The young man comes back and puts the lamp into the back of his car with the rest of the stuff, without answering. Manuel grabs the secretaire by the base and pulls it towards him. Saïd suddenly turns. “Careful, it’s fragile!”

“How much?”

Saïd crosses his arms. He’s still wearing his sunglasses and looks at his adversary from behind the dark lenses. He wants to stuff Manuel’s insults down his throat and push his head into the metal wheel until he’s swallowed so much mud he’s crying and begging for mercy.

“Where’s it from?”

“Same as usual.”

Saïd shakes his head and gives a hint of a crafty smile. “You swiped the lamp and the trinkets from some old folk, or from some stiffs. Heirs don’t give a shit and haven’t got a clue about what’s in Grandma and Grandad’s attic – we both know that. It’s easy to offload and we won’t get any bother. Neither you nor me.”

He pauses for the you and me together to sink into the builder’s skull so that everything’s crystal clear in his mind, fuzzy from stupidity and drink. You and me in the same boat, so if one falls into the water… “The secretaire, on the other hand…”

“What about the secretaire?”

“Where did it come from?”

Manuel’s face clouds and he pushes the secretaire back under the tarpaulin. “If you don’t want it —”

“Don’t be stupid. I just want to be aware of the risks.”

Manuel looks at the little shit putting on his act and also weighs the risks, all the risks. He hates this situation. “The same risk as the small painting last time.”

“Well, at least now it’s all clear.”

“How much?”

Saïd sighs, faking embarrassment. He seems to think and hesitate. He takes out his wallet and hands him a five-hundred-euro note. Manuel frowns. “Is that all?”

“Hey, I’m the one taking the risk. Antique dealers don’t like handling stolen goods. I mean … they don’t care if they’re stolen from the dead, but if it’s from rich people who are alive and kicking then it’s immediately more complicated.”

“While you’re raking it in as the middleman, right?”

“I’m just a go-between, Manuel, you know that. And I’m an Arab, so if anything goes wrong then I’m always going to be the one who gets more flak than anybody else.”

Manuel allows himself to laugh, a joyless laugh, tense with anger. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

They help each other pull the secretaire out of the pickup. Saïd collapses the back seats of his car and pushes other items away so the piece of furniture can slide in without being damaged. He spreads an old tartan blanket, covered in twigs and smelling of apples, over it.

Emboldened by the negotiation and cheered up by the advantageous deal, Saïd overplays his hand: “Our little business is doing well, Manuel, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” the other man mutters.

“We’ve been doing deals for six months mow, the two of us, and we’ve not fallen out…”