Читаем The Constant Rabbit полностью

‘True,’ said Connie, and she opened her flick-knife, stepped forward and cut off one of Mr Ffoxe’s claws. ‘Torquil Ffoxe was the true architect of the Rehoming plan, and with him gone, we may have bought some renegotiation time. The Taskforce will be here presently,’ she added, threading the fox-claw on to a leather lanyard, ‘so the next part of this is really up to you.’

In my short time with the Rabbits I think I understood in the tiniest fashion what a real taste of oppression means. The decision was a no-brainer: a thousand or more rabbits torn limb from limb, or me doing some time for murder.

‘You outfoxed the fox,’ I said.

‘No,’ said Connie, ‘we outfoxed the fox,’ and she placed the leather lanyard with the fox-claw around my neck, and tucked it beneath my shirt.

‘There,’ she said, ‘you’ll never have to buy a round of dandelion brandy ever again. Kent? Bring in the owl.’

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Kent appeared with the owl – the same one that Finkle had delivered to my house.

‘Why is the owl here?’ I asked.

‘You brought it with you,’ said Connie. ‘Repeat it so you understand that.’

‘I brought the owl with me.’

‘All right, then. Good luck.’

There was a screech of tyres outside the house, car doors slamming and the sound of footsteps. Doc, Connie and Kent were suddenly on the ground, three terrified balls of brown fur, sobbing uncontrollably, hearts thumping wildly, ears flat on their backs.

Whizelle was first through the door. He found me standing there, still holding the duelling pistol, Senior Group Leader Torquil Ffoxe dead on his knees, arms still up in the air, a pool of blood slowly congealing beneath him. I didn’t notice it at the time, but I had one of Mr Ffoxe’s ears stuck to my jacket.

‘Oh, Peter,’ said the weasel, surveying the scene with a sad shake of his head, ‘you silly, silly bastard.’

Flemming ran in the door and stopped when she saw what remained of the Senior Group Leader.

‘Shit,’ she said, ‘oh … shit.’ She glared at me. ‘Knox? What in hell’s name are you playing at?’

‘I brought the owl,’ I blurted out, stupidly.

‘Good for you,’ said Whizelle. ‘Flemming? Search the house.’

Flemming, still staring at Mr Ffoxe’s body, issued a curt message on her radio and more Taskforce officers entered, then, upon her direction, vanished to all points around the house – upstairs, into the cellar, living room, kitchen, snooker room. My hands were cuffed and the pistol dropped into an evidence bag. In an unusual move – I would find out why soon enough – a photographer was on hand to make a rapid and comprehensive survey of the crime scene while the Rabbits looked dumb and sheepish and forlorn, their ears drooped, their shoulders hunched. It was an impressive performance.

‘All clear,’ said Flemming as the agents concluded their search and were then ordered to depart, taking all the Rabbits’ mobile phones and laptops with them. Agent Whizelle then told Flemming to escort me to the car and hold me there, adding that ‘I needed to learn that actions have consequences’. I was moved out of the building as Whizelle and another agent started to take statements from the Rabbits.

‘Mind your head,’ said Flemming as she helped me into the back of the Range Rover.

‘What was that about actions and consequences?’ I asked once she’d climbed in herself.

‘Search me,’ she said. ‘This is the weasel’s show. Why did you do it, Peter? I mean, I can understand how you could be so easily bunnytrapped, but from there to taking a gun to a fox? And the Senior Group Leader to boot? That takes a lot more cojones than I’d ever credit you with.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

She stared at me in the rear-view mirror.

‘It’s an observation.’

I sighed and gazed at Hemlock Towers. I’d lived in the house next door my entire life and seen the Towers almost every day for the past half-century. Been inside it about two dozen times under various ownerships, but the visit that ended with a dead fox would be my last.

‘He said what he was going to do with her before he killed her,’ I said simply. ‘I couldn’t let that happen.’

‘You should have walked the other way,’ said Flemming, unimpressed by my reasoning. ‘Mr Ffoxe was a vital kingpin. You’ll be lucky to get out of the clink this side of your seventieth birthday.’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly, ‘and it will be justice.’

We stayed parked outside for about three hours, and watched as various Taskforce personnel came and went. The fox was carried out in a lumpy body bag after one hour and forty-five minutes, and I half expected Mr Smethwick to make an appearance to view for himself where his loyal engineer of the Rehoming was killed, but he didn’t. Finally, after much activity, the remainder of the Taskforce staff filed out and departed. Last of all came Whizelle, and I briefly caught a glimpse of Connie as she closed the door behind him. There was a brief pause, and then the door opened again and Doc placed the owl on the doorstep; it looked around for a moment, blinked, then flew off.

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