Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

“What was the cause?”

“No one actually said.”

“Were there rumours?”

“Some. There was talk of a financial falling-out. One of the brothers — I think it was Glen — was supposedly playing outside the sandbox, so to speak.”

“What is he doing now?”

“Running a business in New York as a private consultant to collectors,” Locke said, confirming Edwin Hughes’ claim.

She was writing while he spoke. Almost unconsciously she found herself underlining the words two years. “Frederick, it was that Jan Sorensen, the Sandman, who pointed me in the direction of Hughes.”

“So you found him?”

“Obviously.”

“And?”

“He painted a good number of the fake Fauvists.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have a signed statement from him.”

“Good God.”

“And he told me that Maurice O’Toole did the others.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Locke said. “I did some more research after our last chat and the boy did have that reputation. I spoke to someone who told me that Mr. O’Toole was a whiz with Matisse and did very passable Monets and Manets.”

Manet wasn’t on her list. She added the name.

“So, Ava, where does this leave you?” Locke asked.

“I’m not quite sure. I don’t have what you would call hard proof of anything. Even Sorensen’s statement isn’t supported in any concrete way other than that the paintings exist, and Edwin Hughes seems immune to threats of lawsuits or bad publicity. He tells me his brother will be an even tougher case.”

“Remember what I told you about our business being filled with hard men? Well, they don’t come much harder than the Hughes brothers.”

“I sense that.”

“So what to do?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know,” she said. “I need to do some more thinking. But look, thank you for the information. You’ve been very helpful. If I have any more questions I hope you won’t mind me calling.”

“Not at all. My days are quite repetitive and can be a bit of a bore. Call me whenever you wish.”

Ava closed her phone and looked out the window, down at the High Street and across to Kensington Gardens. The sky was clearing and people were walking without umbrellas. She decided to try to get in a run before the weather changed one more time. She quickly changed into her tracksuit and left the hotel.

Ava crossed the street, entered the Gardens at Exhibition Road, and then loped across the Serpentine to West Carriage Drive. She ran north from there until she reached the jogging path. Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens ran seamlessly into each other, separated only by the Serpentine. The total area was more than six hundred acres, just smaller than Central Park in New York, and the jogging path was five kilometres long. She normally would have done one full lap after the initial two kilometres or so she had run to the starting point. Today she needed to burn off frustration, and one lap wouldn’t cut it.

As she ran, she replayed the past few days. She told herself it was time to call Uncle, May Ling Wong, and her travel agent and head on home. Ava was halfway through the second lap when a scrap of conversation she’d had with Helga Sorensen came to mind, along with something Frederick Locke had just said to her. She headed back to the hotel.

When she got back to her room, she wrapped a towel around her shoulders, pulled out the Chelsea-Kensington phone-book, and looked up George McIntyre, the lawyer she had dealt with on her last trip to London.

The receptionist put her on hold. Ava hoped he remembered her and would take the call.

“Well, well. Is this the Ms. Lee who gets phone calls from the Prime Minister’s Office?” McIntyre said.

“Yes, Mr. McIntyre. Thank you for remembering me, and thank you for taking my call.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I was afraid not to?”

“No.”

“Well, rightly so. I’m just surprised to hear from you and curious as to why.”

“I’m calling on business.”

“Roger Simmons again, or has Jeremy Ashton been acting up?”

“No, different. I’d like you to do something for me, for a fee, of course.”

“And what is that?”

“There is — was, rather — an Irish painter by the name of Maurice O’Toole. He died about five years ago. He was married to a woman named Nancy, who died about three years ago. They had no children but there had to be an estate. Could you possibly find out for me if there was one, and if so, who inherited it?”

“That’s all the information you have?”

“That’s it.”

“What part of Ireland? That does matter.”

“Dublin.”

“It may take a little time.”

“Can you get back to me today?”

“Ms. Lee, you are always in such a rush. The last time you were here we papered an agreement in a matter of hours when it normally takes days.”

“I’ll double your fee if you can get me the information today.”

“You don’t know what my fee is.”

“I don’t care. I know it will be fair.”

“All right, let me work on it.”

“Thank you so much. You can call me on my cellphone or at my room at the Fletcher Hotel.”

Ava jumped into the shower and took her time washing her hair. She spent another ten minutes drying it. When she came out of the bathroom, her room phone was blinking. It was George McIntyre, asking her to call him back.

“The person you want to talk to is Helen Byrne,” McIntyre said. “She inherited everything Nancy O’Toole had. She lives in Donabate, a large village or small town — whichever you prefer — on the Irish coast about twenty kilometres northeast of Dublin.”

“That is remarkably fast work.”

“Not really. They’re very well organized over there; all it took was one phone call. A colleague in a Dublin firm, an old schoolmate of mine, found Nancy O’Toole in the death register and the law firm that handled her estate, all while I was still on the line.”

“Do you have an actual address for her, a phone number?”

“Write this down,” McIntyre said, giving her the information.

“Is she a relative?”

“I wasn’t told.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. McIntyre. How much do I owe you?”

“Not a thing.”

“Please, I insist on paying you.”

“No, I would rather have you owing me a favour.”

“And I would rather pay.”

“Your owing me a favour is worth more to me.”

“Done,” she said.

Ava hung up the phone and threw on a clean black Giordano T-shirt. She picked up her cellphone, checked the incoming call list, and saw a Chinese area code. May Ling Wong.

She sat on the edge of the bed and dialled Helen Byrne’s number. If this didn’t work out, then Ava’s next calls would most certainly be to Uncle and May Ling.

“Ms. Byrne, my name is Ava Lee. I’m calling you about Nancy O’Toole and Maurice O’Toole.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, you most certainly don’t, and I apologize for calling out of the blue like this.”

“What kind of name is Lee?”

“Chinese.”

“You don’t sound Chinese.”

“I’m Canadian.”

“I have a brother who lives in Canada, in Hamilton.”

“Hamilton is quite close to the city I live in.”

“What is it you want with Nancy?” Helen said with some force.

“I understand you inherited her estate.”

“I’m her sister. We were close all our lives.”

“It must have been difficult, her dying so young and so soon after Maurice.”

“Cancer is a terrible thing.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Now you still haven’t told me what you want with Nancy.”

“It’s actually Maurice I’m more interested in.”