Nicholas Angel

— When's your birthday?
— Twenty-second of February.
— What year?
— Every year.
— Get out!

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— Yes, Mr Staker. We'll do everything we can. Can you describe it to me?
— It's about two foot tall. Long slender neck.
— Yeah.
— Kind of orange and black bill.
— Anything else?
— Well, it's a swan.

— I trust you had a pleasant trip. Fascist.
— I beg your pardon?
— "System of Government characterised by extreme dictatorship." Seven across.
— Oh, I see. It's "fascism."
— Fascism. Wonderful.

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— Now, we've put you in the Castle Suite. Bernard will escort you up there.
— Well, actually, I could probably make my own way up. Hag.
— I beg your pardon?
— "Evil old woman considered frightful or ugly." It's 12 down.

Andy Wainwright: — You do know there are more guns in the country than there are in the city?
Andy Cartwright: — Everybody and their mums is packing round here.
Nicholas Angel: — Like who?
Andy Wainwright: — Farmers.
Nicholas Angel: — Who else?
Andy Cartwright: — Farmers's mums.

— I got beaten up a lot when I was young but it didn't stop me. I wanted to be like Uncle Derek.
— He sounds like a good bloke.
— Actually, he was arrested for selling drugs to students.
— What a cunt.

— Okay. What about this guy? Ask yourself, why has he got his hat pulled down like that?
— He's fuck ugly.
— Or he doesn't want you to see his face.
— Because he's fuck ugly.

James Reaper: — What happened, Danny?
Danny Butterman: — Car accident.
James Reaper: — Nasty way to go.
Nicholas Angel: — Constable, official vocab guidelines state we no longer refer to these incidents as "accidents," they're now "collisions."
Danny Butterman: — Right.
<...>
Amanda Paver: — What happened, Danny?
Danny Butterman: — Traffic collision. Hey, why can't we say "accident" again?
Nicholas Angel: — Because "accident" implies there's nobody to blame.

— Could you tell the Inspector I've arrived, please?
— No.
— Why?
— He's not in yet.

— What's the situation?
— You know the situation. We've been over this.
— No, I... I meant here.
— Two people involved, distinct signs of a struggle. Complete mess.
— You are talking about here?

— See what I did there?
— You hypnotised him.

— She certainly has a distinctive laugh.
— She was in my year at school. Always had a thing for her.
— She clearly has a thing for older men.
— What, with Martin Blower? No way!
— We just sat through three hours of so-called acting, Constable, their kiss was the only convincing moment in it.
— Hey, now you come to mention it, I too have reason to believe she favours the older gent.
— Really? How so?
— Marcus Carter's big brother said he'd fingered her up the duck pond.

— What's it like being stabbed?
— It was the single most painful experience of my life.
— What was the second most painful?

— It's Frank! He's appointed himself judge, jury and executioner!
— He's not Judge Judy and executioner.

Accusations, Prosecution

— Okay, what's his story?
— Oh, that's Lurch. He's a trolley boy at the local supermarket. Real name, Michael Armstrong. Dad says he's got a child's mind. And lives up Summer Street with his mum and his sister.
— And are they as big as he is?
— Who?
— The mum and the sister.
— Same person.

— Well, you know, I mean, maybe we should do something to celebrate. Unless you gotta water your Peace Lily.
— What exactly did you have in mind?
— I don't know. Pub?