The Wolf Border (23 page)

It's at Rannoch Mhor, she is saying, the flight leaves at six. No, press aren't invited. Of course, of course. Douglas and a few others.

On the desk, next to the photographs of her grandchildren, is a white orchid in a pot of curling moss. On the laptop screen, an elaborate grid of appointments – Thomas' diary, extremely full as always; today's column is marked with a red background – an important day, clearly. Honor hangs up.

That was Thomas, she says. He won't be back until the end of the week. But it doesn't sound too serious, by Michael's account.

No, luckily not.

Can I leave it in your hands, then, liaising with the police?

Honor taps her pen. Her expression is expectant, marginally harassed, that of an overburdened chatelaine. She does not seem especially surprised by the attack – it is simply another event on the estate that must be dealt with. Her personal opinion of the project has never been expressed, at least not to Rachel. Beneath the solicitous exterior, she might be of Michael's ilk – a right-wing rustic. Most likely she is paid not to have an opinion, to be dutiful, to facilitate on behalf of the Earl, and, when necessary, handle fallout. Or perhaps, it would not surprise Rachel, she is a member of his unpopular party, a loyal follower, a genuine believer. They must exist.

That's fine, Rachel says. But could you arrange a meeting with Thomas when he gets back? I'd like to get on top of this, compile a proper list of those who have officially come out against the project. I feel there may be gaps – from before my time.

Do you need him for that? Honor asks.

Yes. I do.

The secretary swivels in her chair, faces the screen. Rachel does not say so, but she feels Thomas must be tackled on certain other issues as well. Michael, perhaps.

I can do Saturday morning, at eight-thirty?

Fine.

What shall I reference?

I don't know. Security?

Honor types. Rachel pauses for a moment before leaving.

We'll need to get the fence repaired as soon as possible.

Yes. I've spoken with the company. They're sending someone out this afternoon.

Of course you have, Rachel thinks. Everything put back in order straight away; the estate must keep up its face. She heads to the main door. Access to Thomas has become more difficult lately, she's noticed. Despite his initial enthusiasm, he has been extremely disengaged in the last few weeks, not replying to emails or messages. She thinks of Sylvia's comment the night she arrived in Annerdale, the night Prime Minister Mellor set down in the grounds on his way to the debates – doomed, though he did not know it then, to be the premier on whose watch the nation dissolved.
It'll be good for Daddy to have another project; he hates it when there's nothing new
. The Earl has got what he wanted, near enough – wolves roaming the estate. Has he simply moved on?

Outside, Michael is holding forth about the referendum results.

They'll be bankrupt in a year. They take more money than they're taxed anyway. It'll be cap in hand to Europe.

She is hungry, and suddenly very annoyed by the events of the morning – its players, the cynical old systems. The English, bred to feel superior for generations but lacking any real desire for improvement or vision, seem intolerable.

Isn't that what we used to say about America, too? That the country would be bankrupt and fall into obscurity?

Michael turns to face her, scowling at the interruption.

What?

The Second Continental Congress disagreed. They've done OK, don't you think?

I forgot you were a Yankee for a bit.

I think the expression is a damn Yankee, Huib says, trying to joke. Michael turns back to him, to take up the lecture where he left off.

It's not enough of a majority to be causing havoc with the union. It's economic suicide. Brown says so, and he's a Scot. They can't just depend on North Sea oil, which isn't even theirs by rights.

Natural resources, Huib says quietly, are a contentious issue, especially when exploited by a foreign country.

Michael does not reply, knowing perhaps that he is straying into very dangerous territory: African politics. The conversation is interrupted by the appearance of a police Land Rover, making its way up the long drive, lights unlit, sirens off. The vehicle pulls up and two officers climb out, wearing high-visibility jackets over black. The younger looks about at the opulent surroundings, manicured grounds with sculpted hedges, the impressive red facade of the Hall, and is clearly awed. The sergeant introduces himself and his colleague. There's a brief discussion about the events; Michael's account is given again. He was passing; he happened upon the damage. Rachel listens closely for any deviation.

