He had liked working here. Proper tasks, proper tools, a real job.
He decided that once the police had gone through the motions of whatever they did with thieves in this situation,
he’d try to go somewhere where he could get himself another job like this one. He might have to travel far, he imagined.
Most likely a criminal record needed a reasonable geographical distance before it started to pale and become uninteresting.
He had nothing to keep him here, he realized. But at least he had not become the sort of man who told tales.
He hoped this would make his father more forgiving about Ove losing his job, once they were reunited.
He had to sit on the wooden chair in the corridor for almost forty minutes
before a middle-aged woman in a tight-fitting black skirt and pointy glasses came and told him he could come into the office.
She closed the door behind him. He stood there, still with his work clothes in his arms.
The director sat behind his desk with his hands clasped together in front of him.
The two men submitted one another to such a long examination that either of them could have been an unusually interesting painting in a museum.
It was Tom who took that money,said the director.
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