“He was emotional,” Uncle said.
“Still truthful, I think,” she said.
“Perhaps.”
“Uncle, I didn’t mean to imply — ”
“No bother,” he said.
They rode the elevator to the ground floor, bags in hand. Ava was dying for a coffee but was even more eager to get away from the Wongs. There was no sign of either of them, just staff scurrying back and forth. “Is the mistress here?” Ava asked one of the servers.
“No, but she left this for you,” he said, handing her a large brown envelope.
She opened it. Three pages of notes, names, phone numbers, a cheque for fifty thousand dollars, and May Ling’s business card. On the back she had written her mobile number, her direct business line, and her private email. The word private was underlined. So were the words Thank you. Love, May.
She handed the cheque to Uncle, and everything else went into her Double Happiness computer bag.
They caught a Dragonair flight back to Hong Kong. Uncle returned to his racing form while Ava pulled May Ling’s papers and her Moleskine notebook from her bag. She scanned the documentation. Every painting they had bought was listed, along with the date and price and its supposed origins. The ones that the appraiser thought were genuine were marked with a black asterisk, fakes with a red one, and those in doubt with blue. Many of them had been plucked from private collections, others from galleries, none acquired at auction. That should have raised some questions, Ava thought. She did some quick math. The Wongs had spent more than a hundred million dollars on their collection, the Monet the most expensive, at fifteen million.
The appraiser they had worked with at Harrington’s was Brian Torrence. May Ling had included his cellphone and office number. The office was on the Hong Kong side, in the Langley Tower on Queen’s Road Central. That made her hotel choice easy.
Kwong’s business was called Great Wall Antiques and Fine Art. He had been the sole owner and the business had been shuttered when he died. His brother had inherited everything. He had sold off the inventory, shredded the records, and made Great Wall history. That doesn’t mean there aren’t records somewhere, she thought. The Hong Kong Department of Inland Revenue would certainly have tax returns.
The flight was uneventful, and Uncle and Ava breezed through Hong Kong Immigration. She called the Mandarin Oriental Hotel as they were walking out of the arrivals hall to meet Sonny, booking a room for three nights. As she did she saw Uncle glancing sideways at her.
“I have been thinking you need to be careful with this woman,” he said.
“A couple of days, that’s all. If I don’t find anything, then that’s it.”
“She will have expectations.”
“I made no promises.”
“You know how selective some people’s memories are. I do not want you to be the subject of recriminations.”
“I’ll be careful what I say.”
“I would be happier if her husband knew,” he said.
“Let me try it my way for a few days. That’s all — a few days.”
She knew Uncle wasn’t arguing with her and that he wasn’t about to tell her to change her decision. He just needed to let her know that he was concerned.
“ Momentai,” he said.
They saw Sonny leaning against the Mercedes, talking to a couple of policemen. He rushed to Uncle as soon as he saw him, grabbing the carry-on. The policemen lowered their heads in Uncle’s direction.
“I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental in Central,” she said to Sonny as the car pulled away from the curb. “But drop me off at the Star Ferry terminal in Kowloon. I’ll take the boat over to Central. That way you won’t have to fight the Harbour Tunnel traffic.”
“Hot pot tonight?” Uncle asked.
Ava hesitated. “I may work late. The sooner I start on this case, the sooner I’ll get it behind us.”
“That is sensible,” Uncle said.
“I’ll keep in touch,” she said, kissing him on the forehead as Sonny eased the car up to the terminal entrance.
At just past one o’clock she boarded the ferry. It was a gorgeous day. Spring was the only season she had ever enjoyed in Hong Kong. The summers were oppressively hot and the fall was too often cold and rainy. The winters were perpetually damp, with temperatures low enough to make the chill seep into the bones. She was able to get a seat near the front but she moved back from the rail to avoid the odours wafting off the water. As the ferry churned its way across Victoria Harbour towards the Hong Kong shoreline, Ava watched the sun flicker off the skyscrapers, the light shimmering on black, silver, and gold glass. What a marvel it is, she thought for the second time in two days. People raved about the view of the harbour from Victoria Peak, but for Ava there was no better way to see it than from the ferry on a beautiful day.
When the boat docked, she walked across Connaught Road to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Entering through its front doors was like coming home for her. She was a frequent guest, and within five minutes she was checked in and had been escorted by one of the front desk associates to her room.
Ava quickly unpacked. She put her laptop on the desk, turned it on, and then opened her Moleskine notebook, where she had copied the notes May Ling had given her. She found the phone number for Brian Torrence and dialled it.
“Torrence,” he answered.
He can’t be senior, she thought, if he’s answering his own phone. “Hello, my name is Ava Lee. May Ling Wong gave me your number.”
“I spoke with her this morning.”
“Good. So you’re free to talk to me?”
“Whenever you want.”
“How about right now? I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental. Your office is no more than a five-minute walk.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Me neither. There’s an Italian restaurant on the ground floor of my building. Why don’t you meet me there in about ten minutes? Ask for me, or just look for me. I’m tall, skinny, blond hair, and I’m wearing a navy-blue suit today.”
“Mr. Torrence, did May Ling tell you why I want to talk to you?”
“There’s only one thing it could be about,” he said. “Truthfully, I found it a puzzling request.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ve never heard of you, and in my field there aren’t that many strangers.”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to remedy that.”
(8)
Ava walked into the Italian restaurant and quickly found Brian Torrence. Even seated he seemed taller than the waiter who was attending to him, and his bushy mop of blond hair was hard to miss.
“Mr. Torrence,” she said.
He looked up and smiled. He’s young, probably in his mid-thirties, she thought.
“Call me Brian,” he said, without getting up.
“And I’m Ava.”
“Your accent — I can’t place it. Certainly not Hong Kong English.”
“I’m Canadian.”
“The Wongs reach out to a young Canadian woman? The mystery deepens.”
“I’m hardly mysterious.”
“But you are here to talk about the paintings?”
“Exactly.”
“Quite a problem.”
“So it seems.”
The waiter interrupted them. “I’ve ordered sparkling water, unless you want something stronger,” Torrence said.
“That’s perfect.”
“I recommend the antipasto, and they make a damn fine Caesar. And the brick-oven pizza isn’t half bad.”
“Then why don’t you order for both of us,” she said.
After the waiter had taken their order, Torrence turned back to Ava and said, “The first thing you have to tell me, Ava, is what do you know about this apparent mess we’ve unearthed?”
“Virtually nothing.”
“So you aren’t you in the art business?”
“No, I’m an accountant.”
“I don’t mean to sound rude, but why would the Wongs hire an accountant to help out with this problem? Do you have extra qualifications in the art field?”