In Kregme, at Arresø, Stig Åge Thorsen was following the police car with his eyes as if slowly crawling up the country lane and he smiled when he saw it stop at the fire. He used the extra time to review his instructions once again.
Avoid long answers, only answer when you are asked a direct question. Don’t say anything if there’s any doubt in your mind. Don’t say anything if you are confused and ignore any kind of a threat. Silence is your friend, these lines are your message.
He could almost hear Per Clausen’s voice and his smile widened. He wasn’t nervous, which surprised him a little, and he walked out into the yard to greet them. A pale afternoon sun emerged from the heavy skies. It was chilly and he shivered.
The patrol car rolled into the driveway. He nodded to the driver and watched as he parked the car parallel to the farmhouse, close to the stone wall as if anything but ninety-degree angles and straight lines were an insult. To his annoyance, he realized that he knew the officer. It was an old classmate. Or had he been in another class in the same year? He couldn’t remember but would have preferred it otherwise, it would have been easier. The policeman stepped out of the car and walked over to him. He was in uniform.
“Hey there, Stig Åge.”
“Hello.”
“I’d like to talk to you about that bonfire of yours out in the field. We’ve had a complaint.”
It wasn’t a question, so he remained silent.
The policeman glanced uncertainly at him when it became clear that no answer was coming, and he retreated almost imperceptibly before he tried again: “What is it you’re burning out there?”
“A stranger turned up and gave me twenty thousand so he could dig a hole on my property. He wanted to set fire to his minivan. I dug the hole and made sure there was a good oxygen supply. Drove out the fuel, sacks of coal, wood and kerosene, before I went on holiday. When I came back, I tended to the fire twice a day. That was the deal.”
He said his piece loud and clear without trying to conceal that he had prepared it ahead of time.
The policeman took another step back and stared at him with skepticism. The word minivan had triggered something and he was thinking hard—apparently in vain—while he scratched the back of the head as if he wanted to scratch it out. Finally he said, “What is it you’ve gotten yourself involved in, Stig Åge? Is this the minivan they’re looking for in Bagsværd?”
“A stranger turned up.…” The piece was delivered exactly as before.
“You’re coming down to the station with me.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Nah, no, I was thinking you could come of your own accord.”
“Absolutely not.”
The policeman scratched himself so hard that one would have thought he had fleas. “Can you repeat that part about the bonfire?”
Just as before, he recited the piece word-for-word, and the officer got into his car while Stig Åge Thorsen waited patiently. Through the window he saw that the man was talking. A certain amount of time went by, then the car window was lowered.
“Stig Åge, I’m placing you under arrest. It is Saturday, the twenty-eighth of October, and the time is two fifty-three P.M. Please be so kind as to get in.” He scratched his head again, then added, “Up here next to the driver’s side.”
Stig Åge Thorsen obeyed, without saying a word.