“Idiot!” Ove yells after the Škoda, but the man in the white shirt doesn’t seem to react at all.
Ove memorizes the license number before the car disappears round the corner.
“Soon it’ll be your turn, you old fart,” hisses a malevolent voice behind him.
Ove spins around with his fist instinctively raised, and finds himself staring at his own reflection in Blond Weed’s sunglasses.
She’s holding that damned mutt in her arms. It growls at him.
“They were from Social Services,” she jeers, with a nod towards the road.
In the parking area, Ove sees that imbecile Anders backing his Audi out of his garage.
It has those new, wave-shaped headlights, Ove notes,
presumably designed so that no one at night will be able to avoid the insight that here comes a car driven by an utter shit.
“What business is it of yours?” Ove says to the Weed.
Her lips are pulled into the sort of grimace that comes as close to a real smile
as a woman whose lips have been injected with environmental waste and nerve toxins is ever likely to achieve.
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