Scotland Yard Quotes

I just love family meetings. Very cozy, with the Christmas garlands round the fireplace and a nice pot of tea and a detective from Scotland Yard ready to arrest you.

But that’s the thing Artie. What if Romani isn’t a man ” Amelia said leaning forward. “Great. We’ll alert Scotland Yard and tell them they’re looking for a vampire. Or a werewolf. I’m assuming you’ve cross-referenced this with the lunar cycles.” “What if it’s a name ” Amelia said undaunted. She spread the files across the desk. “A name that has been used by a lot of people for a very long time.” “Excellent.” Her boss pushed the files aside and returned to his order and his lists and his life. “You cracked it. Great work. I’ll call the Henley right away and tell them Leonardo’s Angel Returning to Heaven was stolen by a name.

[O]n general principles it is best that I should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among the criminal classes.

There are no crimes and no criminals in these days. What is the use of having brains in our profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it.

Once the telephone had been invented, it was only a matter of time before the police got in on the new technology and, first in Glasgow and then in London, the police box was born. Here a police officer in need of assistance could find a telephone link to Scotland Yard, a dry space to do “paperwork” and, in certain extreme cases, a life of adventure through space and time.

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's. And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair - Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there! And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair - But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: 'It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away. You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums. Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity. He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer: At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Your duty is to society, and the dead have always been a part of society. How we treat the dead says much about us.

The pain passes, but the beauty remains

There seemed to be no one in a position of power, from the Vatican to Wall Street, from Parliament to Scotland Yard to Fleet Street, who could think of anything better to do than abuse it....

Brittles stood at attention until Jack looked at him, then he bowed slightly. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but an Inspector Swindler from Scotland Yard wishes to speak with you. Are you home?” “Of course, I’m home, man. I’m sitting right here.

There was no attempt to speak of blastocytes; only the hard, hard reality of acceptance and faith.

It is more important to use your gifts well than to settle for being content.

I find that if you're a good student, the teacher hardly matters.

I'm not the head of Scotland Yard," said Mrs. Oliver, retreating from dangerous ground. "I'm a private individual -" "Oh, you're not that," said Rhoda, confusedly complimentary.

The conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.

I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.” My friend smiled. “Holmes, the busybody!” His smile broadened. “Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!” Holmes chuckled heartily.

Exitus probatur,” he said. The end is justified. “Ergo acta probantur,” said one of the waiting men. Therefore the means are justified.

London is locked in a sort of dance of propriety, and it seems to me that it has led to desperation among certain elements of our society.

Looks a bit fishy to me," said Japp. "He actually had a blowpipe, and look at his manner. All to pieces." "That is the severity of your official demeanor, my good Japp." "There's nothing for anyone to be afraid of if they're only telling the truth," said the Scotland Yard man austerely. Poirot looked at him pityingly. "In verity, I believe that you yourself honestly believe that.

Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time?  I wish to goodness you had let me know.  I have been writing frantic letters to Scotland Yard about it.  I was very nearly offering a large reward. Algernon.  Well, I wish you would offer one.  I happen to be more than usually hard up.

Kett shook his head. Murderers, thieves, whores and swindlers were all pressed together alongside the rarest of species, the honest citizen. He could spend the entire afternoon studying the crowds at Euston Square and never sort the decent from the damned.

the Saint did not seem to be aware that he was multiplying miracles with an easy grace that would have made a Grand Lama look like a third-rate three-card man.

I know you’d rather I didn’t know whatever it is that I don’t know—but who’s to say that the known unknowin’ is better than just plain knownin’?

You see you left a little thumb print, and we are rather whales on thumb prints at Scotland Yard, Fisher.

Great heavens!” said Inspector Davidson of Scotland Yard’s renowned Smugglers and Secret Spies Division (the SSSD). “That

By Timothy! By Timothy, if it isn't Scotland Yard!

Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow, there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.

Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard.

