Have you ever wondered why police officers are so grim? Not because they’re all corrupt or lazy. But because even the best of them — those with a spark in their eyes and faith in the system — sooner or later realise that evil cannot be stopped. Only delayed. And even that is sometimes too much to swallow.

My name is Dimo Kolev. Senior Inspector. Or at least that’s what it says on the nameplate beside my office door, if anyone still bothers to read it. Years ago, that title meant something. To me, to the people around me, to the system. Now it’s just a word. Like most words, really.

I’m sitting in the bar on the corner. Not because I like the bar on the corner — the beer here is mediocre and the music is too loud for a Thursday evening. I’m sitting here because I need to sort things out in my head and my office at the precinct smells of disappointment and failure. At least here it smells of hops and other people’s conversations. More bearable.

I’m going to tell you about the last few weeks. Not because I want to. But because three beers ago I realised that if I don’t, I’ll keep turning the same dark and demoralising thoughts over like an old cassette tape until I go mad.

It all started on a Thursday.

I was at the precinct. Drinking my coffee — cold, because I always forget to drink it while it’s hot — and listening to colleagues discuss a new case. A missing woman. Fifty-three years old. Irina Dimitrova. Her husband had reported her missing only after forty-eight hours from their last contact. Forty-eight hours. The man waited two full days before picking up the phone. People are interesting animals.

I listened and thought to myself — the woman had simply decided her life had taken the wrong route. Fifty-three is exactly the age at which you realise time doesn’t come back and you decide to do something about it. Maybe she’d found a younger lover. Maybe she’d just sat down on the first bus and headed somewhere nobody knew her. I couldn’t judge her. If I had any life left in me, I’d probably have done the same.

I looked at my colleagues and was glad it wasn’t me who’d have to dig through the paperwork on a dull missing-woman case. After all, sometimes my title does count for something. I drank the cold coffee and went back to my own problems.

Vasil Ivanov walked into my office without knocking. He never knocks. The boss is the boss. He sat across from me, crossed his arms, and looked at me the way people look at something they’ve decided to use even though they don’t particularly like it.

„Kolev. The missing woman case. Dimitrova. It’s yours.“

I looked at him. Then at my coffee. Then back at him. Apparently, I was the lucky loser.

„Chief—“

„Don’t chief me at all.“ He raised a hand. „I know what you’re going to say. I know what you’re thinking. I’m not interested in either.“

„Why me?“ I asked. „There are younger people, fresher people—“

„Because it’s in our district.“ His voice shifted slightly. Not louder, but harder. „And because I’m running for mayor of this district. And because missing middle-aged women that nobody knows anything about are bad publicity for everyone. Especially for me.“

I understood. Vasil Ivanov wasn’t a bad man. He was an ambitious man, which is different. In the end, I owed him more than I liked to admit.

„How much time do I have?“

„As much as necessary. But not much.“ He stood. „And Kolev — this is your last chance to prove to me that you’re still the same man I know.“

He left. I stayed with the empty cup and the new case. Damned Thursday. It had turned into a bad omen for me.

Going to the building where the missing woman had lived was the only sensible thing I did that day. A standard residential block in a standard neighbourhood. The entrance smelled of damp plaster and cooking from the upper floors. I looked up at the camera beside the elevator and for a moment felt something close to optimism.

I found the building manager. A small, nervous man with glasses too large for his face.

„The camera,“ I said. „Does it work?“

He looked at me with the look people give to questions they don’t want to answer.

„Not working for about three months,“ he said. „We’re waiting for a technician.“

Three months. Of course.

I found the husband. A man of about sixty, with tired eyes and hands accustomed to doing things, now folded uselessly in his lap. His name was Nikolai. He told me about Irina quietly and methodically, as if speaking calmly enough would make the story sound more normal.

They’d lived quietly. Two children at university. A villa outside the city. They liked to hike. They loved climbing together. They’d been planning to go to the theatre that evening.

