Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

How long will that take?

No more than an hour.

It’s really the best approach, Rachel says.

Huib heads back towards the office, a young officer escorting him. The rest of the group waits on the driveway, ready for deployment. The specifics of this call-out might be slightly unusual, with a note of wild glamour, even, but they are probably used to freak animal incidents, she thinks, it being part of rural policing. Bulls blocking the road. Horse trailers overturned. Llamas on the A66 from the exotic farm nearby.

How many wolves are there? Sergeant Armstrong asks.

Six. Two adults, four juveniles.

She does not mention that the litter hasn’t been implanted with tracking devices.

I understand my colleague was here last year looking into an attempted sabotage? Have there been any more such incidents?

No. It’s been very quiet.

The main door of the Hall opens. Honor Clark approaches, heels crisp in the gravel, as if she has been awake and working for hours. She offers coffee inside the Hall while they wait. Thomas Pennington is away, she tells them, but is aware of the situation, and will of course cooperate in any way he can. She stewards them inside. There is a slight, almost imperceptible strain in her manner, Rachel notices; her scarf is loosely knotted, the hair underneath erupting in loose strands. She has rushed to work, rushed here to mediate. It’s bad for the estate’s profile to have the police on site, yet again. One attack on the enclosure and one accidental shooting, within a year.

Where’s Thomas? Rachel asks her, as they make their way along the corridor towards the drawing room.

He’s away.

Where?

I’m not sure at the moment.

Honor does not meet Rachel’s eye. It’s possible she has not even talked to him yet, if he is AWOL, and she is covering. The usual goose-chase will go on behind closed doors, unseen, until he is found. In the drawing room she pours a round of coffee into fine china cups. The sergeant moves to the corner of the room and radios back to the station. The officers remove their hats.

Please help yourself.

Honor gestures to a tray of fresh pastries.

You know where I am, she says to Rachel. Do keep me in the loop.

Rachel takes a croissant from the plate, pulls it into pieces, and gives some to Charlie. He chews it, but is unsure and spits out a damp wad, which she wraps in a napkin. The police mill round the room with their tiny cups and then sit on the various designer chairs, the silk chaise longue, the leather Bauhaus, each looking out of place, as if having stumbled into the wrong stage play. Nor is Rachel any better suited, two years on, since she sat here waiting for the Earl, having just flown in from Idaho. Her phone pings — a text from Huib. Out on quad . Sergeant Armstrong is looking through the French windows towards the lake, at the spectacular, picturesque view. One of the junior officers is researching on his smartphone. He begins to question Rachel informally.

So, you surgically implant the radio transmitters in them?

Yes.

And each has its own frequency.

Yes.

Do they have tranquillisers fitted in the devices, in case of emergency?

He has found the Telonics website, which offers the most advanced form of wildlife tracking. She can see where the line of questioning will probably lead. Can they be controlled remotely, if necessary? Can they be destroyed if they are on the rampage?

No, she says. Tranquilliser cases are too big for our implants. They’re usually only installed in radio collars.

Why choose implants over collars?

Collars are bulky. They get damaged. The animals can pull them off. Even the weather can affect them.

He nods. He looks barely twenty years old, close-cropped, spotty, and cadet-like. She cannot imagine him in an action scenario. She thinks of the Idaho state troopers, their swagger, the antagonism every time they had reason to come onto the Reservation — their guns seemed brazen to her; she never got used to it. The sergeant helps himself to another cup of coffee — no doubt a cut above the usual refreshments offered during call-outs. He seems more relaxed than when he knocked at her door, teases the junior.

That your auxiliary brain, Tom? What else does it say? Brush your teeth?

For all the grand showing of force, there seems to be no state of alarm. Extra precautionary measures, perhaps. Charlie begins to act up. He smells soiled. She excuses herself, slips into the library, and changes him. He rolls about, squirms and kicks on the change mat, and threatens the plush carpet beneath.

Knock it off, kiddo, she says quietly, we can’t afford the dry-cleaning bill.

He fights the new nappy. Too much sugar, the wrong routine; he senses her stress. She cleans her hands on a wet wipe. Attended to, Charlie performs a wobbling circuit of the room, past the bookcases — she stops him from pulling off and demolishing the expensive first editions — past the elaborate fireplace. She picks him up and shows him the bronze Capitoline sculpture on the mantel.

Look, she says. This is a Mrs Wolf. And two little boys, like you.

Charlie reaches for a china vase next to the statue.

Nope, she says, and swiftly turns away.

Thwarted, he begins to cry. Hurry up, Huib, she thinks. The situation is only going to get more unmanageable the longer it goes on. She must take control. She considers waking one of the volunteers, asking them to babysit for an hour. Or perhaps Honor could mind Charlie — though that seems unlikely and undesirable. When she returns to the drawing room, there’s a stir of new energy. The officers are all on their feet, hats in hand, primed. Sergeant Armstrong is talking on his PTT again, asking his correspondent to repeat something, the cause of injury. Say again, Samantha . He is looking ahead at the wall, concentrating, his forehead buckled in the middle. OK, OK . He turns back into the room.

Right. There’s been another sighting on the Galt Forest road. A cyclist — said he saw a pack of wolves. He’s come off his bike, has a broken wrist and a fractured cheekbone — he’s about to go into surgery.

The sergeant glances at Rachel.

He managed to get a picture on his phone — they’ve sent it through. Tom, pass me that thing a minute.

He takes the iPhone from his colleague, fiddles with it, then shows Rachel. The image is slightly blurred; the animal is retreating down the forest track, looking to the side. It could be mistaken for a husky or some other kind of big, heavy-coated dog by anyone else. White fur. Long legs, a long, thin nose. Ra.

I can’t be certain, Rachel says. But, yes, he could be ours.

They don’t confirm their point of escape until later, when Huib finds the north gate standing open. The digital lock is undamaged — the mechanism has been triggered, or overridden. There are paw prints in the nearby soil, either side of the fence and the barrier. He measures them. At least four different wolves are out, possibly all. Officers are dispatched to examine the scene; the volunteers are brought over from their quarters for questioning. More police arrive at the Hall — spilling out of cars — minor, dark-clad Lucifers. The entire county force is put on immediate alert.

Rachel has several brief phone calls with Huib. He confirms both Merle and Ra’s tracks. They do not speculate about what might have happened; there will be time for that later. She tells him to take the quad bike to the old den site and the rendezvous points, to check the enclosure as best he can for any sign that they have not all gone — a faint hope. There are still no radio signals; most likely they have passed by without detection and are now out of range.

Her patience quickly wanes. She must get to the broad expanse of the Galt Forest, a preserved stretch of national parkland in the heart of the Lakes, and soon. They may linger where there are red deer, and the tree coverage is dense. Other than cyclists and orienteers, there will not be many people at this time of year. First she must make sure the situation is under control — she will insist on leading the search — and that any police involvement is restrained.