Secret Service, I suppose," said Mrs. Oliver. "You can't tell me so, I know, but he wouldn't have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and the four sleuths - Scotland Yard. Secret Service. Private. Fiction. A clever idea.

Please go on,” I said in the sympathetic, gruff-hearty tones of an inspector at Scotland Yard—all I needed was long underwear, a tweed suit, a walrus mustache, a British accent, a right-hand drive, socialized medicine, and a disarming manner.

Conventional wisdom holds that Arthur Conan Doyle invented the detective story but in fact Green’s first book featuring detective Ebenezer Gryce – in which Miss Butterworth does not appear – The Leavenworth Case came out in 1878, almost a decade before Sherlock Holmes made his debut in A Study in Scarlet. This is why Green is often referred to as The Mother of the Detective Novel.

My friend opened a small box which Lestrade had produced. Inside lay a beautiful silver cigarette case monogrammed with Holmes's initials, underneath which ran the words, "With the Respects of Scotland Yard, November 1888." Sherlock Holmes sat with his lips parted, but no sound emerged. "Thank you," he managed at length.

Learning to pipe isn't easy. At first it always sounds worse than a chicken yard full of squawking adolescent roosters.

small valise, along with a change of clothes

Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege of the London force.

What would have happened if Einstein had advanced something equally new in the sphere of religion or politics? English people would have found elements of Prussianism in his theory; anti-Semites would have regarded it as a Zionist plot; nationalists in all countries would have found it tainted with lily-livered pacifism, and proclaimed it a mere dodge for escaping military service. All the old-fashioned professors would have approached Scotland Yard to get the importation of his writings prohibited. Teachers favourable to him would have been dismissed. He, meantime, would have captured the Government of some backward country, where it would have become illegal to teach anything except his doctrine, which would have grown into a mysterious dogma not understood by anybody. Ultimately the truth or falsehood of his doctrine would be decided on the battlefield, without the collection of any fresh evidence for or against it. This method is the logical outcome of William James’s will to believe.

The morale of the Metropolitan Police Force had reached its lowest point during the Ripper murders of the previous year and had not yet recovered. The files of the Whitechapel murders had not been closed as the case was still ongoing, but nobody in London trusted the police to do their job.

Dr Kingsley was an exception, as he was not officially a member of the Metropolitan Police Force of Scotland Yard. He worked from a lab in the University College Hospital basement and had created his own position as forensic examiner simply because he felt it was necessary. Before he had taken over the police morgue, forensics work had been nearly nonexistent. Bodies had been shipped to poorly run storage facilities where they were lost or forgotten. He was a strange little man and the police gave him wide berth, but his help was invaluable and he was widely respected within the ranks of the detectives.

Başka türlü olamazmıydı?" Soru eki mi bitişik olmalı. Ayrı yazarsam gözüne batar. Scotland Yard'da filan mesleki görgü bilgi artırma kurslarına katılmış, kendisine lazım olan ingilizceyi iyi kötü kıvırmıştır Uluçmüdürüm. ama Türkçesi zayıftır. Hem köküne kadar milliyetçidir bunlar, hem kendi dillerini bilmezler. Ayrı yazarsam cümlede bir tuhaflık olduğu hissine kapılır. Anlam yerini bulmayabilir. Eğer dilbilgisi sağlamsa (değildir ya) hoşlanmaz. Bu türden iktidarlı ilişkilerde kadınca marifetlerin dışında, kadının erkekten daha iyi bildiği hiçbir şey olmamalıdır. Olsa bile kadın asla belli etmemelidir. İktidar her yerdedir, her andadır. Sözcüğün içinde, anlamın kenarında, doğasında, dilbilgisinin ayrıntısındadır. (Tanrım, deliriyorum!)

