‘That was already there when I bought the land and there was already a barn on-site. I use it as a workshop. I put a tank in there for dipping and stripping.’

‘Dipping and stripping?’

‘I’ve got a friend who owns an architectural salvage business. Most of my bread and butter comes from stripping doors and stuff for him. The good stuff I do by hand, but large items, like the doors, have to go in the tank.’ His dark eyes smiled. ‘You must come over one day and have a look.’

He returned from his wander around the fair, looking pleased, even though I had no further sales to report. He was gripping something in his fist. ‘The problem with places like this is that if you’re not very disciplined, you can end up buying as much as you sell.’ He opened his fingers to reveal a small, pale object squatting on his palm. It was a little toad, an ugly creature with bulging eyes, its tongue sticking out. It had a hole in its head running through to its tail.

I picked it up. ‘Is it Chinese?’

‘Japanese. It’s a netsuke, probably nineteenth century. The Japanese used to wear them tied on their sashes. That’s what this hole is for, for threading it on.’

‘Is it valuable?’

‘Not this one. They can be expensive, depending on what they’re carved from – ivory or jade – and who carved them; this one’s just wooden.’ He shrugged. ‘But it’s a nice addition to my collection.’

‘You collect them?’

‘My private passion.’ He winked as he slipped the thing into his coat pocket.

‘How many have you got?’ I asked.

He frowned thoughtfully, ‘About twenty.’

‘Have you got them on display?’ I asked mockingly.

He gave a crack of wry laughter. ‘In the caravan? No. They’re stuffed in a cardboard box.’

Netsuke. I tasted the word on my tongue: another thing I was going to look up on the Internet when I got home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I decided I would stay away from Paul in future. I fancied him too much. And after what happened at the end of the fair there was obviously no future in that.

We were busy packing away. It was almost time for the fair to close, the customers were drifting off home and all the stallholders were packing up around us.

A woman approached. I’d seen her on one of the stalls inside the hangar. I remembered her startling green eyes. She’d been engaged in a lively discussion with a customer over a cloisonné vase and her accent was French. She didn’t look like a market trader, certainly didn’t look like a woman who had spent the day out in the weather, as I looked, windswept and bedraggled. She looked glossy, well groomed and elegant. ‘Ah, Paul!’ she cried, as she hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks.