“And what about these three paintings?”
“The Hughes brothers may not be so willing to be sued by the owners of these three paintings, or by Harrington’s. It’s one thing to mock a man from Wuhan but it’s another to screw around with — well, with whom? Who bought the paintings? Tell me, and then I’ll tell you how much leverage I think we have and I’ll tell you how I’ll proceed.”
“You haven’t proved the paintings are forgeries,” he said.
“Fair enough,” she said, opening her Shanghai Tang computer bag.
She passed him one file. “That’s the Manet. There’s a photo of it, titled and double-dated. There’s an invoice made out to the Hughes Art Gallery with Manet on it. The painting was shipped by DHL; there’s a copy of the delivery slip made out to the Hughes Gallery address. Finally, there’s a copy of a cancelled cheque made out to Maurice O’Toole and signed by both Edwin and Glen Hughes. You’ll see on the memo line that the invoice number is referenced.”
He went through the documentation with great care. Then he looked up at her, shook his head, and went through it again.
“What O’Toole did was very clever,” he said, looking out the window. “There were three known versions, variations of The Execution of the Emperor Maximilian, all dated around the same time, before this fourth one came on the market. We heard rumblings about it but it never came to auction. A Manet enthusiast in Scotland purchased it from an unknown source, who now appears to have been the Hughes brothers.”
“He did due diligence?”
“Buying from the Hughes brothers would have been considered due diligence enough, although if he went to other authorities, they could have been fooled.”
“Who bought it?”
“The Earl of Moncrieff.”
“He sounds impressive.”
Locke looked down at her bag. “Can I see the other two files?”
She took the Manet file back and passed him the one for the Modigliani self-portrait. He took as much time going through that paperwork. Ava admired his thoroughness.
“Again, clever. There are many self-portraits, and this one seems plausible. It was sold into a private collection in London. The owner is Harold Holmes.”
“The media tycoon?”
“That’s him.”
“Now here’s your part in this,” Ava said, sliding the Lipchitz portrait file towards him.
“In 1916 Modigliani did a portrait of Jacques and Berthe Lipchitz. O’Toole painted Jacques alone. There’s no reason to think that Modigliani might not have done the same,” Locke said.
“But it was sold at auction, through your firm. Surely the provenance was examined inside and out.”
“According to our records, it was.”
“Who looked at it?”
“Not me, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I was too junior to look at something like this.”
“Then who?”
He looked uncomfortable. “I think, for now, that has to be remain internal to Harrington’s.”
“Then who was the buyer?”
“Jonathan Reiner.”
“I’ve heard of him too.”
“Not surprising. He’s one of the five wealthiest men in the U.K.”
Ava had written the names in her notebook as Locke reluctantly gave them to her. “Moncrieff — tell me about him.”
“Considers himself to be a true patron of the arts, and he has the money to indulge his interest. He lends many of his paintings to Scottish museums and galleries, and he sponsors young Scottish artists.”
“So all in all, the Hughes brothers have messed with some big boys.”
“Couldn’t have been much bigger, unless they were selling to the Queen and the National Gallery.”
She held out her hand for the Lipchitz file.
“Can I keep this for a day or two?” Locke asked.
“Afraid not.”
“I’ll make some copies, then.”
“Not yet,” Ava said.
“I thought we had an understanding.”
“Frederick, I trust you enough to have come here with these files, but until I resolve my differences with the Hughes brothers I prefer to keep these documents under my control. Things happen, you know. One of your assistants sees something, questions are asked or little comments are made, and then your boss is asking what’s going on and you don’t want to lie to him. And so on and so on. So for both our sakes, I’ll hang on to them for now.”
“You said we’d agree together how to proceed,” he insisted, his face reddening.
“And we will, once I’m finished with the Hughes brothers.”
“What if they refuse to co-operate with you? What if they won’t give you what you want?”
“Then I’ll be back here with my tail between my legs, files in hand, and we’ll chat. Either way, successful or not, the files are coming back here.”
“I’m not going to convince you otherwise, am I.”
“No.”
“So now what?”
“Do you have addresses for the three buyers?”
“Yes, they’re in here.”
“Can I have them, please?”
He hesitated.
“Frederick, I can find them easily enough. All I want you to do is save me some time.”
He took a slip of paper out of each of his files and passed them to her.
“Now I need to use a computer, a printer, and a photocopier.”
(24)
It took her close to two hours to prepare the packages for Edwin and Glen Hughes. Locke hung about nearby, acutely interested but too polite to pry. Ava bundled the files together and put a big rubber band around them before jamming them into her bag. It was past eight o’clock and she was hungry. She thought for a second about asking Locke to join her for dinner, then immediately threw the idea aside.
She called the Fletcher and enquired about a room. They were only too happy to welcome her back, she was told. She felt as if she had hardly left.
“I’m staying at the Fletcher Hotel in Kensington,” she told Locke.
“Do you want a ride? My car is nearby.”
“The tube will do fine. I’ve bothered you enough today.”
“ Bothered is hardly the word I would use,” he said. “Emotionally ravaged is more like it.”
“I’m sorry. I know this must have been upsetting.”
“The consequences are just beginning to sink in. It’s one thing to discuss forgeries in the abstract. It’s quite another to have them staring you in the face when you know all the participants and are imagining how everyone is going to react. I’m not going to sleep well, I can tell you that.”
“If it’s of any comfort, this should be over soon,” Ava said.
“How soon?” he asked.
“Hopefully I’ll see Edwin Hughes tomorrow, and if that goes as planned I’ll be onto Glen Hughes right after.”
“Can you call me?”
“When it’s completely finished, not before.”
“And you’ll bring the files here?”
“I promise,” Ava said. “And you won’t discuss this with anyone, not even your shadow, until then?”
“I promise.”
Ava extended her hand. Locke took it and shook it vigorously. His eyes bored into hers, looking for doubt. She stared back and then smiled. She trusted this one.
“I’ll walk you down,” Locke said.
When they reached the street, he hesitated at the door. Ava looked around and saw a sign for the underground. “There’s my transportation,” she said, and walked towards the tube station before he could speak.
She took the train to Kensington High Street. It was past eight o’clock when she got there, and when she walked up the steps, she saw that for once it wasn’t raining. She went to Marks amp; Spencer and bought a tuna sandwich — confirming first that the tuna was albacore, not skipjack or yellowfin — and a bottle of white burgundy.
An hour later she was sitting in T-shirt and panties at her computer, the half-empty bottle of wine next to her, reading about the Earl of Moncrieff. She had already googled Holmes and Reiner, and the Earl was just as formidable. She could only imagine how horrific it would be to have all three gunning for you. She hoped the Hughes brothers had as much imagination as she did.