Guess what?” she said to us. “Someone chopped down a tree in Mrs. Spencer’s garden last night.” I stared at her incredulously for a moment. Not a much-loved family member, then, not a nuclear power plant. My eyes went to Florence’s face, which was wet with tears. Was she really crying over Mr. Snuggles? Unobtrusively, I slipped past Lottie and over to the coffee machine, put the biggest cup I could find under it, and pressed the cappuccino button. Twice. “A tree? But why?” asked Mia with a perfectly judged mixture of curiosity and mild surprise. “No one knows,” said Lottie. “But Mrs. Spencer has already called in Scotland Yard. It was a very valuable tree.” I almost laughed out loud. Yes, sure. I bet they had a special gardening squad to investigate such cases. Scotland Front Yard. Good day, my name is Inspector Griffin and I’m looking into the murder of Mr. Snuggles.

The number of cases of religious or ritualistic abuse of children reported to Scotland Yard has increased year-on-year over the past 10 years. In 2013 a total of 24 were passed to the force. Since 2004, 148 cases have been referred to the Met.

The real thing--Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?

The Eccentric Earl Great Scotland Yard behind us was the site of the old Scottish embassy and still has a theoretical claim to be considered Scottish territory. This corner of Horse Guards Avenue just past the St Margaret’s boundary mark is really Scottish because we are walking on Scottish soil (though it is covered by English tarmac). In 1760, this site was bought by the Earl of Fife for his London house. The Jacobite Rising had taken place only fifteen years before and, as a result of the repressive measures taken after Culloden, the Earl had developed a deep hatred of England and the English. To avoid suspicion of disloyalty, he had to attend the House of Lords but resolved not to tread on English soil unless he had to. He ordered a shipload of soil and gravel to be sent to London, covered this area with it and had a house built on top. When it was completed he came down by sea, landed at the jetty and, except for his compulsory attendance at the House of Lords, spent his entire time in London here – on Scottish soil.

Academia is to knowledge as Scotland Yard is to criminal detection!

Soon they would be together forever, the subterfuge and deceit ended. It was nearly time to let the world into their secret. The night before the engagement announcement, which took place on February 24, 1981, she packed a bag, hugged her loyal friends and left Coleherne Court forever. She had an armed Scotland Yard bodyguard for company, Chief Inspector Paul Officer, a philosophical policeman who is fascinated by runes, mysticism and the after-world. As she prepared to say goodbye to her private life, he told her: “I just want you to know that this is the last night of freedom in your life so make the most of it.” Those words stopped her in her tracks. “They felt like a sword through my heart.

While Diana and her mother started planning guest lists, wardrobe requirements and the other details for the wedding of the year, the media vainly attempted to discover her hiding-place. The one man who did know was the Prince of Wales. As the days passed, Diana pined for her Prince and yet he never telephoned. She excused his silence as due to the pressure of his royal duties. Finally she called him only to find that he was not in his apartment at Buckingham Palace. It was only after she called him that he telephoned her. Soothed by that solitary telephone call, Diana’s ruffled pride was momentarily mollified when she returned to Coleherne Court. There was a knock on the door and a member of the Prince’s staff appeared with a large bouquet of flowers. However there was no note from her future husband and she concluded sadly that it was simply a tactful gesture by his office. These concerns were forgotten a few days later when Diana rose at dawn and travelled to the Lambourn home of Nick Gaselee, Charles’s trainer, to watch him ride his horse, Allibar. As she and his detective observed the Prince put the horse through its paces on the gallops Diana was seized by another premonition of disaster. She said that Allibar was going to have a heart attack and die. Within seconds of her uttering those words, 11-year-old Allibar reared its head back and collapsed to the ground with a massive coronary. Diana leapt out of the Land Rover and raced to Charles’s side. There was nothing anyone could do. The couple stayed with the horse until a vet officially certified its death and then, to avoid waiting photographers, Diana left the Gaselees in the back of the Land Rover with a coat over her head. It was a miserable moment but there was little time to reflect on the tragedy. The inexorable demands of royal duty took Prince Charles on to wales, leaving Diana to sympathize with his loss by telephone. Soon they would be together forever, the subterfuge and deceit ended. It was nearly time to let the world into their secret. The night before the engagement announcement, which took place on February 24, 1981, she packed a bag, hugged her loyal friends and left Coleherne Court forever. She had an armed Scotland Yard bodyguard for company, Chief Inspector Paul Officer, a philosophical policeman who is fascinated by runes, mysticism and the after-world. As she prepared to say goodbye to her private life, he told her: “I just want you to know that this is the last night of freedom in your life so make the most of it.” Those words stopped her in her tracks. “They felt like a sword through my heart.