But they're not yet in that section of the enclosure? the sergeant asks.

No, they won't be for a couple more weeks, Rachel says. They're still in quarantine.

And that cage hasn't been tampered with?

No. It's not a cage.

OK, let's go and take a look.

They set off in convoy to the site of the damage, Michael leading in his utility vehicle, Rachel and Huib in the Saab, then the police. They follow the moorland inside the estate walls and turn off down a narrow service road, disused, overgrown, its slabs of concrete breaking up. It is not a part of the estate she is familiar with. The briar scrapes the sides of the Saab and the mudguards grate as the suspension dips over potholes.

Doesn't look like anyone's been down here for a while, Huib says.

No, it doesn't. But obviously Michael has.

After a quarter of a mile, they reach a wooden gate, which is padlocked; the sign on it reads,
Private Access Only
. Michael gets out and unfastens it with a key; the three vehicles pass through and continue on. After another mile or so, he pulls over in a clearing by a row of goldening woods. The others follow suit. There is raucous cawing from the trees nearby as they get out and shut the car doors. The ground is still white but the sun is dissolving away the frost. The younger officer looks at the fence and outer barrier spanning the near horizon.

Very Jurassic Park, he says. Is it just going to be wolves inside?

At level five, yes, says Huib.

What's level five?

Briefly, Huib explains the food chain and ranking system.

So where are we? the policeman asks. At the top? They start up the hill towards the barrier. Rachel glances back towards the road. The spot is very secluded, difficult to access, but also cleverly chosen for its remoteness, she suspects.

How often is the enclosure checked? the sergeant asks.

About once a week I go full round it on the quad, Michael says.

Rachel looks over at him, surprised by the declaration, unaware he was patrolling the barrier so regularly, and so thoroughly. This is not something he has mentioned before.

Any security cameras?

On the gates, she says. But they're not running yet.

Michael leads them over to the site of the sabotage. The barrier is undamaged. It is clearly mountable, and has not been designed as a blockade, just a method of keeping people back from the main fence. The officers pause to look at the triangular warning sign. On the other side of the barrier, the wire has been hacked. The damage is minimal, almost certainly not enough to have allowed an escape, even if the wolves were inside. The gash is ragged, about a foot long, waist-height, and gaping slightly – the work probably abandoned once the tensile strength of the material became apparent. The links that have been cut curl outward like surgical staples partially removed. The police spend a moment inspecting the handiwork.

Bolt cutters?

Pliers, maybe.

The section is photographed for the records. The sergeant takes out a notebook and pen.

Any ideas who might have done it?

Michael steps to one side, as if dissociating, takes out his tobacco wallet.

Miss Caine?

We've had a few threats in the last few months, Rachel says. The usual organisations and a crank or two. It's typical for projects like this. I can forward the correspondence, but there wasn't anything worrying. It's been much quieter lately.

She can feel Michael looking at her.

Any names you can give us? Greenpeace?

No, she says. Environmental groups are not our problem. We've had letters from The Ramblers. The Farming Alliance.

Michael cuts in.

Ramblers wouldn't have the gumption. Bunch of Manchester middle-class tea-drinkers. As for the farmers – they're all good fellows round here and too busy to bother.

The sergeant glances at Michael, then looks back at Rachel. She does not disagree with the assessment, much as Michael's tone annoys her.

Anyone else?

She exchanges a look with Huib. The wolf-headed man with the toy gun would be a candidate. But he is untraceable; the CCTV footage gave nothing of his identity away. And there is Nigh, in his, or her, religious delinquency.

No one I could name, she says. Anonymous emails. We have a website letting the public know about the project. It's probably someone who hasn't been following that closely or they'd know we haven't released them yet.

Nothing from any extreme animal rights groups? The Cambridge lot?

