‘What?’ Didier spun round in horror, and Rocco could guess why. The fire brigade was the first force called on in emergencies, but the local brigade probably wasn’t equipped to deal with explosives. The gendarmes, while less popular — and likely viewed by cynics as expendable — would keep whatever they dealt with as evidence. ‘Why let those thieving maggots get their hands on it?’ Didier turned back to Rocco, including him in his contempt and huffing out a fresh wave of halitosis.

Rocco fought to hold on to his breakfast. The idea that this man might take a hammer to the thing simply to prevent the police from confiscating it was frightening. But short of surrounding it with armed guards or decking him, he couldn’t think of any way of preventing it.

‘What do you say, Inspector?’ The question came from Thierry, looking to officialdom for support — probably a rarity in these parts, Rocco guessed. Anyone representing the government or its agencies would clearly be viewed with hostility and caution.

He shrugged, wondering what made them think he was an expert on bomb disposal. Then it hit him: if anything went wrong, blame the flic. It was probably an English bomb, made in Coventry or some such hellhole, and since the English were probably no more popular in these parts than the police, what could be more fitting? Barely twenty years since the end of the last global conflict centred on France, the debris of two wars was just as fresh in people’s minds as it was in the ground beneath their feet.

He was about to suggest evacuating the immediate area and calling in the gendarmes, as Monsieur Thierry had suggested, when a man pushed through the crowd. He was dressed in filthy overalls and carried a canvas tool bag.

‘Philippe Delsaire,’ Claude informed Rocco helpfully. ‘He’s what passes as a plumber in these parts. Also farms a small plot outside the village. Gambler, too.’ He rubbed his fingertips together. ‘Not a bad plumber or farmer, but lousy at cards.’ He grinned knowingly.