I had no idea Scotland Yard employed novelists these days," said Lord Bancroft coldly. "Of the penny dreadful variety, no less.

Arrived at Scotland Yard, feeling very conspicuous and more than a bit of a fool, Elizabeth asked the uniformed man at the entrance how she should set about finding Chief Inspector Macdonald, and was surprised to find herself led, without further question, through corridors and up stairs in a building which reminded her of a tax-collector’s office which had got confused with the County Hall. Nothing sensational, she decided, and policemen without their lids looked rather like lambs.

Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s palate than what he described as ‘your English poison’.

Chief Inspector Littlejohn, the famous Scotland Yard detective, and his wife have just arrived on holiday at La Reserve, Juan-les-Pins. It appeared sandwiched between a paragraph about a man who had bought a villa at Bormes-les-Mimosas and moved in with a large retinue, and another about an acrobat who had murdered his mistress and then cut his own throat. ‘That’s torn it,’ said Littlejohn when he read it. ‘There’ll be an outbreak of crime right away.

We don’t get much in the creepy line—and still less in the criminal line—in St. Mary Mead, you know, Miss Helier,” said Dr. Lloyd. “You surprise me,” said Sir Henry Clithering. The ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard turned to Miss Marple. “I always understood from our friend here that St. Mary Mead is a positive hotbed of crime and vice.

Two retired Scotland Yard detectives came forward and said that a VIP network of politicians sexually abused and murdered young boys at parties but they were powerless to further investigate or arrest them because they were part of what were called The Untouchables.432 The officers named names, including Cyril Smith, a popular member of the British Parliament who died in 2010.

During a lull, Paston introduced Littlejohn. Mrs Hempseed said she was pleased to meet him. The name of Scotland Yard seemed to strike no admiration, awe or terror in her heart.

Sir Henry Clithering, ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, sat silent, twisting his moustache—or rather stroking it—and half smiling, as though at some inward thought that amused him. “Sir Henry,” said Mrs. Bantry at last. “If you don’t say something I shall scream. Are there a lot of crimes that go unpunished, or are there not?

Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. They’ll solve it.” Reggie chuckled when he realized Sebastian was puzzled, if only momentarily. “That’s the real name for Scotland Yard, which is actually the name of the street and the building where they are housed.

moving over to a new building on the Embankment.” Sebastian nodded, sipped his drink. “I didn’t know that.” Reggie went on, “Centuries ago, the street called Scotland Yard housed a palace where the Scottish kings stayed when they visited London.

Agatha Christie’s first Miss Marple novel, Murder at the Vicarage, published in 1930, even included maps of the nameless village where a retired colonel is murdered in the study. The abundance of 1930s thrillers in which colonels are done to death in picturesque hamlets – the ‘Mayhem Parva’ school of writing as Colin Watson puts it – have a very particular kind of village in mind. It is in the Home Counties, ‘where there’s a church, a village inn, very handy for the odd Scotland Yard inspector and his man who come to stay for the regularly recurring crimes’.

It could produce the most extraordinary consequences, as the life of C. B. Fry demonstrates. The son of a chief accountant at Scotland Yard, he had played in the FA Cup before he left Repton School in 1890 and appeared for Surrey county cricket team in the time between school and university (Oxford, inevitably, and the top scholarship at Wadham College). By the time of his graduation, he had represented the university at cricket, soccer and athletics, tied the world long-jump record at 23 feet 6½ inches, and only missed playing wing three-quarter for the Oxford rugby team because of injury. He managed, in passing, to win a first in classics.

