Crime fiction covers everything from spinster sleuths in village cozies to misfit cops on streets so mean they bite.

There’s going to be a body and – generally – the killer’s going to get caught. There’s a crime, an inquiry and a conviction. You get to the last page and close the book. End of story. There’s control and comfort in fictional crime that in reality rarely exist.

The shock and its aftermath are much more severe when the crime is murder. People actually agree to be interviewed when their lives are touched by tragedy because they are looking for some sort of catharsis. Apart from their emotional release, there was always the hope that the coverage would help the police inquiry. Whatever the reasons, that contact gave an insight and a sensitivity, which is invaluable.

Ironically, cozy crime fiction far less palatable than the grimmest of grit noir. The idea of the rawest human feelings and the foulest of crimes being treated as light entertainment seem vaguely obscene. As for reading details in police procedurals that are ludicrously inaccurate or hearing characters spout police speak or dated platitudes. By not even attempting to inject veracity, the writer’s come up with a work that not only lacks credibility but is lazy and crass.