Run from The Pigs, The Fuzz, The Cops, The Heat!

I was collared by the police yesterday. "What was the crime?" I hear you ask. Well, I was quite dangerously sitting on a seat at a quiet, deserted gate in Terminal 3, wielding a tuna sandwich (well, wielding it from the packet to my mouth). This was apparently too much of an infraction to be ignored.
The policemen walked past me, looking through suspicious eyes, geared-up in guns, high-visibility jackets and bullet-proof vests. That's all they did at first, they just walked past me. I carried on eating my sandwich, and when I was finished I got up to go to the toilet. About fifteen minutes had passed since the policemen had walked past, but when I emerged from the toilet, they were waiting for me, one on each side of the door.
"Where are you flying to today, sir?" the one with the moustache said.
"Nowhere," I replied, holding my pass up. "I work here."
"What are you doing here, then," Moustache's colleague piped up.
"Just finding a quiet place to have my break." I was uncomfortable. I was still in the doorway to the toilet, cornered by these two men. I had the image of them pushing me back through the door and roughing me up, out of sight.
"We just thought it was a bit weird that there was no-one else around," Moustache said.
"Well, that's the point." I was being cocky because I knew they had nothing on me. "It is OK to take my break here, isn't it?"
Moustache looked at my pass again and muttered, "I suppose so," in the most grudging way possible.
It was the disappointment on their faces, the hope that they had something to punctuate their boredom. They wanted me to be up to something, and they saw a million crimes within that tuna sandwich, but I turned out to be a boring innocent. They left me alone after that, walking away and thinking of a conversation they could have that they hadn't already had that day.