‘Especially by the likes of me,’ said Reynard. ‘One does not piss in one’s own pool, after all.’

‘But Christina did, didn’t she?’ I said. ‘Not quite the compliant little bunny you were hoping for, was she?’

‘Well, they’re no fun, constable, if they don’t wriggle a bit under the claw – are they?’ His smile was vulpine and humourless, but now he was talking about the things that floated his particular boat, and once they’ve started doing that it’s just a matter of hopping on board and sailing them down the river.

‘You like the thrill of the chase, then?’ I asked.

‘Don’t we all?’

I gave him a half shrug that implied that I would love to agree with him, but I was constrained by the iron hand of political correctness. Which was all it took for Reynard to pick up the paddle and push us out into midstream.

He leaned forward and looked me in the eye.

‘Most men do,’ he said. ‘But they’ve been conditioned not to admit it – even to themselves.’

‘So where do you like to go hunting?’ I asked.

‘I don’t go looking for them, Peter,’ he said. ‘They come looking for me.’

Presumably with torches and pitchforks.

‘All the little bunnies do it,’ said Reynard. ‘Even the Germaine Greer wannabes. There they go, backwards and forwards right under your nose,’ he said. ‘While making sure everything is bouncing away in the most appealing fashion.’

‘It’s those little fluffy tails,’ I said before I could stop myself, but fortunately Reynard was too deep into his happy place to notice.

‘When little Christina came hop hopping past,’ I said, ‘where were you?’

‘The Chestnut Tree,’ said Reynard.

Which was a famous pub in Marble Arch where denizens of the demi-monde hung out after doing a hard day’s whatever it is members of the demi-monde do. Zach the goblin boy was a periodic patron when he wasn’t barred. I’d been in a couple of times to show my face and reassure the community that I was bloody well keeping an eye on them – the thieving gits. It wasn’t the sort of place that checked IDs once you were visibly old enough to do a paper round.

It also wasn’t a pub you wandered into by accident – I pointed this out to Reynard.

‘She was there with company,’ he said.

‘What sort of company?’

‘The deified sort,’ he said. ‘Or at least one of their offspring.’

‘That’s quite a lot of kids,’ I said. ‘Which one?’

He hesitated; I suspect he was considering whether he could use the name as a bargaining chip. But then, sensibly, he told me.

‘Lady Ty’s little girl,’ he said. ‘Olivia.’

And round and round we go and where we stop nobody knows.

11 Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree

11

Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree