It canât possibly just echo reality. If it does that it ceases to be fiction. Otherwise why write novels or read them, come to that?â
âMax publishes a lot of true crime,â said Monica. She was on the defensive now. She always was when it came to Max.
âOh God,â said Bognor, running a hand through his thinning hair, âtrue crime books. Please spare me. I can think of nothing sadder. I suppose it pays for the Porsche but thatâs it.â
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.
âYouâre just an old cosy,â said Monica. âAn 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
âI am not an old cosy,â he said irritably, discovering a bone in his fish and reflecting that if he were seriously rich heâd employ a man to remove such hazards. He could iron his morning paper while he was about it. ââCosyâ is a pejorative word invented by unimaginative writers of so-called âhard-boiledâ fiction, mainly American, to denigrate their competitors, mainly British. To describe something or someone as âcosyâ is evidence of an inferiority complex. It means you find thought difficult so you resort to violence and abuse.â
âNo need to get overexcited,â she said, âitâs bad for your blood pressure.â
âI hate these silly oversimplified classifications,â he said. ââCosyâ doesnât mean what itâs supposed to mean. Itâs just a term of abuse. Ageist as well. No one under about forty is ever described as âcosyâ. You have to be a pensioner to be cosy.â
Monica chewed thoughtfully on her rabbit.
âIâm not so sure,â she said, at last. âI think âcosyâ is a perfectly good word for you. Youâre warm, reliable, unthreatening. Everyone feels comfortable with you.â
âOn the contrary,â said Bognor, âI may seem âcosyâ. I might appear âcosyâ. But actually Iâm where itâs at. Iâm state-of-the-art. Iâm cutting edge.â
His wife continued to chew rabbit. At last she said, âThat may be the problem. Many experts, you included, confuse âcosinessâ with âincompetenceâ. Thatâs the mistake. I know that youâre both cosy and cutting edge. Very dangerous, rather sexy and possibly even unique.â
Bognor looked at his green-covered fish and mused on this intriguing and novel conceit.
âCosy and cutting edge,â he said, at last. âI rather like that. Cosy and cutting edge. Hmmm .â¯.â¯.â
NINE
N ext morning, Bognor asked Harvey Contractor about Trubshaweâs post-mortem examination. In view of the previous nightâs discussion this was always probable, as was the note of censoriousness in Sir Simonâs 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 yesterdayâs republicanism, though in fairness you could hardly call it democracy. It was a