I’ve just been speaking with Thomas, she says. He’ll be here by this evening.
She glances at Sergeant Armstrong.
He’d like it to be known that he is offering a substantial reward for anyone assisting with their safe return. I won’t disclose the figure at this stage. There’s also the matter of compensation, for any natural damage.
The phrasing is very tactful. Damn it, Rachel thinks, did she have to flag that up? She turns back to the sergeant.
OK to say that in the bulletin, too? he asks.
Just the reward part, Rachel says. But it might be an idea for farmers to bring flocks indoors for the time being. I mean indoors, not penned. Just as a precaution, there’s no need to get dramatic.
I understand, he says. We’ll mention it to the union.
I better go.
He nods.
Good luck.
She excuses herself and heads to the office to collect Charlie. Damn Honor, she thinks again. She did not want to be explicit about the negatives in the first stages. But this is Cumbria; there’s a high possibility of agricultural loss. In tracking the pack she may indeed be following a trail of carcasses. Most animals will instinctively avoid the path of wolves, but the sheep, lame motif of the Lake District, corralled in their walled fields and scattered across the moors, won’t stand a chance. Nor will the famous republic of shepherds remain peaceful about their plight.
*
The Galt Valley is on fire as she makes her way in. The plantations blaze with autumn colours — copper, mustard, a hundred reds. The heather has bronzed; worked over by bees all summer, it is dying back. Higher on the slopes are industrial stands of conifers, not yet stripped out, oddly artificial-looking in the anatomy of the forest. The summit of Galt Fell rises above the yellow and green skirts, hairpins looping the mountain pass and the broken face of the crags. There’s no traffic on the forestry road, which has been cordoned off by the police; Rachel’s is the only car. The Saab bounces over potholes, tracks gamely upward. In places the lane has deteriorated to shingle, small landslides moving the concrete surface downhill. There are no passing places; were she to meet another vehicle, she would have to reverse for miles.
Charlie is asleep in the child seat in the back, serene now, thankfully. There seemed no choice in the rush to leave the Hall, after the abortive search for a trusted sitter. She will keep trying Lawrence — he is her best bet and she does not know how long she will need to be out searching. Until then, better to keep him with her; she will contend with any problems along the way, as women have always contended. En route to the forest she has bought supplies — fruit, yogurt, cheese slices, and crackers from a garage, plenty of water and milk. The baby bag is stocked. There is no plan beyond simply finding the wolves. On the dashboard is one of the handheld radio receivers, tuned to Merle’s frequency, the antenna out and adjusted. In the boot: eight slim tranquilliser darts and the gun. Even if found, there will be difficult decisions to make — she is under no illusions. Dart the pups first because they are not radio-traceable and are green hunters, or prioritise the valuable breeding pair?
She has not talked to Thomas, though there are several blocked calls listed on her phone, which are probably from him. She cannot call back. The satellite signal keeps cutting out. The estate will be making arrangements, no doubt — but for now, she has a head start. If the animals stay off the main roads and are not hit, if they keep to cover and away from the farmsteads, perhaps they will all survive. They will move skilfully between more efficient manmade routes and secretive pathways. Much will be left to chance.
She looks west. There’s a slight red tint to the sky, above the blaze of the canopy. Two hours of daylight left. Her phone rings. The number is again withheld. This time she catches it before it cuts out. Thomas. The reception is terrible, crackles on the line, and his voice drifts in and out. All under control; don’t worry, Rachel. A wave of static, and then silence. She thinks she has lost him, until his voice cuts in again: Metcalfe is working on it. . There’s a rushing sound, engines; he is on a plane, or the helicopter. Metcalfe: the head of his legal team. Trust Thomas to be concerned with the legalities — probably covering his arse, she thinks.
Where are you? she asks, pointlessly.
He does not hear her. The line is dead. Reception has gone as the trees thicken, or his aircraft has sped out of range.
The road climbs upward, the tower of the first rock bluff looming above, a lone buzzard circling, up-tipped wings. It is annoying, but hardly surprising that Thomas is working a top-down policy. No doubt he is putting in motion a hefty compensation package. Or perhaps he is securing some kind of special emergency status for the pack. She is more concerned with the problems of the here and now — the awed, anxious public, the motorways.
She checks on Charlie again in the rear-view mirror. Still asleep. The forest closes behind her, the road tapering and disappearing. The chassis of the car scrapes over a series of craters, the exhaust clunking. Either side, the ground is soft, pitted. There’s no choice but forward. She releases her seatbelt, opens the window. The cedarish, earthy smell of the woods blows in; fresh, cool air. In places the branches knit tightly over the road, roofing it; dry husks rain sporadically on the car and the light flickers and strobes.
Very faintly, a sound on the handheld receiver as it picks up Merle’s signal. A few beeps, then silence again. She stops the car and takes the device from the dashboard, looks at the reading, and turns up the dial. The pulsing starts again. She is to the northwest, within five miles, still in the Galt. Rachel tracks to Ra’s signal frequency — the reading is the same. The relief is almost overwhelming. Now she has a chance. She takes the Ordinance Survey map out of its plastic sleeve and studies the forestry road and the bridleways. She will need to take a left fork, clear the pass, and then walk — she tries not to dwell on the latter part of the plan. She puts the car in gear and drives on towards the summit, through the crags. In the rock ledges are withered sprays of ferns, trickling brackish water. The road curves steeply to the right, then banks left — the first of the hairpins. She concentrates on steering. The sun is below the trees, and the lane is shadowed. She drops into second gear, then first, each bend is steeper and tighter than the last. The car almost stalls, and she revs the engine. It judders forward. The noise and the motion wake Charlie. He whimpers and then blurts a protest.
I know, I know, she says. Sorry.
Mama.
He struggles against the buckles of the seat and starts to cry. She tries to distract him with a song he likes, but it doesn’t work and it’s hard to concentrate on the vertiginous road at the same time. He fusses behind the harness, kicks the rim of the seat, his face set in an expression of upset. The car swings and pitches round the bends. Don’t be sick, she thinks. She puts all four windows down. Air buffets around inside the car. Charlie’s fine, dark hair flutters and laps against his head. He stops crying, assesses the sensation, and smiles. Then he laughs.
Yes. I know what you like, she says. Windy. We’re very high.
Wee-dee, he says.
That’s right.
Wee-dee.
Yes.
She doesn’t know if he understands, whether the words he says have meaning or he is now just a good copyist.
Wee-dee, he repeats.
The transmitter signal is still there, weak, but no weaker, though the road is veering slightly east. Something flashes at the side of the road — a deer’s rump — a white flag, like semaphore. There is a new state of emergency in the woods.