The Day Of The Jackal by Frederick Forsyth

 I love Freddy Forsyth. Not his novels, but him: contrary, well-informed, opinionated, intelligent, hard to pigeonhole politically (Margaret Thatcher adored him but that’s not really his fault) and good value on TV. Anyway, a question: can a novel be over-researched? The answer, in the case of The Day Of The Jackal, is sometimes. I don’t really care if…