Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

“You’re using the past tense.”

“They’re all dead.”

“How about current artists?”

“Not my field.”

“Who could I talk to?”

“We have a chap in London, Frederick Locke, who’s very good at this kind of thing. He’s the one I referred the Wongs’ questionable paintings to.”

“Would he speak to me?”

Torrence said, “I don’t see why not. I’ll make a call for you.”

“Thank you.”

He looked at his watch. “We seem to have talked away a lot of the afternoon. Is there any way I can interest you in extending your stay to dinner?”

“I’d love to, but it will have to be another time,” she said. “I have some other business I need to attend to.” She took out her business card and passed it to him. “My cellphone number is on the back, my email address on the front. Could you call me after you’ve contacted Frederick Locke? It’s just about the start of the workday in London, so you might be able to reach him in the next hour or so.”

“You move quickly.”

“I have a definite time frame.”

“Have the Wongs decided what to do with their paintings? They seemed quite upset when I left, him in particular. You know, we would still be very happy to sell the genuine paintings for them. Would you let them know that?”

“Sure, but I don’t think they have a clue about what they want to do,” Ava said. “When will you know about the questionable paintings?”

“It could take a little while. Frederick is meticulous.”

Ava grabbed a cab and asked the driver to take her to the office of the Hong Kong Inland Revenue Service on Gloucester Road, at the far end of Wanchai.

Hong Kong arguably had the world’s most efficient tax system, imposing a flat corporate rate of 17.5 percent and a flat personal rate of 16 percent. When the Chinese took over and turned Hong Kong into a Special Administrative Region, they were smart enough to leave the tax system in place. The few people Ava knew of who had tried to avoid paying were soon brought to heel and severely punished by a system that was rigorous, incorruptible, and invasive.

Ava paid the driver and walked into the building. She presented her business card to a woman in uniform at the information desk in the front lobby. “My name is Ava Lee. I’m an accountant representing a Canadian firm that has done business in Hong Kong with a company called Great Wall Antiques and Fine Art. My client has become embroiled in a tax dispute with the Canadian government involving several transactions with Great Wall. We unsuccessfully tried to contact someone at that business, and now I’ve discovered that it’s closed, the owner is deceased, and its records have been destroyed. So I was hoping someone here could help access the company’s tax records so we can clear up this problem.”

The woman was reading Ava’s card while she spoke. She looked up and said, “You came all the way to Hong Kong to do this?”

“I was here on other business and decided to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Wait a minute,” the woman said, picking up the phone.

“You can go to fourth-floor reception,” she said when she hung up. “Ask for Mr. Po. Sign in here and take a visitor’s badge.”

Ava rode the elevator to the fourth floor. When she approached the receptionist’s desk, she was told that Mr. Po would be with her shortly. No more than five minutes later, a small, trim man in his sixties came through a door behind the desk with a file folder in his hand. Ava gave him her finest smile. “I’m so sorry to bother you with this, and thank you for being so efficient,” she said.

“It isn’t a bother,” he said, “but there isn’t much I can do for you.”

“You don’t have their tax records?”

“Where was the company located?” Po asked.

Ava took out her notebook. “Kau U Fong Road, in Lan Kwai Fong.”

“Yes, that’s the one,” he said, looking at the computer printout in the file folder.

“So you have their tax records?”

“Of course, but as I said, there isn’t anything I can do for you. The records are confidential.”

“My client in Canada is having a terrible time with the tax department there. We believe that Great Wall’s tax records will help to resolve those problems. Even if I could just spend ten minutes with them, in your presence, it might help. I’m not asking to take copies of any documents.” She saw that he was considering her suggestion, and she pressed. “I would sign any confidentiality agreement or any other form you think necessary.”

“No, it just won’t work,” he said. “Our rules are quite strict and I won’t bend them.”

“Well, could you at least help us, and the Canadian tax department, by telling me who filed the returns for Great Wall? I’m sure they used an accounting firm here in Hong Kong. If I could get the name of the company I could contact them directly and see if they retained copies. We wouldn’t be doing all this if Mr. Kwong’s heirs hadn’t so stupidly destroyed the company records after the business was closed.”

Po opened his file again. “They should have kept the records for seven years,” he said.

“I know.”

“There’s a name here.”

“Please.”

He hesitated, and she knew he was searching his mind for the rules. “I’m not asking you to breach any confidence,” Ava said. “You aren’t telling me anything that would compromise the integrity of Inland Revenue.”

“Miss, you cannot tell them that we provided you with this information.”

“Most certainly not,” she said.

“Great Wall used Landmark Accounting. They have their offices in Landmark Plaza,” he said.

She called Uncle on her way out of the building. “It’s Ava. Could you please make some calls for me and see if you can get someone at Landmark Accounting in Landmark Plaza to co-operate with us? They were the accounting firm for the dealer who worked with the Wongs. I need access to some of his old tax records.”

“I think we do have a contact there. How is it going?”

“I’m learning a lot about art forgeries but not much else.”

She took a taxi back to the Mandarin Oriental. It was late afternoon and jet lag was beginning to get to her. She decided she needed a run, and the day was so pleasant that going outdoors seemed ideal. When she got to her room, she put on her running gear and headed back out, walking to the MTR station at Central. It wasn’t rush hour yet so she managed to get on the first train that arrived. Ava got off at the Causeway Bay station, right across from the park.

Ava loved urban parks, and Victoria was one of her favourites. Only nineteen hectares — less than one-twentieth the size of New York’s Central Park — it was the sole piece of green space she knew of in Hong Kong. In a city of seven million people, where space was at such a premium and ninety-nine percent of the population lived in apartments, Victoria Park was a sanctuary. She had tried running there some mornings but found it tough. The jogging trail was only six hundred metres long and not that wide, and there were so many people that she couldn’t run fast enough to break a sweat. Weekends were worse. In addition to the weekday morning mix of tai chi practitioners, people with their caged birds, ballroom dancers, walkers, joggers, lawn bowlers, and tennis and badminton players, there were various protest groups, public forums, exhibits, and a large Indonesian nanny population that congregated there every Sunday, leaving Statue Square in Central to the Filipino yaya s.

Ava’s guess was that a weekday late afternoon might work, and when she got to the park there was hardly a soul using the trail. She ripped off six quick laps, the jet lag receding as her adrenalin surged. She found herself gazing at the apartment buildings and office towers that surrounded the park on three sides and the web of highway overpasses on the fourth. She knew that beyond the overpasses was Causeway Bay, where sampans bobbed at the pier. She couldn’t see it but she could smell exhaust fumes from the late-afternoon traffic.