The Wolf Border(102)

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.

She leaves Charlie with one of the volunteers – he’s still acting up and shouts, but she has little choice. She sits with Sergeant Armstrong in a quiet corner of the drawing room, which has become an informal operation hub. He seems unperturbed, is old enough to have seen a myriad of unusual incidents, though perhaps not quite like this. He calmly walks her through operating procedure, hands splayed on the table, leaning forwards.

What we need to do is coordinate a joint search effort. Get them back as soon as possible.

She’s heartened by his phrasing – get them back – but still not convinced extreme measures won’t be taken – a marksman.

Rachel – do you mind if I call you Rachel?

No.

OK, I’m David. Rachel, do you have any idea what their movements might be, where they’ll go?

Probably north, she says, though maybe not directly. They might stay in the forest a while, if there’s prey.

She looks him in the eye.

Deer, I mean. They aren’t a threat to the public. They’ll try to avoid people wherever they can. You don’t need any guns. That guy came off his bike because he was shocked. He probably braked too hard.

The sergeant holds up his hand, fending off her anxiety, her hostility.

I know, Rachel. He wasn’t attacked. I know that. I understand what you’re saying.

I don’t want them shot, she says. These are precious animals. They belong to the estate.

She surprises herself by invoking the power of the Pennington realm. But she is determined, and will use any method to keep them unharmed.

I understand, he says. But this is a big county, as you know. If they can’t be located quickly, then they might be at risk. We need to warn and inform the public, prevent panic, and ask for help. It’s standard procedure for anything like this, even a missing child. That’s the system – it works well, so we tend to stick to it. We’ll use existing networks like Farm Watch, Mountain Rescue, all the neighbourhood networks. OK?

OK. Sorry.

She needs to get moving, but sits back and tries to feel less combative – the police want to help and she may need their help. The reality of the situation begins to sink in. The phenomenon is nowhere near standard, she knows. One wolf would be difficult enough, but a pack?

We’ll start with a bulletin on local radio, Sergeant Armstrong is saying. You’d be surprised how much of the county listens. So. What, in your opinion, should the message say?

It seems to her that common sense should simply lead people, but then common sense is often the last thing the public employs. England is without predators; it is, or was, a de-mined zone. There will be those looking to face down the new invader, for kudos, for glory.