The plate glass window next to DS Hook’s desk takes up three-quarters of a wall separating two offices.
The larger office is a warren of desks and chairs where every ashtray overflows, and where the smoke is so thick it has divided itself into tiers, like cloud banks after a storm.
A hive-like atmosphere predominates—men in and out of uniform darting this way and that, leaving a pong of armpit sweat and tobacco in their wake. At the telephone exchange near the entrance, two young women field and direct calls from the public. While the noise level may be alarming to visitors, its inhabitants don’t hear it anymore.
The smaller office on the far side of the glass is a zone that unequivocally belongs to Chief Lionel Barfoot, a humourless Glaswegian who plays the tenor drum with the Police Pipe Band, and is skilled at making advantageous alliances. He is also a decorated veteran (DSO and bar)—an ambitious man who is still in the process of learning that sending men to kill people is easier than sending men to keep the peace.
The chief is testament to the fact that it is possible for a man to be a competent officer and a bullying windbag at the same time.
In this inner office, Barfoot takes meetings with conspicuously important citizens; it is also where departmental commendations and tongue-lashings take place for all to see, like a silent photoplay without subtitles.
DS Hook has just been summoned into that room, and it is a certainty that he is not about to be given a medal.
At present the chief is in conference with a conspicuously important citizen—Harlan Crombie, a balding gent with pink jowls, in a suit from London and a club tie from a public school. Both men are puffing on pipes and engaged in what looks to be friendly banter, the sort of talk one has while waiting for someone.
In this case, they are waiting for DS Hook.
Bracing himself, Hook pulls open the door and steps inside: “You asked to see me, sir?”
As Hook approaches the desk, Barfoot stands—“Ah. There you are.”—then immediately seats himself again. There is no chair for DS Hook.
“Harlan, let me introduce you to Detective Sergeant Calvin Hook. Hook is new with the detachment, which may explain part of the problem.”
“If anything will,” Crombie says, and relights his pipe.
“The deputy minister has come with a complaint, to the effect that you and your assistant barged into and searched his house, without permission and without a warrant.”
“And terrorized my household staff.” Crombie points at Hook’s face with the stem of his pipe as though it were a pistol. “This is more than an imposition, sir, it’s an outrage!”
“I quite agree,” Barfoot says. “On the face of it, a demotion is in order. Mr Hook, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Sir, we asked to speak to Mr Crombie, and in his absence were about to go on our way, when the constable suffered an attack of gastritis. I made a decision, based on Mr Crombie’s unfailing support for the police—in particular, the Dry Squad…”
“Thank you, Detective Sergeant, I believe we have heard enough. And your response, Harlan?”
Crombie shakes his head. “Most improper. But under the circumstances, nothing will be gained by taking this further.”
“You may be overly generous, Harlan, but if you wish to let bygones be bygones, that is your prerogative.”
The flint in Crombie’s stare tells Hook that he may have secured a temporary reprieve, but he will pay for this.
“Detective Sergeant, you’re a lucky man,” Barfoot says. “But if you so much as set foot on Mr Crombie’s property again, you will forfeit your badge.”