An Italian couple stand at the counter speaking Italian.
Auto machina, the man says again.
All around there is a party going on. A party that will be written up in the history of the shop as 'the night of a hundred bottles'. One more person through the door and the room will go 'pop'.
Auto machina, he says again.
I'm sorry, I say, but we don't speak Italian.
Justine speaks to him in French.
His face lights up. Ah! Francais! He runs a hand through his floppy black hair.
Justine and the man have a conversation in French.
I think, she says when they have finished, that they want to pay the Congestion Charge.
She directs them down the hill towards a garage that may, or may not, administer the congestion charge.
They nod and look pleased and then turn and make their way into the heart of the party.
I follow them through the crowd.
Finding the crowded bar the man helps himself to a beer, looks around and smiles. He has the look of a man who could settle for the evening.
His girlfriend opens a bottle of fizzy water. Water sprays everywhere.
I scowl at them.
Later Justine will say, that on reflection, she thinks that they may have been looking for a cash machine.
After they have left, another man eneters the shop sucking on an iced lolly. He surveys the crowd.
I intercept him.
Can I, he asks, browse your True Crime section?
I tell him not.