Nightingale is, at first glance, a rather prim and proper sort, the kind of man whom one might assume had maintained a charming naivete about substances of varying legality. This would be a very mistaken impression. Not only is he more interesting than he initially appears, he is also a police officer in modern London. The smell of weed is a near-constant companion for a copper on the streets, and one he is accustomed to cheerily turning a blind eye to.

"All right over there?" he asks, amused.