They boarded and took off exactly on schedule. Within fifteen minutes of liftoff Ava had a glass of wine and was nestled in her seat watching Extras. Her intention was to watch one episode while she sipped her wine and relaxed enough to sleep, but Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant were so funny, and the series premise so clever, that she had to force herself to turn off the entertainment system after three episodes. She dozed off, and woke only when the flight attendant told passengers to prepare for landing.
They disembarked at Heathrow at nine a.m. Ava hustled through Immigration and went to the ladies’ loo. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and fixed her hair with the ivory chignon pin. Then she went into a cubicle to change into her midnight-blue shirt, tan skirt, and brown stilettos. Then she stood at the mirror to apply a light touch of red lipstick and black mascara. By nine thirty she was in a taxi line and by nine forty-five was inching her way into London.
Sam Rice had impressed her the day before. He saw no reason to discuss their involvement, no reason to make excuses for his actions. He knew they had a problem and he was eager to address it and put it behind him. She liked a no-nonsense approach, and she was sure that when she got to Harrington’s, Rice would be well organized.
She reached New Bond Street at ten past eleven. The last time she had been to Harrington’s it was after office hours, and she had been greeted by a security guard. This time she found herself talking to a beautiful young black woman with short, stylish hair. Ava signed in, was given a visitor’s badge, and was told that Mr. Rice was waiting for her in the boardroom on the third floor.
When the elevator doors opened, Frederick Locke was waiting for her. He looked sheepish, and Ava saw no reason to let him off the hook. “I hope you’re here to apologize. Do you even understand what it is to make a promise?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“You have no idea how tortured I was feeling. I mean, I was having nightmares, Ava, about how this would affect the firm. I had to tell Sam. And he’s been great, really great.”
“I talked to him yesterday.”
“I know, and I couldn’t have been more pleased.”
“Frederick, we all want the same thing here, but we’re not going to get it if we can’t trust each other.”
“Ava, I’m so sorry. This will never happen again.”
“Where is Mr. Rice?”
“In the boardroom.”
“Let’s go see him.”
Ava was guided through the high-rent district of Harrington’s: big offices filled with antique furnishings and collectible paintings on the walls. The boardroom was large; in the centre was a massive oak table surrounded by matching chairs. The only modern piece in the room was a credenza pushed against the wall. On it was a tray with a coffee urn, cups, saucers, and bottles of water.
Sam Rice stood to meet her. He was extraordinarily pale, his skin almost translucent, which made his full red lips and ice-blue eyes stand out. He was large and soft, about six foot two and close to three hundred pounds.
“Ms. Lee.”
“Mr. Rice.”
“Sam.”
“Ava.”
“Thanks so much for coming at such short notice.”
“This is important,” Ava said.
“For all of us.”
“Are you Scottish, Sam?” she asked.
“Welsh.”
“Ah. I love your accent.”
“There was a time when it was a handicap. The auction, the art business in the U.K. was run by an old boys’ club who all went to the same public schools and the same university and spoke with one accent. It’s only in recent times that they’ve made room for us provincials.”
Ava sat down in a chair directly across from Rice. Locke looped around the table and sat next to his boss. “Coffee, tea, water?” Rice asked.
“I’m fine.”
He saw her looking at the table. “It was Oliver Cromwell’s. It was the family dining table, and some of the chairs were his as well. The table has been in our firm for more than a hundred years.”
“And how many times over those hundred years has the company dealt with an issue like this?”
Frederick Locke glanced at his boss, and Ava saw that he was as curious as she was to know the answer. “More often than I care to recount,” Rice said. “This isn’t an exact science, you know, and sadly, things do slip through the cracks. We like to keep our secrets well buried. My predecessors always believed that sustaining the credibility of the firm was our primary goal. Without trust, we have nothing. So if from time to time they needed to shade the truth for the sake of the greater good, they were prepared to do that.”
“And you learned your lessons from them?”
Rice smiled. “I guess that’s as good a lead-in to the subject at hand as we can expect. Ava, would you like to start?”
She liked the way he had sidestepped her question and passed the meeting over to her. “As you both know by now, I was hired by a client in China to investigate a potential scam involving some Fauvist paintings,” Ava began. “In the course of my research I came across possible irregularities involving some other paintings not directly connected to my client. I have since resolved the Fauvist issue to my client’s satisfaction, and the other paintings now hold zero interest for them or me.”
“For the record, what does that mean exactly?”
“As far as we’re concerned, they don’t exist. I understand that you can’t take the exact same position, at least with one of them, since you sold it at auction. So I’m curious — for the record — as to how you want to proceed.”
Rice looked at Locke as if to say, See? Nothing to worry about.
“The painting you refer to, the one that was sold through Harrington’s for a client — we have reviewed the provenance and our original evaluation, and on balance we think it would be irresponsible to cast any shadow of doubt upon it,” Rice said.
“So we seem to be on exactly the same page,” Ava said.
The door behind Ava opened. She turned and saw a young woman with a slip of paper in her hand. Rice looked annoyed. “What is it, Melissa?” he said.
The woman seemed distressed. “Excuse me, Mr. Rice, but something has come up and Mr. Tomlinson thought you should be informed.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“He thought not.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“Excuse me,” the woman said to Ava as she reached past her to hand the note to Rice.
He read it and then looked up. Ava saw shock in his eyes. “Does he have any more details?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
Rice stared at Ava and she felt a shiver. Does this have something to do with me? The Wongs? she wondered. No one knew she was at Harrington’s.
“There has been an incident at the Hughes Art Gallery in Kensington,” Rice said.
“An incident?”
“Something serious enough to involve the police. They have the gallery cordoned off.”
Ava froze.
“How does Tomlinson know this?” Locke asked.
“He lives in the neighbourhood. He went past the gallery on his way to work and saw that the police were there. He called from his mobile,” Melissa said.
“That’s all he knows?” Locke pressed.
“Melissa, is Tomlinson still there?” Rice asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have his mobile number handy?”
“I wrote it on the bottom of the paper,” she said, pointing to the slip in Rice’s hand.
“I’ll call him from outside. I’ll be right back,” Rice said as he moved quickly towards the door.
When he was gone, Locke said quietly, “What can this mean?”
Ava didn’t know if he was talking to her or himself, and in either case she wasn’t going to respond. She had too many questions in her own head.
“I want to go to the gallery,” she said to Locke. “Can you drive me?”
“You don’t want to wait for Sam? It could be something minor.”
Ava got to her feet. “If you won’t drive me then I’ll just catch a taxi downstairs.”
“I think we should wait for Sam,” Locke said.