his job, he probably wouldnt stop falling till he landed in one of those shacks on the outer ring road where the Moscow down-and-outs eked out their perilous existence. Or rather, non-existence, for of course in the perfect socialist state, such degraded beings were impossible.
Crime too was impossible. Or would be eventually. The statistics showed progress. Chislenko defended the statistics as fervently as the next man, knowing that if he didnt, the next man would probably report the deficiency. But falling though the crime rate might be, there was still a lot of it about and Chislenko resented the amount of time he had to spend on this unrewarding and absurd business at the Gorodok Building. The only profit in it was that it had brought him into contact with Natasha Lovchev, but that relationship was still as uncertain in its outcome as a new Five-Year-Plan.
He turned his attention from Muntjan to Alexei Rudakov. Here the computer confirmed his own first estimate. Rudakov was a man to be treated with respect. Only his initial foolishness in leaving the scene of the incident made him vulnerable to hard questioning. The trouble was, the harder the questioning, the firmer his story.