How long’s the ride?” I asked. Berleand looked at his wristwatch. “About thirty seconds.” He may have overestimated. I had, in fact, seen the building before—the “bold and stark” sandstone fortress sitting across the river. The mansard roofs were gray slate, as were the cone-capped towers scattered through the sprawl. We could have easily walked. I squinted as we approached. “You recognize it?” Berleand said. No wonder it had grabbed my eye before. Two armed guards moved to the side as our squad car pulled through the imposing archway. The portal looked like a mouth swallowing us whole. On the other side was a large courtyard. We were surrounded now on all sides by the imposing edifice. Fortress, yeah, that did fit. You felt a bit like a prisoner of war in the eighteenth century. “Well?” I did recognize it, mostly from books by Georges Simenon and because, well, I just knew it because in law-enforcement circles it was legendary. I had entered the courtyard of 36 quai des Orfèvres—the renowned French police headquarters. Think Scotland Yard. Think Quantico. “Soooo,” I said, stretching the word out, gazing through the window, “whatever this is, it’s big.” Berleand turned both palms up. “We don’t process traffic violations here.” Count

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. And so, early one morning less than a week later, we left Kensington Palace and drove to the Sandbanks ferry at Poole in an ordinary saloon car. As we gazed at the coastline from the shabby viewing deck of the vintage chain ferry, Diana’s excitement was obvious, yet not one of the other passengers recognized her. But then, no one would have expected the most photographed woman in the world to be aboard the Studland chain ferry on a sunny spring morning in May. As the ferry docked after its short journey, we climbed back into the car and then, once the ramp had been lowered, drove off in a line of cars and service trucks heading for Studland and Swanage. Diana was driving, and I asked her to stop in a sand-covered area about half a mile from the ferry landing point. We left the car and walked a short distance across a wooded bridge that spanned a reed bed to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. Her simple pleasure at being somewhere with no one, apart from me, knowing her whereabouts was touching to see. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her. She set off at once, a tall figure clad in a pair of blue denim jeans, a dark-blue suede jacket, and a soft scarf wrapped loosely around her face to protect her from the chilling, easterly spring wind. I stood and watched as she slowly dwindled in the distance, her head held high, alone apart from busy oyster catchers that followed her along the water’s edge. It was a strange sensation watching her walking away by herself, with no bodyguards following at a discreet distance. What were my responsibilities here? I kept thinking. Yet I knew this area well, and not once did I feel uneasy. I had made this decision--not one of my colleagues knew. Senior officers at Scotland Yard would most certainly have boycotted the idea had I been foolish enough to give them advance notice of what the Princess and I were up to.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. It was a strange sensation watching her walking away by herself, with no bodyguards following at a discreet distance. What were my responsibilities here? I kept thinking. Yet I knew this area well, and not once did I feel uneasy. I had made this decision--not one of my colleagues knew. Senior officers at Scotland Yard would most certainly have boycotted the idea had I been foolish enough to give them advance notice of what the Princess and I were up to. Before Diana disappeared from sight, I called her on the radio. Her voice was bright and lively, and I knew instinctively that she was happy, and safe. I walked back to the car and drove slowly along the only road that runs adjacent to the bay, with heath land and then the sea to my left and the waters of Poole Harbour running up toward Wareham, a small market town, to my right. Within a matter of minutes, I was turning into the car park of the Bankes Arms, a fine old pub that overlooks the bay. I left the car and strolled down to the beach, where I sat on an old wall in the bright sunshine. The beach huts were locked, and there was no sign of life. To my right I could see the Old Harry Rocks--three tall pinnacles of chalk standing in the sea, all that remains, at the landward end, of a ridge that once ran due east to the Isle of Wight. Like the Princess, I, too, just wanted to carry on walking. Suddenly, my radio crackled into life: “Ken, it’s me--can you hear me?” I fumbled in the large pockets of my old jacket, grabbed the radio, and said, “Yes. How is it going?” “Ken, this is amazing, I can’t believe it,” she said, sounding truly happy. Genuinely pleased for her, I hesitated before replying, but before I could speak she called again, this time with that characteristic mischievous giggle in her voice. “You never told me about the nudist colony!” she yelled, and laughed raucously over the radio. I laughed, too--although what I actually thought was “Uh-oh!” But judging from her remarks, whatever she had seen had made her laugh. At this point, I decided to walk toward her, after a few minutes seeing her distinctive figure walking along the water’s edge toward me. Two dogs had joined her and she was throwing sticks into the sea for them to retrieve; there were no crowd barriers, no servants, no police, apart from me, and no overattentive officials. Not a single person had recognized her. For once, everything for the Princess was “normal.” During the seven years I had worked for her, this was an extraordinary moment, one I shall never forget.

