Free Poison At The Pueblo by Tim Heald Page A

It can’t possibly just echo reality. If it does that it ceases to be fiction. Otherwise why write novels or read them, come to that?’
    â€˜Max publishes a lot of true crime,’ said Monica. She was on the defensive now. She always was when it came to Max.
    â€˜Oh God,’ said Bognor, running a hand through his thinning hair, ‘true crime books. Please spare me. I can think of nothing sadder. I suppose it pays for the Porsche but that’s it.’
    They ate in silence. The Polish girl removed plates and brought new ones. Then hake covered in green sauce. The rabbit had a plump, white, domesticated appearance. And a bottle. The red wine was dense and full of tannin.
    â€˜You’re just an old cosy,’ said Monica. ‘An elderly dog with its hair falling out; a tartan rug for geriatrics to put over their knees; a Morris Minor estate with wooden beams like a Tudorbethan estate house. An old cosy.’
    â€˜I am not an old cosy,’ he said irritably, discovering a bone in his fish and reflecting that if he were seriously rich he’d employ a man to remove such hazards. He could iron his morning paper while he was about it. ‘“Cosy” is a pejorative word invented by unimaginative writers of so-called “hard-boiled” fiction, mainly American, to denigrate their competitors, mainly British. To describe something or someone as “cosy” is evidence of an inferiority complex. It means you find thought difficult so you resort to violence and abuse.’
    â€˜No need to get overexcited,’ she said, ‘it’s bad for your blood pressure.’
    â€˜I hate these silly oversimplified classifications,’ he said. ‘“Cosy” doesn’t mean what it’s supposed to mean. It’s just a term of abuse. Ageist as well. No one under about forty is ever described as “cosy”. You have to be a pensioner to be cosy.’
    Monica chewed thoughtfully on her rabbit.
    â€˜I’m not so sure,’ she said, at last. ‘I think “cosy” is a perfectly good word for you. You’re warm, reliable, unthreatening. Everyone feels comfortable with you.’
    â€˜On the contrary,’ said Bognor, ‘I may seem “cosy”. I might appear “cosy”. But actually I’m where it’s at. I’m state-of-the-art. I’m cutting edge.’
    His wife continued to chew rabbit. At last she said, ‘That may be the problem. Many experts, you included, confuse “cosiness” with “incompetence”. That’s the mistake. I know that you’re both cosy and cutting edge. Very dangerous, rather sexy and possibly even unique.’
    Bognor looked at his green-covered fish and mused on this intriguing and novel conceit.
    â€˜Cosy and cutting edge,’ he said, at last. ‘I rather like that. Cosy and cutting edge. Hmmm . . .’

NINE
    N ext morning, Bognor asked Harvey Contractor about Trubshawe’s post-mortem examination. In view of the previous night’s discussion this was always probable, as was the note of censoriousness in Sir Simon’s voice. Nasty piece of work though he undoubtedly was, Trubshawe was still a British citizen and Bognor did not like the idea of a British body being dissected by foreigners, particularly without a single Brit to see fair play. He more or less believed in the European Union but there were limits. And perhaps Monica was right. Perhaps he was too hands-off. Too inclined to wash his hands of the nitty-gritty.
    They were in a Guardia limo taking them to a rendezvous in Salamanca. The car was long, sleek, comfortable, bulletproof and only just the right side of stretched. Outside Spain passed by: cheerful, noisy, poorer than them, but not as ill-favoured as once upon a time. Monarchy had been good to its subjects. Today was a rebuke to yesterday’s republicanism, though in fairness you could hardly call it democracy. It was a