„When did you last see her?“ I asked.

„Tuesday morning,“ he said. „Before I left for work. She was fine. She was laughing at something I’d said. She always laughed at my jokes, even when they weren’t funny.“

He went quiet.

„Nothing unusual?“ I asked.

„Nothing.“

„Why didn’t you do something sooner — that same evening, when she didn’t come home? You mentioned you were supposed to go to the theatre together.“

„Yes, that was the plan. Irina and I had a difficult few years after the children went their own way. There were moments when she… gave herself time just for herself, and sometimes forgot the commitments we’d made together. I assumed this was one of those times.“

Interesting. What if Irina really had run away with someone? I wouldn’t want to imagine what Nikolai was feeling if my assumptions were right. I decided not to push further. Sometimes it’s better to let people say as much as they want to say at that particular moment. And the investigation was only just at the beginning. Pressuring Nikolai wasn’t going to lead anywhere useful.

I questioned the neighbours too. Everyone said the same — the family was quiet, never any noise, no arguments. Last seen Tuesday afternoon, coming back towards their apartment. Nobody remembered seeing her leave again, but there was no way to verify that with the camera out of order.

I went back to the car and sat down. I looked at my notebook. Irina Dimitrova. Fifty-three years old. Hadn’t worked in two years. Attended a climbing club nearby. Theatre with her husband Tuesday evening. Didn’t show up for their plans. Husband reported her disappearance later than normal? Last seen — Tuesday afternoon?

I drove to the climbing club.

The owner was a tall woman with a practical air and trainers, clearly accustomed to long distances.

„Irina?“ she said. „Yes, she was here on Tuesday. She seemed in very good spirits. She was saying she and her husband were going to a new production that evening. She left around two in the afternoon.“

„And after that?“

„Nothing. I expected her to message me after the theatre — she always shared things like that. It didn’t happen and I thought she might have been too tired.“

„You say she shared things with you often — do you have any sense of whether she and her husband were having problems? Whether Irina had anything going on that her husband would be better off not knowing about?“

„Irina with a lover?“ The owner laughed. „I’d sooner expect a dog to start talking than her to leave her husband. Yes, they had problems — a monotonous life, an emptiness after the children left. But the only thing that ever happened with her was that sometimes she preferred giving herself an hour or two more, rather than going straight home.“

„And what exactly did that… giving herself time… look like?“ I wasn’t sure whether she was deliberately choosing words that could lead the conversation wherever was convenient for her.

„Well, giving herself time — this isn’t just a place to train, it’s a place to socialise too. Sometimes she’d just stay behind with me, have a drink, and we’d talk until late.“

I went back to the car. Sat down again. Looked at my notebook again. Added — last seen Tuesday, around 2pm, leaving the climbing club. The owner shared what she wanted me to have as information. She might be covering something. A lover?

No leads. No theories — only empty and groundless speculation. Damned Thursday.

Days passed. I questioned friends, neighbours, acquaintances. Looked for signs of a possible affair — nothing. Irina Dimitrova seemed exactly as ordinary as everyone wanted to believe. An ordinary woman, who had lived an ordinary life, and disappeared in an extraordinary way.

Time passed without giving me the chance to catch it on a better day. Or at least to prepare myself.

Thursday. Again.

I walked into the precinct a little later than usual. The previous evening I’d spent in contemplation and drinking. Perhaps more of the latter. I read from the faces of my colleagues that something had happened. Vasil called me into his office before I’d taken my jacket off. He looked tense in a way that was different from usual. Colder.

„They found body parts,“ he said. „Kilometers from our district. DNA matches the woman from your case.“

I sat down without being told to sit.

„Parts,“ I repeated.

„Yes.“ A pause. „Bone fragments and parts of soft tissue. The pathologist says acid was used. It acted partially — either someone used too little or was interrupted. No signs of physical violence on the preserved tissue. Identification was made from dental records.“

„Have you spoken to the pathologist?“ I asked. „Because I haven’t. And how, for God’s sake, are you getting this information before I do? Who’s running this case?“

Vasil looked at me for a moment.