with five other officers to pick up no less than eleven prisoners of six different nationalities. These were the men from the sailship, The Lennie, who were accused of murder on the

And Hopkins, seeing that Tisdall was unaware of Grant’s identity, rushed in with glad maliciousness. “That is Scotland Yard,” he said. “Inspector Grant. Never had an unsolved crime to his name.” “I hope you write my obituary,” Grant said. “I hope I do!” the journalist said, with fervor.

Mohamed Al Fayed was more vocal than ever in his assertion that Prince Philip ordered British intelligence to assassinate Diana and Dodi, and Operation Paget had been launched by Scotland Yard to look into this and other conspiracy theories.

At ten past two on the afternoon of 28 December 1836, Constable Samuel Pegler, 104‘S’, was patrolling his beat down the east side of a snowy Edgware Road when he heard panic-stricken shouts of ‘Police! Police!’ coming from across the way near the Pine Apple tollgate.

first hole at Prestwick in Scotland; the wind was howling out of the left. I started an eight-iron thirty yards to windward, but the gale caught it; I watched in dismay as the ball sailed hard right, hit the green going sideways, and bounded off into the cabbage. "Sonofabitch!" I turned to our caddie. "Did you see the wind take that shot!?" He gave that look that only Scottish caddies can give. "Well, ye've got t' play th' wind now,

the police box was born. Here a police officer in need of assistance could find a telephone link to Scotland Yard, a dry space to do “paperwork” and, in certain extreme cases, a life of adventure through space and time.

Scotland Yard men were responsible for following her—and at this point, things went badly wrong. “Whether she had left before the watch began or whether she is still there, I am powerless to say,” reported an exasperated Robert Anderson. “The police [are] utterly unfit for work of this kind.

In retrospect it is scarcely believable that insulting letters passing between obscure people in a small town should result in four assize trials and two Court of Criminal Appeal hearings, and claim the time of a distinguished Scotland Yard officer, the Director of Public Prosecutions, and the senior Treasury Counsel.

Waris Dirie has not voted for the Dutch elections, deliberately.

He was part of an old story, a story that spanned many centuries and many cultures. He was Loki chained in the Netherworld, Prometheus on the rock. He was a god and these men were mortals. They could hurt him, but they had not killed him yet. Perhaps they could not kill him. He was more than a man. He was an idea and was, therefore, immortal.

He was part of an old story, a story that spanned many centuries and many cultures. He was Loki chained in the Netherworld, Prometheus on the rock. He was a God and these men were mortals. They could hurt him, but they had not killed him yet. Perhaps they could not kill him. He was an idea and was, therefore, immortal.

Scotland Yard and his slut of slime yard.

Mallaby Road, Harrow, as the Saint discovered, was one of those jolly roads in which ladies and gentlemen live. Lords and ladies may be found in such places as Mayfair, Monte Carlo, and St Moritz; men and women may be found almost anywhere; but Ladies and Gentlemen blossom in their full beauty only in such places as Mallaby Road,

All of which has not a little to do with 85, Vandemeer Avenue, Hampstead. Down this

suits of Anderson and Sheppard, the shirts of Harman, the shoes of Lobb, and self-refrigerating conscience can achieve.

