Best 1852 quotes in «crime quotes» category

When a beautiful blonde asks, you don't say no.

When a child disappears, the space she’d occupied is immediately filled with dozens of people. And these people—relatives, friends, police officers, reporters from both TV and print—create a lot of energy and noise, a sense of communal intensity, of fierce and shared dedication to a task. “But amid all that noise, nothing is louder than the silence of the missing child. It’s a silence that’s two and a half to three feet tall, and you feel it at your hip and hear it rising up from the floorboards, shouting to you from corners and crevices and the emotionless face of a doll left on the floor by the bed. “It’s a silence that’s different from the one left at funerals and wakes. The silence of the dead carries with it a sense of finality; it’s a silence you know you must get used to. But the silence of a missing child is not something you want to get used to; you refuse to accept it, and so it screams at you. “The silence of the dead says, Goodbye. “The silence of the missing says, Find me.

When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals.

When a married man sleeps with someone else, it's bigamy, a crime. When a woman does the same, she is independent & it's her choice.

Whenever Elliot Norther’s wife was nervous she baked. With the murder of Harriet Mason, her husband’s close colleague at the Faculty, she had been unable to resist a couple of Victoria sponges. During the frenzied press speculation about the identity of the murderer, a Dundee cake had appeared, followed swiftly by a Battenberg and a Lemon Drizzle. Since news of the Wildencrust murder broke, the kitchen, dining room and study had come to resemble the storerooms of an industrial bakery, every surface heaving with the weight of sponge and cream. Yesterday, having at last been overwhelmed by the fear and rumour that swept the town, she had taken herself off to her mother’s house in Hampstead, leaving her husband to soldier on alone. When he had last seen his wife, Elliot Norther noticed that she had been putting the finishing touches to an impressive, triple-tiered wedding cake, beating a batch of royal icing into a sickly paste.

When I first studied the photographs I could not tell what she looked like or even the color of her hair. All I saw was red.

When I got home I mixed a stiff one and stood by the open window in the living room and sipped it and listened to the groundswell of traffic on Laurel Canyon Boulevard and looked at the glare of the big angry city hanging over the shoulder of the hills through which the boulevard had been cut. Far off the banshee wail of police or fire sirens rose and fell, never for very long completely silent. Twenty four hours a day somebody is running, somebody else is trying to catch him. Out there in the night of a thousand crimes, people were dying, being maimed, cut by flying glass, crushed against steering wheels or under heavy tires. People were being beaten, robbed, strangled, raped, and murdered. People were hungry, sick; bored, desperate with loneliness or remorse or fear, angry, cruel, feverish, shaken by sobs. A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness. It all depends on where you sit and what your own private score is. I didn't have one. I didn't care. I finished the drink and went to bed.

When it comes to politics its not about who is corrupt its about who is been caught, because they all have skeletons in the closet.

When I started off, I believed that the true determinant of how great I was was through my lifestyle, wardrobe, the type of car I drove, being seen with the right people; and if I made it unscathed, the estates I would own, and how the media would be singing my name like Urbanas’s. I saw my father apologizing for not supporting me. But life is a twisty bastard. When I called it quits on robbery, drugs, hedonism, and paedophilia and most probably necromancy—the ‘scarletest’ of sins according to me—I made a vow never to live a profane life again, not even the most subtle of snares would entrap me. I had seen them all, even in their disguises, and I knew them when I saw them.

When John-Joseph Heller's fights became too much of a sure thing, story has it he moved on to more risky fights with grown men and even starved dogs. Though he was scarred often, he was never beaten. But as he brought each opponent to his knees, John-Joseph Heller was also growing up and his vision began to extend further than the ring.

When people can get away with crimes just because they are wealthy or have the right connections, the scales are tipped against fairness and equality. The weight of corruption then becomes so heavy that it creates a dent that forces the world to become slanted, so much so — that justice just slips off.

When you get to Hell, I'll be sitting in the hot tub waiting.

When you commit a crime to upgrade yourself, your sin becomes a blessing, but your blessing kills you before your time.

When we follow this criminal-justice aspect of our world, and that means of our society, we experience miracles, as they say, on a daily basis.

