Secret Asset

53

At six foot four inches in his stocking feet, Constable Winston was at least an inch taller when he wore the regulation black shoes. He stood out, and he thought of this as an attribute—especially at public gatherings where, like a beacon used by pilots as an aid to navigation, he became a focal point for colleagues lost in the crowd.

Normally he liked working on public occasions. This morning, however, PC Winston was unhappy to be on duty. He usually had Wednesday off, and took the kids to school. He supposed that when the duty sergeant had collared him coming off shift the night before, he could have resisted, but he could tell from the sergeant’s tone that it was important, so he had not kicked up. But the shift briefing at 6:45 that morning had not adequately explained the urgency. “We have been alerted to the possibility of an incident at today’s university ceremonies,” the sergeant had proclaimed. “We will keep you posted as more information becomes available.”

What on earth did that mean? wondered PC Winston, as he moved into the goldfish-shape of Broad Street, entirely peaceful at this early hour. The street was bordered at this end by a line of pastel-coloured shops on one side and by the Victorian gables of Balliol on the other. It funnelled down to a narrow strait by the Sheldonian. Inside, the elaborate Encaenia ceremony would take place, while outside the usual mix of gawking tourists and indifferent locals would fill the street. But now while the sun struggled to emerge after a night of moist cloud cover, the street was virtually empty of pedestrians and cars.

What was supposed to be happening today, PC Winston wondered again, as he approached the corner of the Turl. He stood there for a moment, admiring the still-misty view down the quaint street, with the ice-cream cone spire of Lincoln College Library towering above the College wall. He had been on duty when President Clinton had received an honorary degree, almost a decade before, and remembered the stony brusqueness of the Secret Service men, the way they had insisted that even policemen like himself be vetted for that day. Understandable, in that any president was a potential target for assassination. And that was before 9/11. So was someone that famous going to be here today? He doubted it—he would have heard long before, and not been pressed with so little warning into this extra shift.

He kept walking and passed the “Roman Emperors,” a line of grimfaced busts perched on stone pedestals which punctuated the length of iron railing in front of the Sheldonian. Noticing a van ahead of him, parked on a double-yellow line, he picked up his pace a bit, ready to give them a flea in their ear. Two men, each with a sniffer dog on a lead, suddenly came out of the back of the van.

The dog handler nodded as he approached. “Is this a problem?” he said with a gesture towards the double yellow.

“Not this early,” said Winston. “What’s up?”

“Beats me,” said the man. “I’ve come all the way from Reading for this job. You’d think they’d be better prepared.”

And though PC Winston was himself puzzled by the last-minute alarums, pride in his own force made him declare with a certainty he didn’t feel, “It’s the Animal Liberation lot. Very unpredictable.”

It was then that another PC, a young recruit named Jacobs, appeared, moving fast towards them. “Here you are, Sidney,” he said breezily to PC Winston, who resented the use of his Christian name by someone so young. Smart-arse, he thought, as Jacobs handed him an A4 sheet on which mugshots had been magnified and photocopied. They showed three Asian men, young, entirely innocent-looking. Winston scanned the faces, memorising them, thinking, They don’t look like animal lovers to me.