It was the belief of Scotland Yard that the fullest publicity was the best chance of laying the murderer by the heels. The population of Great Britain turned itself into an army of amateur sleuths.

Softly unbolting the door, he stuck the cat’s head round the edge and ejaculated a piercing "Miaow." The Scotland Yard inspector, who was standing outside with another man, jumped in spite of himself.

Scotland Yard isn't called in nearly as often as detective novelists seem to think,

New Scotland Yard was teeming with overworked detectives and efficient clerical secretaries dressed in the same muted drab colours of the interior walls.

So much of what Zed had said to the Scotland Yard detective was bluster, and he knew it. After he dropped her off at her hotel, he didn’t return to Windermere. Instead, he went across the main road through Milnthorpe and made his way to the street that ran east to west along the market square. There was a Spar shop at a junction where another street led off to a grim-looking housing estate of unremittingly grey roughcast, and he parked nearby and went inside. It was cluttered and hot and it suited both his mood and his thoughts

Jeremy walked in a great shrubbery of rhododendrons where Charing Cross Station had been and in a rose-garden over the deep-buried foundations of Scotland Yard.

It was the rule about … (lining up/staying on task/bringing military hardware into school) that you broke. You have chosen to … (move to the back/catch up with your work at lunchtime/ speak to the man from Scotland Yard). Do you remember last week when you … (arrived on time every day/got that positive note/received the Nobel Prize)? That is who I need to see today … Thank you for listening. (Then give the child some ‘take up’ time.)

Are you private, or are you in fact working for Scotland Yard?” “Neither. I am a social investigator.” “I see,” I said, though to be frank, I didn’t. “I don’t suppose that pays very well.” “Nothing at all, actually, but it’s very important. That’s why I am working in the East End. I wish to know why the greatest empire in history cannot feed, clothe, or shelter many of its people. I wonder why the mistakes and attitudes of one generation are doomed to be repeated in the next and why the arrival of a people with a rich and ancient culture such as the Jews inspires fear and loathing among an otherwise sensible people.

Scotland Yard!" he cried.

You little devil!” he said, his tone admiring. “You think to use your fiendish wiles upon me with no care for what might become of my position at Scotland Yard. You are an absolute monster,” he told me, but he was smiling as he said it.

The cat on the bridge walks to Scotland Yard.

That is the severity of your official demeanour, my good Japp.’ ‘There’s nothing for anyone to be afraid of if they’re only telling the truth,’ said the Scotland Yard man austerely. Poirot looked at him pityingly. ‘In verity, I believe that you yourself honestly believe that.’ ‘Of course I do. It’s true.

The following year, Leslie married an American, Barbara Meyer, who’d accompanied him to Tenerife. In early 1938, Charteris and his new bride set off in a trailer of his own design and spent eighteen months travelling round America and Canada.

Herman Bluebeard, who said to Scotland Yard, 'How do I know how many women I've killed? I'm a murderer, not an accountant!

There was never any peace. There were never any quiet, family moments. They were always working. All of them, all the time. For some reason Michael saw an image of the sitting room at the house in Yorkshire. The TV was on, but there was no one watching it. The terrier was polishing off a plate of dinner that had been abandoned on the arm of the couch. That was the way their lives were. They hadn't sat down to a meal once since they arrived in Scotland. They were a dealer's yard, not a family.

One of the most important long-term changes that arose as a result of this case was the creation of the “murder bag” for use by police. Spilsbury had been shocked to see police officers having to remove rotting flesh and body parts from the scene of the crime using their bare hands. To address this problem, a series of meetings were held between Scotland Yard and Spilsbury, which led to the development of the murder bag, which contained rubber gloves, tweezers, evidence bags, a magnifying glass, compass, ruler, and swabs. Such a bag is now an essential part of any major inquiry and may contain various items, depending on the specific department. Common modern additions include a fiberglass brush, lifting tape, powder, utility knife, scissors, a blood test, a semen test, swabs, alcohol hand spray, scalpels, and goggles

My goodness you are right! Spot on deduction old boy, spot on. Now return to Scotland Yard and figure out why so many ws like to have it there.

