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.
Don’t approach them, she says. Don’t try to interact; don’t leave bait out or anything to attract them. They’d rather hunt, but they’ll scavenge if there’s an opportunity. They’re not tigers, but they’re not poodles, either.
OK, good. So, we’ll reassure first and foremost, say they are wild creatures, but not harmful to humans. They should not under any circumstances be approached. Don’t attempt to interfere with the animals. Just notify us.
She pauses.
That’s fine.
So, you think they might stay in the forest? We’ll cordon off the Galt roads anyway.
She shakes her head.
It’s possible they will. But not certain. They don’t need to hunt, not immediately.
Meaning?
They’re well fed. They could pass through the forest and keep on going. For quite a while, and without stopping.
Sergeant Armstrong nods, but looks slightly alarmed by the information. This is not what he wanted to hear, she knows.
How far can they travel in, say, a day or two?
In forty-eight hours? To the border. Across it.
He recoils a little.
Even with the young ones?
They’re not quite mature but they’re big enough to travel now. If they were in the wild, they’d be migrating.
He considers this for a moment. She does not mention, though it has crossed her mind, that whoever let them out — if they were let out — perhaps understood this. If it is another sabotage, it has been elegantly executed; it is beneficent.
Right. I’m going to contact police headquarters in Dumfries and Galloway, the sergeant says. They should be aware. We might need to formally hand over control at some stage.
He lowers his tone, attempts to be tactful.
Also, I’m assuming Lord Pennington will have connections. We need to liaise with anyone from the private sector involved, OK? Will you let me know once you’ve talked to him?
Rachel shakes her head again.
I’m going to track them, she says. I’m licensed to carry barbiturates and a gas-projector. Do you need to see the paperwork?
No. That’s OK. You’ll be registered on the system.
Then I should get going.
She stands up. Sergeant Armstrong collects his hat from the chair next to him.
All right. Stay in touch, Rachel. You’ve got my number, and we can arrange transport. Last thing for now — we’ll need a full list of names — anyone with access to the enclosure, anyone agitating against the project, anyone you might suspect. Perhaps your colleague can help when he gets back?
Yes, he can.
She tries not to think beyond the present, to a phase of accusations and recrimination. But already her mind is at work. She’s sure the timing of the incident is not random. But talking with Sergeant Armstrong has been somewhat reassuring: she had conceived of a far worse scenario, the county grinding to a halt, aerial spotters and thermal cameras, a race to save them from execution. It is clear the police don’t want to own the situation. At least not yet. She pulls on her coat. An hour has passed since the last sighting. There’s still Charlie to manage. She has tried Lawrence but his phone is switched off, and his office line has been going through to voicemail.
Rachel is about to take her leave when Honor enters the drawing room and makes her way over, a tight smile on her face. She’s neatened herself — the chignon is smooth and there’s a waft of newly applied perfume.