TOFINO'S WATERFRONT, with its houses on stilts and the Whaling Station on the wharf, was just coming into view when the rain stopped abruptly. From a distance the hills and mountains looked like grey cardboard cutouts. Their tips were enveloped in a haze of mist and cloud. Anawak helped the passengers out of the boat, then moored it to the side. The steps leading up to the wharf were slippery, and the next bunch of adventurers had gathered on the patio in front of the station. There wouldn't be any thrills for them either.
'If things don't pick up soon we'll all be out of a job,' said Susan Stringer, as he walked into the ticket office. She was standing behind the counter, restocking the plastic leaflet-holders. 'Maybe we should offer squirrel-watching instead. What do you think?'
Davie's Whaling Station was a cosy place, crammed with a mishmash of handmade objects, tacky souvenirs, clothing and books. Stringer was the office manager. She'd taken the job to finance her studies – which was why Anawak had started there too. But four years after completing his doctorate he still worked for Davie. He'd used the past few summers to write a groundbreaking book about intelligence and social bonding among marine mammals. His pioneering research had earned him the respect of experts and established his reputation as a rising star of science. Now letters were trickling in with offers of highly paid jobs that made his comfortable life in the wilds of Vancouver Island seem to lack definition. Anawak knew it was only a matter of time before he moved away. He was thirty-one years old. Soon he would take up a lectureship or become a research fellow in one of the big institutes. He would publish articles in specialist journals, travel to conferences and live on the top floor of a desirable condo, whose foundations would shake in the throb of rush-hour traffic.
He started to peel off his waterproofs.
'If only we could do something,' he muttered.
'Like what?'
'Go looking for them.'
'Didn't you want to talk to Rod Palm about the feedback from the telemetric tracking?'
'I have already.'
'And?'
'From what he said, there's not much to tell. They tagged a few bottlenose dolphins and sea-lions back in January, but the trail goes dead at the beginning of migration. All the tags stopped transmitting, and it's been quiet ever since.'
Stringer shrugged. 'Don't worry, they'll turn up. Thousands of whales can't just disappear.'
'Well, obviously they can.'
She grinned. 'I guess they must be stuck in traffic near Seattle.'
'Very funny.'
'Hey, loosen up a bit. It wouldn't be the first time they've been late. Anyway, why don't you join us later at Schooners?'
'Uh… sorry. I'm still setting up that trial with the belugas.'
'You work too hard,' she said sternly.
'I've got to, Susan. It really matters to me. And at least I understand it, unlike stocks and shares.'
The dig was aimed at Roddy Walker, Stringer's boyfriend. He was a broker in Vancouver and was staying in Tofino for a few days. His idea of a holiday entailed talking at top volume into his mobile, offering unwanted financial advice and generally getting on everyone's nerves. It hadn't taken Stringer long to grasp that the two men wouldn't become friends, especially after Walker had pestered Anawak for one long painful evening with questions about his roots.
'You probably won't believe me,' she said, 'but that's not all he ever talks about.'
'Seriously?'
'You only have to ask him nicely,' she said pointedly.
'OK,' said Anawak, 'I'll join you later.'
'No, you won't You've no intention of coming.'
Anawak grinned. 'Well, if you ask me nicely…'
He wouldn't go, of course. He knew that and so did Stringer, but she repeated the invitation all the same. 'We're meeting at eight, in case you change your mind. Think about it: maybe you should drag your mussel-covered butt down there. Tom's sister's coming, and she's got a thing about you.'
It was almost enough to persuade him. But Tom Shoemaker was the manager of Davie's, and Anawak wasn't keen to tie himself to a place he was trying to leave. 'I'll think it over.'
Stringer laughed, and left.
Anawak stayed to deal with the customers until Shoemaker took over. Eventually he left the office and headed on to the main road. Davie's Whaling Station was one of the first buildings on the way into Tofino. It was a pretty place, made of timber just like everywhere else in town, with a red roof, a sheltered terrace and a front lawn on which its trademark totem towered into the air – a seven-metre-high whale fluke made of cedar. It was set on the edge of a thick forest of pines. The area was exactly how most Europeans imagined Canada, and the locals did their best to reinforce this impression: sitting by the light of their lanterns, they would tell stories about meeting bears in their front gardens or riding on a whale's back. And most of it was true. The gently sloping beaches, rugged scenery, marshes, rivers and deserted coves, with the ancient pines and cedars that lined the west coast from Tofino to Port Renfrew, drew in hordes of tourists every year. On a good day you could look out to sea and spot a grey whale or watch the otters and sea-lions sunning themselves. And even when rain lashed the island, many people still thought it was heaven on earth.
That wasn't how Anawak saw it.
He walked a little way into town, then turned off towards one of the wharfs. A dilapidated twelve-metre-long sailing-boat was anchored there. Davie owned it, but he had been reluctant to pay for it to be repaired, so Anawak lived there for a peppercorn rent. His real home was a tiny apartment in Vancouver city but he only used it if he had business in town.
He went below deck, picked up a bundle of papers and walked back to the station. In Vancouver he owned a rusty old Ford, but on the island he made do with Shoemaker's ancient Land Cruiser. He got in, started the engine and drove to the Wickaninnish Inn, a top-class hotel a few kilometres out of town on a rocky promontory with breathtaking views of the ocean. The cloud was breaking up, revealing patches of blue. A well-maintained road led through the dense forest and he drove for ten minutes. When he came to a little car park he left his vehicle and continued on foot, past enormous dead tree-trunks that lay rotting on the ground. The path climbed upwards through trees that glowed green in the evening sunshine. He could smell damp soil and hear water dripping. The pine branches were covered with ferns and moss. Everything seemed vibrantly alive.
By the time he reached the Wick he was feeling better for his walk. Now that the sky was clearing he could sit on the beach and work in peace. It wouldn't get dark for a while yet. Maybe, he thought, as he descended the wooden steps that zigzagged down from the hotel; I should treat myself to dinner. The food at the Wick was always excellent.
Armed with his notebook and laptop he made himself comfortable on an upturned tree-trunk, but he'd been there barely ten minutes when someone came down the steps and wandered along the beach. It was low tide and the evening sunshine lit the driftwood-strewn shore. The figure kept close to the silvery-blue water. Whoever it was didn't seem to be in any hurry; but all the same it was obvious that their meandering path would eventually lead to Anawak's tree. He frowned and tried to look as busy as possible. After a while he heard the soft, gravelly crunch of approaching footsteps.
'Hello.'
Anawak glanced up.
A woman in her late fifties was standing in front of him, cigarette in hand. Her face was tanned, and criss-crossed with lines. Barefoot, she wore jeans and a dark windcheater.
'Hello.' He sounded less brusque than he'd intended – as soon as he'd looked up, his irritation at the interruption had dissipated. Her deep-blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. She must have been stunning in her youth.