The Wolf Border(62)

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.