exactly?'
  An older policeman with a big handlebar moustache had come over to see what was going on. He looked formidable, like he was used to taking charge of difficult situations.
  'We were up at a local farm buying up some old furniture when we saw something bizarre,' I said. 'We thought we ought to report it.'
  'Buying up old furniture?' He sounded surprised.
  'Yes, we're brocanteurs ,' I said. 'We were buying furniture from the farmer. We've got it in our van.'
  'Nothing of much value really,' said Serge. 'Just some old bits and pieces.'
  The officer looked as if he was carefully contemplating the information. 'I'm assuming you've got all the necessary papers.'
  There was an element of threat in his voice.
  'Oh, yes, we're professional brocanteurs , m'sieu ,' said Serge, obsequiously.
  'Let's see them⦠the papers.'
  He held out his hand, waiting. Serge turned to me. 'Show them your papers then.' His eyes were panicky.
  I hurriedly searched through my wallet, found my yellow carte professionale and handed it over. The officer examined it closely, studying my face and comparing it with the photo on the card before giving it back. He turned to Serge. 'What about you then?'
  Serge looked cornered. 'Oh, I'm just helping him out. I'm not registered at the moment⦠Taking a break, so to speak.'
  So that was why he wanted me to come 'cold calling' with him. The crafty old sod. It was all starting to make sense. Without up-to-date professional papers he was vulnerable.
  'But you're a brocanteur as well?' said the policeman.
  'I am sometimes, butâ¦'
  'Only sometimes, is it?'
  'When the work's about,' said Serge. He was starting to lose it. 'When it's quiet in the winter I have a rest⦠you know⦠spend time at home with the wife and family.' He gave a sickly smile.
  'Identity card?' said the officer, grimly.
  Serge patted his pockets. He pulled out a filthy grey handkerchief followed by a knotted piece of string and a broken penknife. 'It must be in the van.'
  'Let's go see then, shall we?' said the officer as if he was used to listening to a pack of lies.
  We trooped out to the van and waited while Serge fished around in the glove compartment. The officer with the moustache was losing his patience. 'All right then, let's see your car papers.'
  Serge rummaged around and produced some torn registration documents. Moustache took them gingerly and
examined them at arm's length as if they were infected. 'OK, now your insurance details.'
  Serge poked around in the front and reappeared empty-handed with a defeated expression. 'I must have left them at home. I'm always worried they'll get stolen.'
  He was cornered. The officer was pleased, as if this was the response he was after. 'You'd best fetch them up here then as soon as you like and show them to me if you want to stay out of trouble.'
  'I will, m'sieu, you have my word on that.'
  'It'll be your funeral if you don't,' said Moustache, noting down the van registration. 'Right then, let's see what you've got in the back.'
  The two of them stood close behind Serge as he swung back the doors to reveal the dusty pieces of ancient wood stacked to the roof. They peered in, as if this were a trick. Moustache picked up a woodwormy lump and examined it. 'You're brocanteurs, you say?' He winked at his colleague. 'Well, that is bits and pieces, just like you said. You've got a bargain here all right.'
  The officer with the crew cut sniggered.
  'If I were you, I'd burn this lot. We won't detain you any longer. On your way,' commanded Moustache.
  Serge went to climb into the van, but I wasn't about to give up so easily. 'There's something strange going on up at that farm,' I said. 'We thought you ought to know.'
  They appeared
  An older policeman with a big handlebar moustache had come over to see what was going on. He looked formidable, like he was used to taking charge of difficult situations.
  'We were up at a local farm buying up some old furniture when we saw something bizarre,' I said. 'We thought we ought to report it.'
  'Buying up old furniture?' He sounded surprised.
  'Yes, we're brocanteurs ,' I said. 'We were buying furniture from the farmer. We've got it in our van.'
  'Nothing of much value really,' said Serge. 'Just some old bits and pieces.'
  The officer looked as if he was carefully contemplating the information. 'I'm assuming you've got all the necessary papers.'
  There was an element of threat in his voice.
  'Oh, yes, we're professional brocanteurs , m'sieu ,' said Serge, obsequiously.
  'Let's see them⦠the papers.'
  He held out his hand, waiting. Serge turned to me. 'Show them your papers then.' His eyes were panicky.
  I hurriedly searched through my wallet, found my yellow carte professionale and handed it over. The officer examined it closely, studying my face and comparing it with the photo on the card before giving it back. He turned to Serge. 'What about you then?'
  Serge looked cornered. 'Oh, I'm just helping him out. I'm not registered at the moment⦠Taking a break, so to speak.'
  So that was why he wanted me to come 'cold calling' with him. The crafty old sod. It was all starting to make sense. Without up-to-date professional papers he was vulnerable.
  'But you're a brocanteur as well?' said the policeman.
  'I am sometimes, butâ¦'
  'Only sometimes, is it?'
  'When the work's about,' said Serge. He was starting to lose it. 'When it's quiet in the winter I have a rest⦠you know⦠spend time at home with the wife and family.' He gave a sickly smile.
  'Identity card?' said the officer, grimly.
  Serge patted his pockets. He pulled out a filthy grey handkerchief followed by a knotted piece of string and a broken penknife. 'It must be in the van.'
  'Let's go see then, shall we?' said the officer as if he was used to listening to a pack of lies.
  We trooped out to the van and waited while Serge fished around in the glove compartment. The officer with the moustache was losing his patience. 'All right then, let's see your car papers.'
  Serge rummaged around and produced some torn registration documents. Moustache took them gingerly and
examined them at arm's length as if they were infected. 'OK, now your insurance details.'
  Serge poked around in the front and reappeared empty-handed with a defeated expression. 'I must have left them at home. I'm always worried they'll get stolen.'
  He was cornered. The officer was pleased, as if this was the response he was after. 'You'd best fetch them up here then as soon as you like and show them to me if you want to stay out of trouble.'
  'I will, m'sieu, you have my word on that.'
  'It'll be your funeral if you don't,' said Moustache, noting down the van registration. 'Right then, let's see what you've got in the back.'
  The two of them stood close behind Serge as he swung back the doors to reveal the dusty pieces of ancient wood stacked to the roof. They peered in, as if this were a trick. Moustache picked up a woodwormy lump and examined it. 'You're brocanteurs, you say?' He winked at his colleague. 'Well, that is bits and pieces, just like you said. You've got a bargain here all right.'
  The officer with the crew cut sniggered.
  'If I were you, I'd burn this lot. We won't detain you any longer. On your way,' commanded Moustache.
  Serge went to climb into the van, but I wasn't about to give up so easily. 'There's something strange going on up at that farm,' I said. 'We thought you ought to know.'
  They appeared
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