A blip, Rachel thinks. His tone is casual and oddly accepting. He made a very good case for the unassailable security of the project to her in the beginning, she recalls, which she herself has often repeated. Now that they are not directly engaged with the search, she wants some answers. She does not want to be fobbed off.
So nobody has claimed responsibility? Nobody has a theory?
No, Huib says. If it was a group or a single activist, they’re keeping schtum.
What about this loon, this Nigh, who’s been in touch? Thomas asks, sipping his wine. He sounds like a good candidate, doesn’t he?
So Thomas has stayed up to date on the project and read the meeting notes, she thinks.
It’s doubtful, she says. We never thought of him as a serious threat. He seems too chaotic.
Well, sometimes the chaotic characters are the most surprising and dangerous, Thomas suggests. Lord knows, I see enough of them in the House, always upsetting the apple cart, but they can be very effective.
There’s also the guy in the mask, Huib suggests. Remember him? We never really figured that one out, did we?
Maybe, she says.
She is not convinced, not by any of the obvious suspects.
Halfway through dinner, Thomas excuses himself to speak with the environment minister — the call he has been waiting for all afternoon. He is gone half an hour. The jus on his plate congeals, but none of the waiting staff dare remove his plate.
It is good to see you both again, Sylvia says, warmly. I’m just really sorry about the circumstances. And I’m so sorry we lost one. It’s absolutely dreadful. Sometimes I really dislike this county. People can be very backward.
It is the first negative thing Rachel has ever heard her say about Cumbria. The apology sounds so heartfelt and sincere it is as if she herself committed the crime, as if she is Cumbria, or its representative. She seems older and more knowing from her months in the city: grit in the pearl. Her hair has been cut stylishly: a kind of sharp, bevelled bob.
It’s good of you to come back, Syl, Huib says.
Daddy asked me to come home and help, she explains, so of course I did. Never mind exams. I do miss the project. Some days I’d love to jack in the law and work with you both again.
A nice sentiment, but there may be no more project, Rachel thinks. She does not say it. There’s no point in taking her mood out on Sylvia.
Let’s order pudding. Daddy won’t mind. He might be ages anyway. David Uttley is a bit of a gas-bag, I’ve heard.
The menus reappear. Rachel looks out of the dining-room windows. The lake is dark but shining under the evening sky, a looser version of what lies above. Night will offer some reprieve. She suspects they will continue to travel under the cover of darkness, like a raiding party, responding to the new level of human activity encountered since leaving the estate. They might even clear the northwest range and head for the border by morning. The outer district offers only a partially adequate environment; they will certainly not linger, or return to Annerdale. They will sense the greater uplands to the north, and will keep moving until they find the best territory.
When Thomas returns, he is visibly annoyed, muttering about the obduracy and lack of vision possessed by the environment minister, who has failed to give assurances on temporary protected status.
Well, that was a waste of time. He really is the most ludicrous appointment Mellor’s made. Whoever heard of an environment minister from Solihull! Bloody ignoramus. I’ll talk to Mell in the morning.
Sylvia attempts to mediate and calm her father, aware, perhaps, that he is sounding like a snob. Notes of petulance and belligerence in his voice — he is not used to being thwarted.
I checked on this, Daddy. They don’t fall under the Endangered Species Act. They’re simply not listed and will just fall between stools. It means they might not need or get authorisation because it wasn’t a deliberate re-wilding.
A wolf between stools, Thomas exclaims. Preposterous!
He takes a sip of wine, then unfolds his napkin, composes himself.
Hopefully it’ll be moot, anyway. Douglas will play ball. The Scots have a new environmental policy to uphold — they can’t be seen to be conservative on this. No, don’t worry, darling. The Highland estate owners are so worried about losing their subsidies, they’ll do as they’re told. There won’t be any more shootings, I promise.
That’s quite a difficult promise to make, Rachel says quietly.
Thomas helps himself to another large glass of red wine, adjusts the napkin across his lap, takes up his silverware, and tidily cuts the cold piece of meat.
Well, Rachel, you know better than I how the money works. You’ve already published a splendidly compelling paper on cull savings and tourist revenue for a potential reintroduction in Scotland, haven’t you?
He glances at her and smiles. Rachel sets down her glass.
That article’s ten years old.
Yes, but not much has really changed. Except that Westminster can’t prevent anything, and now our free Caledonian cousins may actually have to put the theory into practice.
She frowns, says nothing, annoyed to have her work used as part of his presumptuous political argument.
So, what’s your best guess, then? he asks her.
About what?
About our refugees seeking asylum in the newest European nation. Will they continue north, as planned, over the border?
She looks at him for a moment. As planned, she thinks. By who? He is forking up the veal, eating with relish. He is not concerned — in fact, he seems very sure of himself, speaking as if the damage control is effortless, assessing the odds. Real politic. She wants to take out her phone, put it on his plate, so he can see the picture of the carcass in the grass, the bullet hole. He glances up. She catches his eye.
Is that what you’re gambling on? she asks.
Is it a gamble?
They’ll go to Scotland, she says, stonily. Unless we catch them. Or they’re killed.
He nods, and continues to eat.
Excellent.
In that moment she hates him. His calculation. His certainty, which is almost childish. And in that moment she is also sure that it was he who opened the gate. Though he was elsewhere, though he may never have keyed in the code; he was the one. He has not once mentioned recapture, reinstallation of the pack, for all the expensive aerial pursuit. The worthy investment, the millions spent building a trophic Eden, it is simply another grand scheme that he can choose to dismantle again, if he so wishes. There is a bigger, more exciting game — testing beyond the cage, wolves in the real world. You godly fuck, she thinks, you absolute maniac, this is what you wanted all along. She cannot bear to look at him. She looks instead at her dessert — created by the best chef in the best restaurant in the North. It all feels like a mockery. Her appetite has gone. The others continue with their meal, oblivious. Are they really so blind? she wonders. Sylvia, protecting her father, complicit in his scheme by virtue of her institutionalisation. Huib is reconciled, co-opted, too white of heart to suspect anything nefarious. She begins to feels sick. There is a conspiracy around the table, and they don’t even realise they are taking part. Even she is implicated. Thomas knows she won’t walk away, not now, not while the wolves are out and in danger, which amounts to capitulation. She stands, undramatically, and lays her napkin over her food.
Excuse me. I have to ring my brother.
The next morning, rain. The surface of the lake is stippled; its reflections hover and break apart. They stand in the lounge after breakfast, drinking coffee, looking out at the grey sky. On the helipad, the bowed rotor blades of the helicopter drip. Huib liaises with the police, checks the weather app, sits cross-legged, and waits for the cue — less a stooge than a sophist. Sylvia reads on her iPad in a plush armchair by the fire. She tracks through the papers and the blogs — there is a huge public outcry over the dead wolf; the picture is being widely circulated. So like the English, Rachel thinks: object, ignore, and then, late in the day, after a tragedy, rally. She has a strong urge to leave the hotel, get a taxi to her car, and continue with the search alone. At least she would feel useful, authentic, perhaps less like she had been played.