Page 29 of Foul Days

“That won’t be necessary, Constable Petrov.” A dark-haired man entered the room, his bright-red coat contrasting against the sea of blue. Judging by the silence that fell among the police officers, he outranked them. A few saluted.

He tipped his hat to Kosara, as if he’d met her at the local dance hall, not in the middle of breaking and entering.

“I’m sure Miss Popova will come with us voluntarily.” He flashed her a bright smile.

Who the hell is this guy?

“Detective Sergeant Asen Bakharov,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “From the Supernatural Investigations Unit.”

“I am—”

“I know who you are.” He gestured towards the door. “Please, after you.”

As Kosara walked out, she could feel Ruseva’s angry gaze on the back of her neck.

“Make sure to search her!” Ruseva shouted. And then, under her breath, “Thieving Chernogradean scum.”

6

Day Four

The Supernatural Investigations Unit was housed in what seemed to be a repurposed storage cupboard. The desk only fit in it diagonally, and if Bakharov had sat in one of the chairs next to it, he wouldn’t have been able to shut the door. Instead, he leaned on the desktop with his arms crossed and gestured at the chair across from him.

Kosara sat down and gripped the armrest so her fingers would stop trembling.

Calm down, damn it. Being calm was her only way out of this. She hadn’t touched anything in the boutique, so they couldn’t pin a burglary on her. Right?

Her best bet was to pretend she didn’t realise she’d done something wrong. What do you mean, sneaking into shops after they’re shut is illegal in Belograd? It’s one of Chernograd’s favourite pastimes! This clueless Belogradean copper would know no better.

Kosara struggled not to fidget in her seat. Her back hurt, and her neck was stiff. One solitary sunbeam squeezed through the tiny window opposite her and blinded her like a spotlight.

She needed her coffee, and a shower, and to brush her teeth. Her mouth tasted like an old ashtray. Her clothes stank of day-old sweat and the nauseating perfume of the Witch’s Cauldron. She didn’t even want to imagine what her hair looked like.

Detective Bakharov studied her, standing there in his perfectly pressed white shirt. He placed some kind of device on the desk in front of her. “Can you tell me what you were doing in the Witch’s Cauldron last night?”

“What’s that?” Kosara nodded towards the device.

“It’s a voice recorder.”

“You’re going to capture my voice?”

“It’s standard procedure. Don’t worry, it’s not dangerous.”

It’s not dangerous? He looked at her as if she was a superstitious fool. The sort of person who refused to have their picture taken out of fear the camera would steal their soul.

Kosara was from Chernograd—that didn’t make her an idiot. She simply didn’t like the idea that he’d record her, to be able to listen to what she told him over and over again, analysing her every word.

The device glared at her from the desktop, its tiny red light unblinking.

“So,” Bakharov said, “can you tell me what you were doing in the Witch’s Cauldron last night?”

Kosara inspected a small chip in her nail polish, perfectly casual. “I was just having a look.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“I can’t stand crowds.”

“You don’t seem to be grasping the seriousness of the situation. On your answers depends whether you’ll get sent back to the holding cell to await sentencing, or allowed to walk free.”

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