‘Are we waiting for something?’ I asked.
The weasel didn’t reply, and instead just sat silently in the passenger seat, his rear paws on the dash, claws scratching the vinyl annoyingly. After about twenty minutes, cars began to arrive. The sort of cars sensible people own. Passats, Corollas, a few Audis, people carriers – some even with child seats in the back and nuclear disarmament stickers on the bumper. The cars stopped, parked up and the people climbed out. Their faces were obscured by the pig masks of TwoLegsGood and they positioned themselves around Hemlock Towers in a slow and deliberate fashion.
‘I don’t mind rabbits coming to grief,’ said Flemming as soon as she realised what was going on, ‘but when we start letting thugs do our dirty wo—’
‘Just relax,’ said the weasel, ‘it’s what he would have wanted.’
He patted her arm in a soothing manner, his meaning clear. He wasn’t just going to allow this, he had engineered it. There weren’t going to be any reprisals, but the Rabbits weren’t going to be given the benefit of the doubt, either. He turned and fixed me with his small black eyes.
‘These are the consequences of your actions, Knox,’ he said. ‘This one’s on you.’
He then nodded to Flemming, who shook her head again, started the car and drove out past the growing throngs of pig-masked Hominid Supremacists carrying glass bottles with rags stuffed in the top. I think I even saw Victor Mallett, who looked pretty much the same with a pig mask as without.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ I said as the car, once away from the small crowd, picked up speed.
‘You’re the one who made the big mistake,’ he said, ‘you and the Rabbits.’
He lapsed into silence, but he had mistaken the meaning of my comment. The mistake he made was taking on someone like Constance Rabbit. If they hadn’t already escaped through Kent’s tunnel – likely temporarily hidden by the stacked bricks in the basement – then they would do soon enough. If Connie could outfox a fox, outweaselling a weasel would be child’s play.
Lapin Flambé & HMP Leominster
TV Prison Trope incarceration was a natural progression from the pioneering Seventies Sitcom Hospitals, where the patients never seemed that ill and the nurses were all ridiculously buxom and spoke only in double entendres. They were, in turn, all romantically involved with the doctors, who were unfailingly handsome, witty, urbane and charming. And male.
I was taken to the Hereford Police Department’s central station. Whizelle left it up to Flemming to oversee my processing, probably because the weasel was not well liked by the local police as he was arrested quite often for being drunk, and managed to be offensively obnoxious to all and sundry when he was.
I was handed over to the custody sergeant, who confirmed with me that I was Peter Knox; that I wasn’t drunk or deranged; that I could be reasonably believed to be wanted in questioning with a crime; that I understood what was being said to me; that the crime required me to be held in custody; that I was unlikely to harm myself.
Pictures, fingerprints, details, then all my clothes were placed in a large evidence bag, signed and sealed. I was given some freshly laundered clothes to wear – a pair of jogging trousers, a T-shirt and a sweat top. On the whole, the officers were considerate and polite, but then I wasn’t causing any trouble and I was human, like them. They even offered me something to eat, but I declined. I wasn’t hungry. I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep, but I did, and quite well.
After a breakfast of cereal and tea, I was taken upstairs to meet the lawyer who had been allocated to my case.
‘You’re in luck,’ the custody sergeant told me, ‘Spenlow & Jorkins have agreed to supply counsel.’
‘Oh?’ I said, as the law firm were well known, not just in Hereford, but Shropshire and Gloucestershire, too. On numerous occasions they had defended defendants who had clearly been guilty, and while not always getting their clients acquitted, they had certainly managed to achieve a reduction in sentence.
It was a surprise when I met my lawyer, but thinking about it afterwards, I should not have been surprised at the surprise. A small Petstock rabbit dressed in a suit and tie was waiting for me, nervously clutching a briefcase and peering at me owlishly through round, steel-rimmed spectacles. He was white and brown, and his left ear was missing the top third.
‘Hello!’ he said cheerfully, clasping my hand in his two. ‘Lance deBlackberry of Spenlow & Jorkins.’
‘Hello,’ I said, noting that his missing ear ended in the sort of pattern perforations make once torn. ‘What happened to your ear?’
‘Oh,’ he said in a friendly tone, ‘that’s easily explained: never duel with automatic weapons. Now: Mr Jorkins specifically allocated me to your case as he thought I might be able to offer a unique insight.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘and can you?’
‘Can I what?’
‘Offer a unique insight into my case?’
‘Frankly, no,’ he admitted, ‘this is my first case.’
‘First murder case?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I mean my first criminal case. I graduated only last week from Stanford Law School.’
‘Stanford? That’s impressive,’ I said, feeling relieved despite his lack of experience. ‘How did you get to travel to the States to attend?’
‘You misunderstand me,’ he said apologetically, ‘not the Stanford Law School, but an online law school based out of Stanford, a small village in Bedfordshire. The course was easier than I expected. It didn’t really require much study at all.’
‘How long and how much?’
‘Two weeks and two hundred pounds. Look.’
And from his briefcase he withdrew a framed certificate that seemed quite badly spelled.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ I said, ‘but I think I might need a more experienced lawyer.’
‘Not possible. The Attorney General herself asked for a rabbit lawyer to defend you. Said it would be fitting and just given the circumstances and would also give rabbits in the legal profession a “chance to shine”.’
I sighed inwardly. The establishment was taking no chances on ensuring I was banged up for this, and as a bonus feature would be able to discredit rabbit lawyers at the same time.
‘OK, then,’ I said, ‘where do we go from here?’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was hoping you might be able to give me a few pointers. Have you ever been arrested in connection with murder before?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said, somewhat crestfallen, ‘as it might have helped us figure out procedure. But never mind,’ he added, ‘this is only the interview process, and I’ve seen a couple of episodes of 24hrs in Police Custody and Banged Up Abroad, so I think you should be saying “no comment” a lot and figuring out who to bribe.’
‘I’m not handing out bribes, Mr deBlackberry.’
‘It’s Lancelot,’ he said, ‘but you can call me Lance.’
I was interviewed by a non-Taskforce officer, a friendly detective inspector named Stanton, and, ignoring Lance’s advice, I denied nothing, and admitted everything. Yes, I had been having an affair with Mrs Rabbit, whom I had known for many years, yes, I did know there was a gun in the house, yes, Doc had earlier shown me where he kept the powder and ball and percussion caps, and yes, I pulled the trigger when Mr Ffoxe threatened to kill Constance.
‘So you admit to killing Mr Ffoxe?’ said DI Stanton.
‘Since I was defending Constance Rabbit against Mr Ffoxe when I shot him,’ I explained, ‘it should be classed as self-defence.’