Free Poison At The Pueblo by Tim Heald Page B

paradox that monarchy should set men free while dictatorship had enslaved them. Franco more monarchical than Juan Carlos? Discuss. The King less of a king than the caudillo? Mmmm.
    â€˜I take it that in a case such as this you’d normally sit in on the post-mortem.’
    â€˜Might,’ said Contractor, who was drinking a very stiff black coffee and frowning over the main leader in El Pais. The limo had a minibar and a coffee machine. This was the new Spain. ‘Might not,’ he said. ‘Depends.’
    â€˜On what?’ Bognor was irritable. Last night’s conversation still rankled, he was mildly hungover and, despite appearances which he attempted to maintain, his Spanish was not up to the morning paper. He could do menus but not leaders.
    â€˜Depends,’ repeated Contractor, eyes furrowed, still engrossed.
    â€˜On what?’ Bognor was at his most snappish. ‘Decisions must depend on something concrete. Otherwise they’re like hanging participles or, um, flying buttresses.’
    â€˜Circumstances,’ said Contractor. ‘Circumstances dictate dependence.’
    â€˜Meaning?’
    With extreme reluctance Constructor raised his gaze from the El Pais editorial.
    â€˜Meaning that if I think my attendance at an autopsy is going to help me solve a case then I will attend. If not, not. On balance, I take the view that gratuitous butchery is a cheap thrill and better left to the specialists. That’s not always the case but usually so. If I think I can bring an expert but essentially unqualified eye to the proceedings then, yes, reluctantly, I’ll be an interested spectator. But most of the time I don’t see the point. Some people are more ghoulish.’
    â€˜Quite,’ said Bognor. ‘“Autopsy”. “Ghoulish”. Good words, both. I must remember them.’
    Contractor made as if to return to El Pais , but his boss reckoned he had him on the run.
    â€˜I’ve heard it said that I’m old-fashioned,’ said Bognor, trying not to sound peevish and, not to put too fine a point on it, old-fashioned, ‘is that what you think?’
    Contractor sighed.
    â€˜Of course,’ he said, ‘it’s obvious.’
    â€˜And pejorative?’
    â€˜Not necessarily,’ said Contractor. ‘We’re not ageists here. But age dictates behaviour and you act your age. We all do. Fact of life. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing particularly right. You’re approaching retirement age and your attitudes and behaviour reflect it. I’m a tyro, just embarking on my career. I act the part too.’
    The traffic was moving slowly, not quite gridlocked or jammed but moving at little above walking pace. There were roadworks. A man was drilling a hole in the road. There was noise and dust everywhere, and a small group of onlookers were watching the man at work. Bognor felt at home.
    â€˜Very enlightened,’ he said drily.
    â€˜Just realistic,’ said Contractor, turning a page. ‘No point pretending to be something you aren’t.’
    â€˜Quite.’
    Bognor fell to contemplating mushrooms and toadstools. He had been doing some research before leaving London, had summoned up papers, checked the Internet, and was as up to speed as was reasonable for a layman. Fungi were not a speciality but then he was a generalist. That was what the fuss was about. It was why he was feeling threatened.
    â€˜Mushrooms,’ he said to himself as he contemplated stalled Spanish traffic. ‘Best on toast. Purchased from the supermarket. Preferably grilled. Risk therefore nil.’
    Contractor had reached the sports pages and was reading about last night’s match at the Noo Camp between Barca and Valencia. He did not appreciate being interrupted, especially when the question was a trivial query about mushrooms.
    â€˜I gather forensics think it was one of the Amanita ,’ said Bognor portentously, ‘ Phalloides , virosa