„You were late this morning, Kolev. Not for the first time lately. I couldn’t wait.“

I had nothing to say. I looked at his hands. This man had done a great deal for me over the years and now I felt that somehow, I didn’t care whether he fired me — only that I was letting him down.

„Cause of death?“ I said finally.

„The pathologist can’t determine it precisely. From the preserved parts — nothing. But the acid speaks for itself.“

„Kolev.“ Vasil’s voice changed. „There’s no progress on this case. No theories, no suspects, nothing. The media will soon find out the missing woman was murdered and they’ll eat me alive.“ A pause. „I don’t know anymore whether you’re sober or not. I don’t know if I can trust you.“

I should have said something. Instead, I kept looking at his hands.

„But murders are your specialty,“ he continued, more quietly. He was looking down. „That’s why I’m not taking you off the case. Instead, I’m giving you a partner.“

„What? Am I a babysitter now? Or under surveillance?!“

„Maria Todorova. Just transferred to us. Smart. Thorough. She’ll review your work.“ He looked at me. „Don’t take it personally.“

I walked out of his office and almost walked straight into her.

Maria Todorova was young — too young — with that kind of focus in her eyes that people have before the world has shown them what it actually does to people. For a moment something in me contracted. She reminded me of someone I seemed to have never seen except in my dreams. My daughter.

„Inspector Kolev?“ she said. „Maria Todorova. I have a few questions about the case.“

„The answers aren’t in the precinct,“ I said, picking up my jacket. „Let’s go.“

We went to the pathologist together. I wanted to hear everything from him directly.

The pathologist was a small, dry man with a sense of humor too dark even for me.

„Teeth are the last thing we abandon,“ he said, while I looked through the reports. „Perhaps because they’re the only honest thing about us.“

Maria looked at him without smiling. I understood her.

He told us in detail. Bone fragments and parts of soft tissue, found scattered within a few kilometers. The acid had acted unevenly — probably insufficient quantity or the wrong concentration. No signs of physical violence on the preserved parts, but the pathologist was careful to clarify — that didn’t mean violence hadn’t occurred. Only that the evidence hadn’t survived.

We went outside. Maria immediately opened her notebook.

„Someone with access to acid,“ she said. „Industrial. What kinds of businesses use such substances?“

I looked at her. Smart. Thorough. Exactly what Vasil had said. Another damned Thursday.

We had to go and see Nikolai. The news about his wife’s remains had already reached him — Vasil had taken care of that too, without me. He looked strange. Like those people who don’t accept reality for what it is. No anger, no grief. Only resignation.

„Inspector Kolev.“

Maria found me in the office on Monday morning with that look people have when they’ve found something and can barely contain themselves.

„I checked all the buildings in the area,“ she said. „There’s a shop about a hundred and fifty meters from Irina’s building. Camera at the entrance. The angle isn’t directly towards the building, but it captures part of the pedestrian flow.“

We went to the shop. How had none of the analysts sent to the neighbourhood noticed this? Maybe I wasn’t the only one with problems concentrating — and with the drinking.

The owner was a retired man, clearly delighted by any interruption to the monotony of his day, and produced the recordings without unnecessary questions.

The quality was poor. Black and white, blurred, like looking through frosted glass. But it was enough to say we finally had a lead.

Tuesday. Around 2:30pm. A car parked near the entrance of the building. On the doors and rear — the logo of a cleaning company. A male figure, coming from the direction of the building, carrying a large load — something bulky, wrapped. Face unidentifiable. Registration plate partially visible. Three digits and two letters.

„Thank you,“ I said.

We spent the rest of the day with Maria analysing the image of the car. We established it belonged to a cleaning company. It was in the industrial zone. Small office, smell of chemicals and old paper. The manager — a stocky man with a suspicious look — received us without enthusiasm.