When we wonder why crime doesn't stop or end. It is because the people who are committing it. We know them very well and we cant expose them. Instead, we protect them, because we benefit from their crime.

When we take something and don’t pay the price for it, we are punished by the world for fraud, crime or corruption. Such punishment gives us pain in proportion to what we have taken illegitimately from the world. However, when we voluntarily refuse to take anything from the world while sharing what we have with it, we get praise and honour in return, and that gives us joy.

When you are in hell, stay awhile, you might just pick up an idea for a sequel...

When you're in the safety of the future, the past doesn't seem so relevant.

When you're reading a good noir, the shocks and twists have a way of feeling deja vu-like, as if you saw them coming, but hoped the characters would take a left turn... not answer the phone, not sleep with that woman, not sell drugs to those cops... but knew they would. It would have been wrong if they didn't, and the real surprise can be that you care about someone you know is in for hell. You relate to them, even when their hell is so much bigger than your own. But we're all going to die, and we all make mistakes. The best noir stories make you forget plot entirely by giving you characters that feel so well-realised you can't look away as they fall.

When you've been falsely accused of serious crimes as often I have, you learn to recognize the oncoming inevitability of the next one.

Where's your sense of misadventure?

Where I’m taking you, no one will ever find us. We’ll have all the time in the world for you to grow to love me as much as I love you.

Whose Daddy's Little Girl Now?

While there is a lower class, I am in it. While there is a criminal element, I am of it. While there is a soul in prison, I am not free.

Whoever has the sword will have the earth.

Yeah," I said because it led to more options than 'no'.

With him big Phil from Notting Hill an old "face" from the sixties a pin up gangster with a "mars bar" weal scraping his left cheek and of course two "wag" slags in tow trussed up like French Poodles with "Bratz babe" stares and Gucci Handbags

With this choice, I know that I am giving up my career and most of my so-called friends. But, this is something I must do. Finally, I am going to do the right thing for the right reasons and maybe save his life.

Would I come off as a creepy-stalker-kind-of-guy or would it demonstrate that I cared?

Yeah, the club was dark but so's the whole country. When someone important goes missing, or the case is interesting enough, everybody has the same fetish. Whole world, really. No one admits it, but it's true.

You can only rise so far by climbing on others’ shoulders, you know.

You cannot have a society of angels except in heaven

You can take care of everything except chance. Chance can kill you.

You belong to the League of Nations?’ ‘I belong to the world, Madame,’ said Poirot dramatically.

You can have a lot of fun with rhinos

You cannot take vengeance on a whole people because of the doings of a few wicked men.

You console me a little, but only a little,’ said Poirot.

You don't have to believe in coincidences because they happen every day. The trick is to be able to discern when something is more than coincidence.

You can't jump for the stars if your feet hurt. And when you get where you're going, you darn well better look great!

You don’t like what you see out your window, you put up a wall.

You don’t rewrite it, censor it, or edit it, to suit some warped view you have of the past and your own present.

You Englishmen,’ said Herr Wurter. ‘You are all the same. Wherever you are you behave as if you were at home and your word was law.

You ever get the feeling all hell’s about to break loose and there’s nothing you can do about it?

You know you're writing a good thriller when you make yourself paranoid.

You live by whatever rules you need to govern your life the best you think. Let's just try not to encroach.

You'll be making so much cash that you won't know what to waste it on.

You look like shit.” “Thanks. I look way better than I feel.

You just hang in there, boy, hang in with that apprenticeship of yours, do you hear me? You are lucky they would even take someone like you. You’re a child of the slums. A ragtag. On top of that, you’re a whining piece of shit. Nobody will ever do anything for you. Do you understand what I’m saying? They’ll let you starve to death, no problem. Nobody is going to cry on your grave.” Poul-Erik’s Mother The Informer by Steen Langstrup

You know it's a good mystery novel when you, the reader, find yourself becoming a frustrated detective who occasionally gets it right.

You know what's the worst? Having realistic, ordinary expectations taken out of your reach by seemingly unrealistic, extraordinary circumstances.