Porter Nash had decided he needed a change of image, had been working on it for a time. Got his hair cut short and had them add a few lines of grey, just a few discreet streaks. Worked well and, even better, nobody had ragged him. When you’re a cop, you daren’t make major changes without them thinking you’re on the take. You start to change your appearance and, to the cop mind, it says you’re hiding something.

The glasses though, now they’d been a mistake. He didn’t need them but he’d been watching a movie in which the guy had been wearing those steel-rimmed jobs, the type that made you look distinguished. Porter had got an identical pair and was well pleased, thought they gave an edge of seriousness with an overlay of hard-ass. Could you ask for more?

Then Brant, who else, had asked:

‘Who are you… the Walrus?’

Porter hadn’t got it until Brant had said:

‘The glasses, you look like John Lennon’s brother.’

Now he was on watch at Waterloo, keeping tabs on the left luggage office. One of the cops was staring at him, said:

‘Them glasses, you look like the Gestapo.’

That was it, he swiped them off, put them in his pocket and the cop had said:

‘Will you be able to see without them?’