“Yes, go on,” a woman replied.
“The account is in the name of N. O’Toole, and the number is 032-6567-4411.”
There was a pause. “You said you were going to send a wire?” the woman asked.
“That was the plan.”
“You should change it. That account was closed three years ago.”
“That’s strange. Mr. O’Toole gave us the number himself.”
A longer pause. “There was no Mr. O’Toole on this account, just a Mrs. O’Toole.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Let me double-check,” the woman said. “Yes, it was Mrs. O’Toole. It’s quite clear.”
“And the N was the first letter of what name?”
“It doesn’t say, and I’m actually surprised that you wouldn’t know at your end. I mean, you’re the one sending the wire.”
“We Chinese aren’t all that good with Western names,” Ava said quickly. “Do you have any information on file that might help me contact Mrs. O’Toole?”
“No.”
Ava started to phrase another question when the line went dead. Maybe the Danes will be more co-operative, she thought, and dialled the number of the bank in Skagen.
She got a live person at the Skagen bank on the second ring. She repeated her story about preparing to send a wire transfer and passed along the account number and the name Jan Harald Sorensen.
“Yes, we can confirm it,” a woman said.
“Would you also have contact information for Mr. Sorensen?” Ava asked. “We normally like to put an address on the wire.”
“No, we can’t give out that type of information.”
“It would — ”
“No, we don’t do it under any circumstances,” the woman said and hung up.
Bankers in Europe aren’t very accommodating, Ava thought. But then, they aren’t connected to Uncle and his network of friends.
She went online and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to find a Jan Harald Sorensen in Skagen, a town with a population of fewer than ten thousand people. She found a number of Sorensens, but no Jan, Harald, J.H., or even J.
She pushed her chair back from the desk and walked over to the window. She had the name of a Liechtenstein bank that wouldn’t talk to her and the names of two people she couldn’t locate. She knew that the bank had some kind of connection to Mrs. O’Toole and Mr. Sorensen, whoever they were. She also knew that it had been directly responsible for setting up the second Great Wall company account at the Kowloon bank, and the money from the forged art sales had flowed to them. Given that the company existed for the sole purpose of selling forged art to the Wongs, it made sense to her that this somehow linked O’Toole and Sorensen to the scam. But how? Ava thought. Were they agents who set up a deal or two? Were they artists? Were they the painters who created the fakes?
Ava caught herself. She went back to the desk and leafed through the wire transfer copies. What it came down to, she finally decided, was that she had to assume that O’Toole and Sorensen were directly linked to the forgeries and were — a big leap in logic, she knew — probably the painters who had been used. It’s the only connection I have to pursue, she thought, as she started to call London.
“Frederick Locke.”
“This is Ava Lee.”
“Ms. Lee, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“Something’s come up,” Ava said. “Do you know an Irish painter from Dublin named O’Toole?”
“Maurice O’Toole?”
“All I have is an initial, N, and I’ve been told the person is female.”
“I don’t know any female artists named O’Toole.”
“I thought it was a bit much to expect.”
“And if it’s Maurice you’re after, he’s been dead for some time.”
“Did he do fakes when he was alive?”
“Not that I know.”
“Are you being circumspect?”
“No, Ms. Lee, I’m not. I’m telling you I have no idea whether Maurice O’Toole painted forgeries or not.”
“Okay,” Ava said. “Now I have another name for you: Jan Harald Sorensen. He’s Danish, I think, and lives in Skagen.”
“Sorry again. I’ve never heard of him, although Skagen does have a very famous art colony, and the fact that I’m not familiar with him doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist and doesn’t paint.”
Ava sighed. “I think I’m just about ready to pack this in. I’m running out of doors to go through.”
“I wish I could be more helpful.”
“I understand, and thanks for taking the time. By the way, if my hunch is right, the two Dufy paintings among those Brian Torrence wants you to authenticate are the real deal.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve found a financial trail that indicates they were purchased like the other three that are genuine.”
“I’ll take a close look at them as soon as I possibly can.”
“Look, if you can think of anything about an O’Toole or a Sorensen, call me on my cell. I think I’ll be leaving Hong Kong tomorrow, but I’d still be interested if you uncovered anything.”
Ava closed her Wong notebook. She doubted it would be opened again. Liechtenstein wasn’t going to give her the information she wanted. She had a dead Kwong and a dead O’Toole, and that left her with exactly one lead. If she wanted to pursue it she would have to fly to Denmark and tromp around Skagen looking for someone named Jan Harald Sorensen, and if she found him, she had to hope he actually was an artist. That was too small a needle in too big a haystack.
She opened her laptop and emailed her travel agent, telling her to book the next day’s Cathay Pacific flight to Toronto. Then she let Mimi and Maria know she was heading back to Toronto. Maria answered immediately. I’ll meet you at the airport.
Yes, I’d like that, Ava replied.
Before turning off the computer she wrote to her father. She asked how the cruise was proceeding, told him that the Wuhan job wasn’t going to materialize, and then, almost as an afterthought, wrote, I met Michael at dim sum yesterday. He looks very much like you, and acted very much like you. It felt strange even writing his name.
She wasn’t sure what time she had fallen asleep but she knew it was just past two a.m. when she woke, the digital clock glowing next to the phone that rocked her into consciousness. “Ava Lee,” she said.
“This is Frederick Locke. I’m sorry for calling so late, but I knew you were going to be travelling and I thought you’d want to know what I’d found out before you left.”
“Found out?”
“The two paintings by Dufy — I think you were correct. I had a quick, intense look at the provenance and it seems to hang together.”
“That’s good. I’m sure the Wongs will be pleased.”
“And while I was looking into that, I had one of my assistants do some research on your O’Toole and your Sorensen.”
“And?”
“I had her check into Maurice O’Toole, and it emerges that he was married to a woman named Nancy. She managed his business affairs before he died.”
“Did she locate Nancy?”
“Yes, she died three years ago.”
Ava groaned. “Great. Everyone I need to talk to is dead.”
“The thing is, my assistant also said that Maurice was known to do a bit of funny stuff now and then. The idea of his painting some fakes isn’t out of the question.”
“How could I confirm that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they have children?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a long shot that any records still exist.”
“I agree.”
“One more dead end, pardon the pun.”
“Don’t be gloomy. We haven’t talked about Sorensen yet.”
Ava detected a touch of excitement in Locke’s voice, and whatever disappointment she felt vanished. “I’m listening,” she said.
“My assistant thought the name sounded vaguely familiar and went hunting through some Danish art databases. The reason we couldn’t find Jan Harald Sorensen is that he paints and sells under the name Jimmy Sandman.”