Ove maintained that he had no idea how this had happened, but pointed out in a friendly manner
that none of this would have happened in the first place if he’d just respected the sign that made it clear that cars were prohibited in the area.
He obviously left out the detail that Anders owned a car towing company,
and that one of his tow trucks had picked up the Škoda at lunchtime and then placed it in a large gravel pit twenty-five miles outside town.
And when the police officer tactfully asked if he had really not seen anything,
Ove looked right into the eyes of the man in the white shirt and answered:
I don’t know. I may have forgotten. You start losing your memory at my age.
When the policeman looked around and then wondered why Ove was standing about here in the street
if he had nothing to do with the disappearance of the Škoda,
Ove just innocently shrugged his shoulders and peered at the man in the white shirt. “There’s still nothing good on TV.”
Anger drained the man’s face of color until, if possible, his face was even whiter than his shirt.
He stormed off, raging that this was “far from over.” And of course it wasn’t.
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