The office of Percy Joseph Sillitoe, Chief Constable of the Glasgow Police, ‘The Captain’ to his immediate subordinates, Tod to his closest friends, was a spacious room on the first floor, at the head of a flight of stairs. Visitors who wished to see him had first to check in with a sergeant seated at a desk in the corridor outside. Squat on a chair in the same corridor, waiting less than patiently by this desk, was Sam Gilmartin. He was attired in a working suit with a grey-colored muffler, cravat of artificial silk tucked biblike under his chin. Upon his feet were a splinter-new pair of natty brown winklepickers and he had an overcoat cleeked over his arm. Upon the overcoat rested a black bowler hat. He was surely making an effort. Hepburn supposed that the Kitchener moustache was cultivated to conceal the scars of a knife attack, forbye that the little man’s clapped-in jaws.
Mr. Gilmartin, said Hepburn.
Aye, that’s right. Ah came tae see the organ grinder, no the fuckin monkey but. It’s that Sillitoe ah’m hear tae see, the high heid yin.