„Did you have a job at this building in the last month?“ I asked and gave him the address.

„No.“

„Are you sure?“

„Yes. I personally log all jobs. We haven’t been anywhere near that neighbourhood in a year — it’s too clean for our services.“

„Do you have a car with these plates?“ I showed him the partial number.

He checked. Nodded.

„Who was driving it on this date?“ I pointed to the date on the calendar on his desk.

He pulled out a handwritten notebook — old, with creased edges — and leafed through it. Pointed to a line. We had a name.

On the way, Maria looked so excited it was as if her parents had just promised her a trip to Disneyland. That same naivety. She doesn’t suspect yet how ugly the world actually is.

The driver lived in a neighbourhood close to the company’s office. We found him at home — a calm man of about forty, with working hands and a confused expression.

„A month ago?“ he said. „I worked until two. Then I picked up my child from the rehearsal of the school play he’s in.“

We checked. The teachers confirmed. A video on another parent’s phone — someone who’d been filming content for social media — showed him in the hall at exactly the time the figure on the camera was loading something into the car.

We went back to the cleaning company’s office. Dead end. The company’s cars were old. No GPS device. No tracking system. Just the handwritten notebook with names and assignments.

Leaving the office, I almost walked into a man coming through the door. Tall, with a tired look, his jacket slightly creased.

„Sorry,“ he said and stepped aside.

„Do you work here?“ I asked — automatically, out of habit.

„Yes.“

„I’m Inspector Kolev. My partner and I are investigating a death. A car from your company was in the area of the building where the victim lived, roughly around the time she was last seen. Has it ever happened — with you or any of your colleagues — that someone used a company car outside working hours? For personal jobs, to make a little extra on the side?“

Something crossed his face. Quickly — for a second, maybe less. Then the calm returned, but not entirely. Like a mask put on slightly too fast.

„No,“ he said. „Nothing like that.“

„Have you worked at this building?“ I gave him the address.

„No. I haven’t.“

The answers were right. The tone — not quite. Something in the way he stood, in the way his eyes moved without meeting mine. I’m aware that police inspectors can be intimidating sometimes, but it felt like something wasn’t where it should be.

„What’s your name?“ I asked.

„Stefan.“

I wrote it down. Nodded. Walked away. And yet — dead end. Damned Thursday.

And here I am — in the bar on the corner. The same mediocre beer. The same music, too loud.

I arranged everything in my head one more time. Irina Dimitrova. Fifty-three years old. Disappeared on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. Found — or rather, parts of her — kilometers away. Acid. Someone who wanted to erase the traces but didn’t fully manage. Either was interrupted. Or planted them deliberately?

Nikolai. I expected him to be more devastated when he found out about his wife. Do people look like that when they learn something terrible? No anger, no grief. Just resignation. And he hadn’t reported his missing wife to the police on time.

The cleaning company. The car without GPS. The male figure on the camera. The load. The partial plate number that led to a driver with a confirmed alibi. Someone took the car. Without an assignment, without the company’s knowledge. Or with someone’s knowledge that I still can’t prove.

And Stefan. His quiet unease. The answers given slightly too quickly. The eyes avoiding mine. Something about him nagged at me the way things nag when I’m close to something but can’t touch it. Did I know him from before? Another case? Maybe. My memory isn’t what it was. Many things aren’t what they were. But Stefan bothered me. And in this work, unease is the only thing I can still trust.

I took another sip of my beer. If it weren’t for Maria, we’d never have found out anything about the camera at the shop. The number of beers I’m having right now would have been the least of my problems. The evening is going to be long.

I looked at the clock.

Thursday.

I hate Thursdays.

___________________________________

Българска версия – https://kaloyan.org/chetvartak-noir-story/

„Thursday“ is the second story in the „Ordinary Days“ series. Read the first story – „Tuesday“.