*
The next morning, while she’s running a bath and listening to the victory speech of Scotland’s First Minister on the radio, the landline rings. It is Honor Clark; Rachel knows before she even lifts the receiver. Honor is the only person who phones her at home and at this hour. Overnight there has been an attack on the enclosure — the main fence, not the wolfery. The police are on their way, and Michael, who discovered the the sabotage, is waiting down at the Hall.
I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Good. And of course, if you could treat the information as confidential, Thomas would appreciate it.
He knows already?
He does.
She turns the taps off. She is due at the hospital for an appointment at 11.30, which cannot be missed. She dresses, gets into the car, and drives down the lane. The morning sun is gilded, with mist above the lake and the river, white reefs over the fields. Frost tips the grass and the north-facing walls, and patches of yellow smoulder in the hardwoods, as if something is burning through from the other side. She takes a granola bar from the glovebox, one of the stash left over from her weeks of sickness, unwraps and eats it. Michael. She is annoyed that he is involved; any act against the project will please him. She’s seen little of him since the stalking season began — he is busy leading groups of shooters around the estate, friends of the Penningtons and other visitors who have paid extraordinary amounts of money to crawl through the heather and sedge of Annerdale.
She turns the car radio on. There is no deviation from the subject on this day of high drama and history. A slim margin of votes has cut the north of the island free. Live on the BBC, Caleb Douglas assures sceptics and unionists that he will work to include them all in the decisions and the future of a new Scotland. The morning programme host, also a Scot, conducts a typically aggressive interview, reveals nothing of his own leanings. From tabloid editors there’s idiotic talk of cars streaming south down the M74, queues outside estate agents, an exodus of second-home owners, English residents, and ‘realists’. The American president and the leaders of other nations have sent messages of congratulations, ranging from guarded to ecstatic. No one knows what the political protocol is — an expert is brought on to explain the possible stages. The excitement is terrible and contagious. Great Britain no longer exists.
Pennington Hall rises redly from a white sea of frost. Rachel drives faster than she usually would up the driveway, the tyres of the Saab spitting gravel. Michael is standing outside the main entrance, smoking. He eyes her as she pulls up. She gets out of the car, pushing herself off the doorframe as she must these days, tries and fails to button up her coat, and makes her way over. Michael has on matching jacket and trousers in dark green hunting plaid.
What happened? she asks.
He breathes the sweet cherry smoke into the air, shakes his head.
No idea. Just saw it as I was passing.
When?
This morning.
What’s the damage?
Well, they haven’t got through, but they’ve had a good go.
Who?
She is aware her tone sounds accusatory. He sniffs, pinches out the cigarette, and pockets the stub.
It’s probably kids larking about with a pair of clippers.
Clippers, she says. It would need to be something a little more industrial, don’t you think?
As I said, they’ve not got through.
He meets her eye. He does not look furtive or gloating. Still, she doesn’t trust him entirely. She wouldn’t put it past him to be involved, by proxy. But that would be stupid. He has already outed himself as a naysayer, marked his own card. And what would be the point of sabotaging the main enclosure before the wolves were in it? She would like to ask more questions, but Huib is making his way towards them from his quarters above the carriage house, still wearing cargo shorts, despite the early-morning chill.
Are we going down to see it when the police arrive? he asks.
I would reckon so, Michael says.
Where exactly is the hole?
Back of Ulver Scar, near the woods.
That’s a long way from the main road, Rachel says.
Michael nods.
It is.
Kids, she says.
I reckon so.
Good job you saw it, Huib chips in. We might have missed it in that location.
Vexed by the conversation, Rachel leaves them for a minute and heads into the Hall. Honor Clark is in her office, on the phone. She holds up a finger, signs for her to wait. Rachel lingers in the office doorway. Honor swivels in her chair as she speaks. She’s lost a few pounds, though still remains curved, a country weight. Blue blazer with a neck-bow blouse, a very good complexion — she could not appear more suited to her situation.
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?