The Wolf Border(101)

When was the last time they were actually seen by anyone here – I mean, seen by one of your staff? the sergeant says.

She moves Charlie’s hands away. You really don’t understand, she thinks.

I was inside the enclosure about ten days ago, Huib offers. Listen, I’ll go and try the receiver again; sometimes it’s just the antenna. I can take a quad bike around the enclosure if there’s still no signal.

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.