Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

“Let me know your schedule. We will take you to the airport.”

Ava had been using the same travel agent for years, and even in the age of online bookings she liked the assurance of having someone cover her back if she ran into problems. Squabbling with airlines was not on her list of favourite activities. She emailed her new destination and asked for options.

Half an hour later she had a reply. She couldn’t get to Skagen by air; the closest airport was Aalborg, about an hour’s drive away. Every schedule to Aalborg involved at least two stops, and all of them landed her via the same local carrier at 11:20 the following night, so it came down to airline and airport preference. She opted for Lufthansa and a Hong Kong-Frankfurt-Copenhagen-Aalborg route because it was a few hours’ less flying time.

Ava told her agent to book the flight, check her into an Aalborg airport hotel, and rent a car for her for the following day.

She phoned Uncle. “My flight is at one forty. Could you pick me up at eleven?”

“We will be there.”

She made herself a cup of Starbucks VIA instant coffee and collected the South China Morning Post that was waiting for her at the door. Iran. Afghanistan. Pakistan. North Korea. Thailand in some kind of upheaval again. On the cruise she hadn’t missed reading about any of it.

She thought about going for a run, but a quick look outside negated that idea. The sky was dark, the rain pelting down sideways as it crossed Victoria Harbour. Instead she emailed Mimi, Maria, and her father to let them know about her change in travel plans. She knew Maria would be disappointed and would start to worry again, so she stressed the urgency of the business that kept her away from Canada.

At ten o’clock she called May Ling on her direct office line. Briefing clients was a tricky business. Uncle believed it was always best to under-inform, to keep expectations to a minimum. If anything, Ava was even more closed.

“Ava, I was hoping to hear from you.”

“I’m leaving Hong Kong in a few hours. I have a small lead I’m following up on.”

“Where are you going?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Does it have anything to do with the banking information I gave you?”

“That was very helpful, thanks.”

“You must be making progress of some kind.”

“Actually, we managed to confirm that two more of your paintings are genuine. Someone from Harrington’s will probably contact you today with the details.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with your leaving?”

“No,” Ava said. “I have a small lead I have to follow up on. And I want to repeat the word small. It may come to absolutely nothing.”

“When will you know?”

“A couple of days.”

“And if it comes to something?”

“It would be a piece of the puzzle, nothing more than that. Certainly nothing conclusive.”

“And you can’t tell me?”

“It’s better if I don’t. There are too many ifs attached to it.”

“And if it comes to nothing?”

“Then my work for you is done.”

“I hope not.”

Me too, Ava thought, and then said, “I’ll call you when I know something definite.”

She was packing her bags when she got a call from the lobby. Uncle was early. She quickly organized the rest of her things and rode the elevator to the lobby, where Uncle was waiting for her.

“I spoke to May Ling and told her about the other two paintings being genuine,” she said as the car eased out of Central.

“What was her reaction?”

“Hardly enthusiastic.”

“The fakes are weighing more heavily on them.”

“I also told her I was leaving Hong Kong, but I didn’t say where or why.”

“Wise.”

“I also think you shouldn’t call her about our fee — she’ll read too much into that. Let’s wait until I see what happens in Denmark. There’s no point in even talking about money unless I can find this Sandman.”

“I agree.”

“I arrive late tomorrow night, their time, so I won’t know anything until the next day at the earliest. Have you been to Denmark?”

“No. They make good beer — that is all I know,” Uncle said. “I do not imagine we have any people there, but I will see who is close by.”

“I don’t think I’ll need any people. These are artists and art agents and galleries I’m dealing with.”

“You never know.”

It reminded her of Vancouver — the Aalborg weather, that is. Cold, damp, lingering. It had been wet when she arrived the night before on the Cimber Sterling flight from Copenhagen, and it was the same in the morning as she rode a taxi back to the airport to get her rental car. The airport had been deserted and the rental booths shuttered when her flight arrived, so she had taxied to the Hotel Hvide Hus, where she spent most of the night wide awake, wondering exactly what she expected to find in Skagen.

The car rental opened at eight and Ava was there ten minutes later. The woman behind the counter was dour, almost grim, her conversation devoid of pleasantries. Ava had booked a BMW but there wasn’t one available; the woman informed her she was getting a Saab. Ava had asked for a GPS system; the woman said she didn’t need one, but Ava argued with her to get it.

The drive did turn out to be simple, almost a straight run on route E45, from Aalborg northeast to the coast and then north past Frederikshavn to Skagen, at the northernmost tip of the Danish peninsula. The countryside — what she could see of it through the mist and rain — was mainly marsh. The villages she passed, their homes and shops pressed tightly against the road, were uniform and neat: rows of brick houses, red tile roofs, and lace curtains hanging in almost every window.

She drove into Skagen at ten thirty, found the downtown area easily enough, and parked her car in a public lot that held only one other vehicle. As she got out she had a feeling of deja vu. She could have been in downtown Banff, minus the Rocky Mountains. Skagen had the same touristy feel, its main street lined with souvenir shops, coffeehouses, boutiques, dainty restaurants, and, in this case, art galleries. She counted four within sight and headed for the nearest one. It was time to jump into the haystack.

A middle-aged blonde woman with a heaving chest was fussing with a group of small paintings. She took a glance at Ava and then turned back to what she was doing. There was no one else in the gallery. Ava stood, staring, waiting. The woman ignored her. Finally Ava said, “Can you help me?”

“The prices are on the works,” the woman said in heavily accented English.

“That’s not the kind of help I’m looking for.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Do you know a painter called Jimmy Sandman?” Ava said to her back.

“We called him Jimmy the Sandman,” she said.

Ava hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Then she noted the past tense. “Excuse me, did you say ‘called’? Has something happened to him?”

The woman finally turned towards Ava, a look of mild surprise on her face when she actually looked at her. Is it because I’m Chinese? Ava thought. Is it the Adidas jacket and pants?

“Yes, he left town.”

“He moved away?”

“Years ago.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No.”

“Does he have any friends, any relatives in Skagen I could speak with?”

“Jimmy was a strange man. Not many people wanted to talk to him, let alone be friends with him.”

“There must have been someone. Another painter, maybe.”

Ava watched as the woman searched her memory, almost painfully. “He and Jasper drank together sometimes.”

“Jasper who?”

“Kasten.”

“And where would I find Jasper Kasten?”