Fender knew the area, but not too well. The Epping New Road ran straight through the forest, but he would have to turn off onto one of the quieter roads branching into the forest itself. The car was doing seventy-five when he slowed for the roundabout ahead. He saw the sign for High Beach and swung into the narrow winding road leading from the roundabout. The trees almost met overhead, the bright sun sparkling through dying leaves, and he felt the last ounces of tension drain away. Another narrow road to his right took him past a small church into a slightly wider road, and then the scenery opened out as if the car had been squeezed through a funnel.
The high ground fell away to his left down into a vast green valley, its lower slopes filled with trees of every kind, stretching for miles into the distance. Beyond them Fender could see the hazy suburbs, glints of sunlight reflected here and there off glass surfaces. He stopped the car for a moment to take in the vista, feeling heady with its abrupt freshness. Driving along the winding road, he hadn't realized the swift ascent the car had been making. He remembered reading once, long ago, the theory of how the rolling hills of Epping Forest had been formed. A great sheet of ice had slid down eastern England at the end of the Ice Age and split in two on a high bank north of the forest, each section scouring out two valleys on either side of the bank and, as they pushed forward like the pincers of a giant crab, the soil was squeezed between them into rugged contours. From his vantage point he could see the truth of the theory.
A few cars were parked on a muddy area on the rim of the valley, their occupants gazing out at the view through windscreens, as though to leave their metal cocoons and make contact with fresh air would shrivel their bodies. Fender drove on, looking for a sign which would tell him the location of the Conservation Centre.
A huge public house stood on his right, a lofty and cold perch at the top of the long, grassy slope, and beyond that he saw the sign pointing towards his goal. He drove down the curved road, almost doubling back in direction, and came upon the entrance to the Centre. Passing through the narrow gate posts, he found a small, gravel car park. He sat and studied his surroundings before leaving the car.
The white-bricked single-storey buildings were set in a square horseshoe shape around a close-cropped lawn, a ribbon of gravel cutting across the grass from the car park towards a glass-doored entrance to the building on his left. The low-ceilinged building had no windows at least, not on that side and a sign in front of him indicated it was the school section. An arrow, pointed in the same direction as the path, bore the heading: INFORMATION DESK. Directly ahead and slightly apart from the main building was a continuous row of chalet-type structures joined at right angles by a similar row leading back in his direction.
They were of the same neat, functional design as the school and reception section and Fender guessed they were the staff's living quarters. Stephen Howard had briefed him on the Centre before Pender had left, explaining that the Warden, as the principal was ominously called, and his tutors were resident at the establishment. Trees loomed up darkly behind the Centre, dwarfing the buildings, making them seem more squat than they really were. He crossed the lawn, keeping to the gravel path, and entered the reception area.
The rectangular hall was cluttered with single-panelled exhibition stands displaying pictures of various animals and plants, accompanied by written information on each subject. The area was empty but there was a reception window to his right. He peered into the room beyond; a woman was at one end typing busily and a man sat reading a book at a table nearest the window. The man, youngish, intense-looking, glanced up at Fender.
'Yes, sir, can I help?' he asked.
'My name's Fender. I've come to see Mr. Milton.' Fender had learned to be discreet about his profession: people were still nervous of rat catchers
'Oh yes. From Ratkill, aren't you?'
Fender lifted his eyebrows in surprise.
The man grinned as he got up from the desk and came over to the window.
'It's all right, there's no secrets among the staff. I'll just see if he's in his office.'
The young man disappeared through a door and reappeared a few seconds later.
'Yes, he's there. If you'd like to go through the door round to your right, I'll take you to his office.'
Fender followed the instructions and was met in the corridor beyond.
'I'm not sure we really need you people,' the young man said as he led the way. We've seen signs of vermin, but they haven't done any bad damage yet. It's just the uh, law, you know?'
Fender nodded and went through the door which had been opened for him.
The Warden of the Conservation Centre stood and offered his hand across the desk as Fender entered.
'Mr. Fender? I'm Alex Milton. Didn't take Ratkill long to get someone up here, did it?'
Fender shook the proffered hand and sat in the seat opposite.
Thank you, Will,' Milton said to the man at the door. 'I'll see you about the arrangements for tonight's lecture a little later on. Would you like some coffee, Mr. Fender?'
The rat catcher felt like something stronger after the wearing drive, but he smiled and said, 'Coffee'll be fine.'
Would you mind asking Jan for me, Will?'
'Right.' Will closed the door behind him.
The two men faced each other across the desk, Milton smiling and slouched back in his seat. He seemed to have forgotten why Fender was there.
'Interesting place you have here,' the Ratkill man said, breaking the silence.
'Yes, it is,' the Warden agreed enthusiastically.
'Have you been here long as Warden?'
Milton thought for a moment, his smile still beaming. 'Just over two years, I think. The Centre itself the Epping Forest Conservation Centre, to give it its full title was only opened nine years ago, so it's still in its youth.' He gave a small almost embarrassed laugh.
'In fact, most of my staff are rather youthful apart from myself and my wife, of course.'
Fender nodded politely, smiling at the man's self-deprecating humour.
He hoped the Warden would soon get to the business in hand. Tell me about your rodent problem,' he prompted.