I’m expecting another friend,” said Beasley. “I’m not sure when he’ll get here, but . . .” “If I’m not mistaken,” said Sara, who was facing the door, “he’s here now.” Andrew and Beasley both turned as Wyatt came in. He saw them at the same time that they saw him, scowled as he approached the table. “What the blue blazes are the two of you doing here?” he asked. “They’re having lunch with me,” said Beasley. “Why today?” “Why not today? They know they’re welcome anytime. Meet my friend, Keegee Clipson. Inspector Peter Wyatt of Scotland Yard.” “What?” said Clipson, bouncing to his feet. “Is this the friend you was talking about? I ain’t having lunch with no poxy slop, specially not a crusher!” “Ah, language!” sighed Beasley. “What riches we can find in common speech. Do you know what he’s talking about, Sara?” “Of course. Used this way, poxy is a derogatory adjective like blinking and blooming. A slop is back-slang for a copper or policeman and a crusher is a plainclothes policeman.” “Well done,” said Beasley. Then to Clipson, “Are you impressed?” “No, I’m leaving!” “You are not,” said Beasley, catching him by the sleeve. “Sit down.” “I told you . . .” said Clipson. “I know. But you’re not having it with him. You’re having it with Sara, Andrew and me.

Superintendent Stanislaus Oates of the Central Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard, was one of those happy people who retain throughout their lives a childlike belief in a sharp dividing line between that which is wrong and that which is right. It is this peculiarity which is common to all the great English policemen and is probably the basis of their reputation both for integrity and for stupidity.

SOME WOMEN HAVE SAID that Mrs. Pym was never young, that even in her initial stages she was probably an elderly baby. Obviously, such women should drink milk out of saucers; still, it is a fact that Mrs. Pym was somehow stolid, enormously capable, and frequently harsh, even in the early 1920’s when she must have been around thirty. She affected the same ugly tweeds, the same enchantingly insane hats, and the same air of magnificent omnipotence as she does today. But her hair was brown then, with only the faintest touch of her current greyness. Her speech was as biting, and her contempt for authority and inefficiency as ready as on that notable day when she crashed the shocked portals of New Scotland Yard, the first woman ever to hold rank in Central C.I.D., where, in these present jittery times of nuclear fission and H-bombs, she is Mrs. Assistant-Commissioner Pym.

As Lynley watched her, he thought how ironic it was that he had come to depend upon having Havers as his partner. Initially he had believed that no one could possibly be less likely to suit him. She was prickly, argumentative, easily given to anger, and bitterly aware of the enormous gap that existed between them, an impassable chasm created by birth, by class, by money, by experience. They could not have been more antithetical, Havers struggling with a fierce determination to rise out of a working-class neighbourhood in a grimy suburb of London while he moved effortlessly from his home in Cornwall to his town house in Belgravia to his office in New Scotland Yard. But their differences went far beyond mere background. Their perceptions of life and humanity occupied two opposite ends of the spectrum as well. Hers was ruthless, without sympathy, suspicious of motives, and based on distrust of a world that had given her nothing. His was laced with compassion, rich with understanding, and based almost entirely upon a guilt that insisted he reach out, learn, expiate, rescue, make amends. He smiled at the thought that Superintendent Webberly had been absolutely right to put them together, to insist they remain in partnership even at moments when Lynley believed it was an impossible situation that could only grow worse.

Mattie thought for a moment and then said suddenly, “I can go to the Quakers for a week. I help out there sometimes as a translator and they would find me somewhere to stay.” Tollman looked interested. “What’s this Quakers’ place then?” “St Stephen’s House, in Westminster, next to Scotland Yard. I’m surprised you don’t know it. They run an emergency service there for Germans, Austrians and Hungarians in distress.” Mattie explained.