She shakes her head. She knows the group – there has been a spate of laboratory attacks in the last year, which they have claimed responsibility for. But the small, botched attempt on the Annerdale enclosure is not the work of such terrorists, she knows. They do not fire shots across the bow; they plan and execute intelligently; they succeed in creating havoc and publicity, even if it means subsequent arrest. The hole in the fence is messy, not professional or well timed. The sergeant closes his notebook. He opens another pouch in his jacket and takes out a card.

If you think of anything else, ring me at the station. It might be an idea to check things more regularly, once they're inside. Set up more cameras.

A paternal note has entered his voice – faint, anticipatory caution. The call-out now may have been a waste of time, but he can foresee trouble, and does not want to have to chase down escaped predators.

Kids, Michael says again, shaking his head. It's silly season. They're bored stiff before they get back to school and looking for stuff to bugger around with.

The young constable chips in.

We have had a lot of tombstoning this year. They just pulled a lad out of Thirlmere last week. He got caught in the dam mechanism.

Bloody idiot, Michael says. And it's not just themselves they get killed. It's the fellas going in after them.

They make their way to the cars in the clearing. Rachel checks the clock on her phone. Almost ten. The morning feels like a waste. She will barely have time to go back home before the appointment – but she must, the bag she has been instructed to bring in case she is admitted to the ward is sitting in the cottage hallway. She is hungry and her bladder is uncomfortably full. From the copse comes the earthen, muddy aroma of decay – roots, rot. A few bright leaves drift downward from the canopy. The policemen get into the Land Rover and head back towards the main road. No doubt they will have much to discuss on the long ride back to the station: the enclosure, Lord Pennington's extraordinary wealth. The young officer was right, Rachel thinks, it is Jurassic. The Earl is a behemoth among ordinary men; he resides at the apex, above all trophic levels. She checks the time again.

Michael, do you mind dropping Huib off? she asks. I'm not going back that way.

She needs to urinate and does not want an audience. Michael shrugs.

Fine.

I'll hopefully see you later, she says to Huib.

Yes. Good luck.

Huib opens the passenger door and Michael's brindled lurcher jumps out, begins to sniff the ground and scout about, its tail held rigidly behind it. The dog steers along scent trails, past Rachel, and towards the woods.

Tess! Michael calls sharply. Tess. Git.

The dog looks up expectantly, her big, soft ears folding forward like wings. Topaz eyes, a long, slender, upturned nose – one of their ancestor's closer-looking cousins, though Michael would not want to hear that. She is high-haunched and handsome, leaning slightly forward, in readiness.

Git, Michael says.

The dog scrambles up inside the utility van.

I'll follow on after you, she tells them.

It's a D lock on the gate, Michael says over his shoulder as he gets into the van. Just fasten it shut behind you.

She watches them drive down the narrow lane, then finds a nearby dell in the woods. The sound of the van dies away. All is quiet. The ground underfoot is plump and springy, upholstered with moss – rising up, the musty smell of wet bark and fungus. There are frilled orange brackets growing around the trunks, berries, dusty blue and blood red. She squats and relieves herself, the weight of the baby making it awkward to hold her position – she leans back against a tree. The branches rustle behind her,
the lipping wind or birds flitting between trunks, something stepping back under cover. There's no one there, but she suddenly feels self-conscious, watched. She stands and looks into the trees, their dark old republic. The perfect environment for ambushing lynx, or bear. She would like to believe Thomas, to think that the country as a whole will one day re-wild, whatever its new man-made divisions created at the ballot box. She would like to believe there will be a place, again, where the streetlights end and wilderness begins. The wolf border. And if this is where it has to begin in England, she thinks, this rich, disqualifying plot, with its private sponsorship and antiquated hierarchy, so be it. The ends justify the means.

She walks back to the car, looks up towards the barrier. She doesn't really believe the attack was random. Whoever went for the fence must have known the topography of the estate; they knew this section was off the beaten track and there would be no witnesses, no one to raise the alarm. Little else about the attack makes sense. It is too early in the project to have been a genuine threat. Perhaps Michael is right, perhaps there was nothing more to it than opportunism and boredom, a lark. But in less than a month the wolves will be out. It was a near-miss.