Page 34 of The Woodcarver's Model
“So…I see you found Mitch okay at the market.”
“Yes, and thanks for the connection.”
“So…everythin’ workin’ all right over there?”
“Very well, thanks.”
“So…are y’all done over there doin’ whatcher doin’?”
“No, I just have to meet someone on Gabriola. Business. I’ll be on the four o’clock ferry back.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. I’ll save room for you.”
“Gee, that’s nice of you. Say—do you know how to get to South Road from the ferry dock?”
“You bet. Just head straight on Malaspina Drive and hang a right on Taylor Bay which turns into South Road. You can’t miss it. Just look for the signs pointing to the RCMP.”
Was her comment about the RCMP a coincidence?he wondered. She would have no reason to suspect anything, would she? Rob guessed that when it came to Mitch, Frances suspected everything.
* * * *
Rob found the detachment easily. He pulled into the parking lot in front of the single-storey brown clapboard structure. It was a surprisingly unimposing station given that it was the seat of law enforcement on the island and the representative of a national police force with a large international reputation.
He hopped out of the Jeep, then approached the main entrance and its oxidised aluminium screen door. The whole thing was quaint, but experience had taught him one thing—quaint could be dangerous.
The inside of the detachment building was pretty much a reflection of the outside—rustic panelled walls, a drop ceiling of aged once-white tiles and a laminate counter complete with a homemade pottery bowl filled with wrapped candy. The office seemed empty. He stood there a moment just in case someone was out back doing something they would prefer to finish uninterrupted.
Rob wasn’t nervous about what might happen. He was rarely nervous when it came to meeting people of power. Cautious, yes—to be otherwise could be lethal—but showing nerves to a person of power was like being afraid of a dog. The dog always knew it.
He had been there a minute and decided to ring the bell. The moment he did, a young woman came around the corner blowing on a steaming cup of something.
“Sorry to keep you. Just heating up lunch.”
“A little early, isn’t it?” he joked.
“Not when your shift starts at five.” She smiled at him. “So, what can I do for you? Directions? Fishing permit? Report a lost dog?”
“Nothing so normal, I’m afraid. My name is Robert Walker Hanson. I think you might be looking for me.”
“Sir, if that’s a come-on line, I’ve heard better,” she said, still smiling. This Corporal Evans—as the name plate on the desk identified her—was good.
“No, I mean it. I had a call from someone who told me a Liaison Officer named Marc Robichaud from the IOB, whatever that is, was trying to find me.”
Rob figured playing innocent would be the best tactic. He knew what the IOB was—the International Operations Branch—the arm of the RCMP that dealt with crimes and threats from abroad. The Liaison Officer was responsible for the exchange of criminal intelligence, especially in matters of national security with other countries, and provided assistance with investigations which directly affected Canada. If this was about what he thought it was, this man Robichaud would be working out of the RCMP’s Dubai office.
“Well, that’s a bit different than looking for a lost dog. Where’s this friend that was contacted by Mr Robichaud?”
Give her as much information as possible, he thought.Better to be too helpful.
“There were two friends, actually. My agent, Estelle Fillion, and Karen Salter, who is taking care of my house. Both are in Toronto. Would you like their contact info?”
“Yeah. Thanks. If you could just write their names and numbers on this, that would be great.” She slid him a paper and pen. “So, you have an agent. Are you an actor?”
“Worse,” he said, sliding the pen and paper with the names and numbers back to her. “I’m a writer.”
“I didn’t know writers had agents.”
“We need all the help we can get.”Good. I made her laugh.
