Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

The MTR was getting busy as she returned to the station. She was sweating profusely when she boarded the train, and the other passengers gave her some space.

When she got back to the hotel she showered and changed into a clean bra and underwear, a clean black Giordano T-shirt, and a pair of Adidas training pants. She turned on her laptop for the first time that day. Nothing from the Caribbean cruisers — that was good. Not much to do with business — also good. An email from Maria that was almost too full of love. The days are too long. This past week has felt like a month. My bed is cold and too large for me alone. Hurry home, she wrote. While Ava liked the fact that she was being missed, she was troubled that Maria seemed so needy. She clicked on an email from Mimi that was even more unsettling. Thought I’d let you know that things are moving more quickly with Derek than I could have imagined. Love the man. Just love him to death. I’m going to sell my condo, I think. We’re talking about buying a place together. In fact, we’ve started looking. What next? Ava wondered. A wedding? Children? Her thoughts were interrupted by her cellphone. “Ava Lee.”

“Brian Torrence.”

“Thanks for calling so promptly.”

“I spoke with Locke. Write down this number: it’s his direct line. He said you can call anytime.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Enough to have dinner with me?”

“I told you, I can’t make it this evening.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure I’m going to be here.”

“How about tentatively?”

“Okay, tell you what, if I’m here I’ll call you,” she said.

“Brilliant.”

Ava hung up and checked the time. It was mid-morning in London. She dialled Frederick Locke’s number.

“This is Frederick Locke.”

“Thank you for taking my call,” she said. “This is Ava Lee. Brian Torrence gave me your number.”

“Brian tells me you’re poking into this fake painting mess he’s uncovered.”

“ Poking is probably the right word. I don’t know enough to manage it intelligently.”

“Well, it does get a bit complicated, and I don’t pretend to know everything myself.”

“Brian explained to me how the forgers work and said that you’re familiar with some of them. I was wondering if you had any idea who might have done these paintings.”

Locke chuckled. “I don’t have the foggiest.”

“No idea at all?”

“They don’t exactly advertise their services. Those that are known usually pack it in after they’re identified.”

“Brian thought it was probably one person who painted all the fakes.”

“I would agree with that.”

“How does that work from a business viewpoint?”

“What do you mean?”

“The painter obviously wasn’t selling directly to my clients,” she said.

“Of course not. He or she would have worked through a gallery or an agent.”

“And produced the works to order?”

“Probably not specifically, I would think. I mean, I can’t imagine the agent saying, ‘Give me a Monet Water Lilies.’ He might say, ‘Give me a Monet, two Derains, and a Matisse,’ and then let the artist sort it out.”

“For a fee?”

“Absolutely.”

“A large fee?”

“No, I can’t imagine it would be for a huge sum of money. Most of these people are anxious for work, any kind of work, normally to subsidize their own art. At least, that’s the way it was for men like de Hory and Myatt.”

“What kind of people were they?”

“Talented. Amazingly talented, most of them, but for some reason their own art just never took hold, never gripped the public’s imagination. So to make a living and to be able to afford to keep painting their own work, they would knock off a Chagall and have someone flog it for them.”

“Knock off?”

“Wrong choice of words, actually, a bit of a disservice to them. How about they would create a work in the style of Chagall?”

“But you think in this case the fakes were actually commissioned?”

“Yes, as I said, in this case that makes sense.”

“Are the galleries and agents that unscrupulous?”

“My God, that hardly begins to describe them.”

“I wouldn’t have thought — ”

“Ms. Lee, beneath the suave veneer of most art agents is a twisted, demented soul willing to sell his crippled mother into whoredom if the price is right.”

“I was going to ask if you had a list of galleries and agents who might do this kind of thing.”

“Open the New York phone book, find the heading ‘Art Galleries,’ and use every name on it as your initial list. Then get a Paris phone book, a London phone book — ”

“I get it.”

“Sorry. I wish I could be more helpful in that regard.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m not sure what I was expecting.”

“So what’s next?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not much of anything,” Ava said. “Those paintings you’re examining, when will you be done?”

“Not sure. I have a heavy workload and they aren’t at the top of my list right now.”

“That’s honest.”

“I try.”

“Me too.”

“Look, you can call me anytime if you have questions, but frankly I think this is a bit of a wild goose chase.”

“So it seems. Well, thanks anyway.”

She hung up and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was going on six o’clock. I should check in with Uncle, she thought.

“ Wei. ”

“Hi, Uncle, it’s Ava.”

“Ava, about that accounting firm — I have a name and phone number for you,” Uncle said. “The woman’s name is Grace Chan, she works for Landmark, and she did the books for Great Wall Antiques for ten years,” he said, then recited the number.

“I’ll call her now.”

“Someone will have told her your name.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” Ava hung up and then dialled the number Uncle had given her.

Grace Chan answered the phone with a brisker “ Wei ” than Uncle’s. “Ms. Chan, my name is Ava Lee.”

“My boss said you’d be calling.”

“Thanks for taking my call. Ms. Chan, I’m told you did the books for Great Wall Antiques for at least ten years.”

“I did, until Mr. Kwong died.”

“I’m looking for some information that might help me resolve a problem. It doesn’t involve Landmark in any way, and I don’t think it actually involves Mr. Kwong either,” Ava said. “Some years ago, Kwong broadened his business to include paintings, specifically paintings for the Wong family in Wuhan.”

“He did.”

“Could you go through the records you have and pull out everything associated with those transactions?”

“There aren’t many of them.”

“Then that shouldn’t be difficult.”

“The files are in our Hong Kong office. I live in Tai Wai Village and work mainly from home.”

“Tai Wai in the New Territories?”

“Yes, past Sha Tin, on the way to the Chinese border.”

“Can you get to the office tomorrow?”

There was a long pause.

“I have been authorized by my clients to pay consulting fees,” Ava said. “Would two thousand dollars make it easier for you?”

“The office doesn’t open until nine, and it will take me a while to find the files and go through them,” she said quickly.

“So what time?”

“Eleven.”

“See you then.”

Ava got to the Landmark office an hour early, hoping Grace Chan had already located the files she needed. The receptionist asked her to take a seat while she called Ms. Chan. A minute later a diminutive Chinese woman in a plain white dress buttoned to the collar and falling below her knees walked into the area. Her grey hair was cut in a pageboy. Ava thought the hairstyle a curious choice for a woman who looked as if she was in her fifties.