The wild beast of Wuhan al-3

by Ian Hamilton

  “He agreed?”

  “He did, and so far he has kept his word.”

  “So where does this leave us?”

  “We apparently have seventeen fake paintings that cost us more than eighty million U.S. dollars,” she said.

  “And a dealer who is dead,” Ava added.

  “And whose shop was closed when he died and whose records were destroyed by his family. I spoke to Kwong’s brother last week, and he told me he didn’t see the point of keeping all that paperwork when there was no more business.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Uncle asked, the difficulty implied.

  “Find the people who cheated us,” Wong said.

  Uncle glanced at Ava. “Wong Changxing, you must understand how complicated this could be.”

  “Find them.”

  “Find who? The dealer is dead.”

  “He wasn’t smart enough to do this on his own. He had help. He worked with someone who knew his stuff, someone who orchestrated this.”

  May Ling said, “Actually, he may not have known they were fakes either. Looking back, we made a mistake going to him. He was an expert in ceramics, not paintings. We — I just assumed he would apply the same degree of due diligence. Now it is obvious that he didn’t.”

  “Who did you pay?” Ava asked.

  “His company, but that means nothing.”

  “There are a lot of paintings. What if he was dealing with a lot of people?” Ava said.

  “Then find them all,” Wong said.

  “Let’s suppose I do, then what? How do I get your money back? They sold to the dealer and he sold to you.”

  “I don’t need the money.”

  “What are you saying?” Ava asked.

  Wong stared at Uncle. “You can make them pay in some other way.”

  “I’m an accountant,” Ava said carefully. “My job is to find and recover funds that have been stolen. I’m not in the revenge business.”

  “I have heard that, from time to time, you employ unconventional methods,” said May Ling.

  “Not with any pleasure, only when necessary, and always as a means to an end, not as the end itself.”

  Wong turned to Uncle. “Is this your view?”

  “Ava and I need to talk,” Uncle said.

  “We’ll wait,” Wong said.

  “No, this is a very complicated business and it could take some time. And I have to tell you, I am not sure it is right for us.”

  “You are our best hope,” May Ling said.

  “We do not perform miracles,” Uncle said, standing up. “So, if you will forgive me, we will go to our rooms and let you return to your guests. We can meet again in the morning.”

  Ava saw that Uncle’s remarks did not sit well with Wong, but before he could speak, Uncle was already halfway out of the kitchen. She followed, feeling two sets of eyes boring into her back.

  “Could you find the person — the people who did this?” Uncle asked when they were in the elevator.

  “Maybe. But it’s messy, old.”

  “Did Wong’s request for retribution bother you as much as it seemed to?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is no different than many of our other clients. They all feel the same; they just can’t bring themselves to say it.”

  “Is that why he brought us here? Because he thinks that’s what we do?”

  “He probably had nowhere else to turn,” Uncle said, sidestepping her question.

  The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and they stepped out into the hallway. “Do we really need to talk about this anymore?” Ava said.

  “No. I will tell them in the morning that we have to turn down their project.”

  “He’s a very powerful man. It isn’t my intention to cause him offence.”

  Uncle shrugged. “Even powerful men need to be reminded now and again that there are things in this world they cannot control or command.”

  (6)

  Ava crawled into bed and lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She found herself thinking about Michael Lee, and fell asleep with her mind full of brothers and sisters she had never met.

  She woke with a start, a ripple of fear running through her belly.

  “I’m sorry to come into your room like this, but I knocked and you didn’t answer,” May Ling said. She was standing about six feet from the bed.

  “My God.” Ava sat up. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Uncle said we’d talk in the morning.”

  “No, I want to talk to you. I don’t want the men involved.”

  “I’m not sure — ”

  “It will take five minutes,” May Ling said. “You’ve come all this way; give me five minutes.”

  Ava turned on the bedside lamp. May Ling had changed from the Chanel suit into black silk pyjamas. Ava looked at the clock on the nightstand; it was almost four a.m. She sat up, ready to move to a chair, but May Ling walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  In the glare of the lamp, Ava could see faint worry lines on her face. “Your husband?”

  “He drank so much with the guests that he could barely get his clothes off before he passed out.”

  “What do you want?” Ava said.

  “Are you always this direct?”

  “I try to be.”

  “Good, me too. It saves time.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “You’re going to turn us down, aren’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. My husband was foolish to talk about revenge. It was disrespectful to you. But this affair has affected him in a way that I can scarcely believe.”

  “Such anger is common.”

  “No, no, this goes well beyond anger. I don’t know where to begin

  … You know — I’m sure you know — he comes from very humble roots. He has virtually no formal education, his reading and writing skills are basic, and when it comes to the financial complications of our business, well, he is strictly a micromanager.”

  “Leaving the macroeconomics to you?”

  “We are a team.”

  “You weren’t always.”

  “No, he started without me and he did very well. He worked twenty hours a day, seven days a week, building a distribution business. It wasn’t big but it brought him in contact with a wide range of people, and he had a talent for making clients like him and trust him. And because he never betrayed a trust, because his word was better than any contract, he became someone who people went to when they wanted to broker a deal but didn’t want to be directly implicated.”

  “Like the military?”

  “Yes, and Customs, and provincial government officials, and city officials. All of them used him, and they still do.”

  “The Emperor of Hubei.”

  “Yes, he is in many ways the line connecting all the dots.”

  “So what does it matter if he bought some fake paintings? No one will think any less of him.”

  “First of all, I am the one who bought them. I did it with his knowledge and approval, but I am the one who hired the dealer, negotiated the terms, and convinced him they were a good investment.”

  “I see.”

  “But they were his paintings, you can be certain of that. He was a bit embarrassed at the beginning, the idea of someone like him collecting fine art and specializing in something as abstract as the Fauvists. He never talked about it with our Chinese friends.”

  “What about the ceramics?”

  “Those? That’s what every successful Chinese businessman or official buys. Old Chinese plates, paintings, sculptures. Those people who were here last night, they all have houses full of them. No, the paintings were different. He was the one who first saw them, and he was the one who — on his own — fell in love with them. They symbolized in his mind what he had become: a man of taste, of culture, a worldly man. They gave him a sense of self-worth
that money alone could never do. And let me tell you, others began to look upon him in that way as well. I can’t begin to guess how many Western diplomats, politicians, and businessmen have been to our house. Every visit starts the same: they expect us to ply them with liquor and food and then — their idea of our culture — sing karaoke with them. Well, we are always good hosts when it comes to food and liquor, but karaoke is for the Japanese and Chinese visitors. Instead we would take the Westerners upstairs to see our collection. Their reaction was always the same: they would be dumbfounded, and then impressed. And whatever opinion they had of my husband would never be the same again. What he especially liked was that many of these people stayed in touch with him because of the art, not the business.”

  “I think I understand a bit better,” Ava said.

  “A bit?”

  “Yes.”

  May’s eyes became more focused. “That’s such a little word. I would have thought my husband’s pain would be clearer to you.”

  “I have had less than fifteen minutes of actual contact with him.”

  “I have tried to explain.”

  “And I haven’t spent that much more time with you.”

  May lowered her head. “It is still a little word,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

  May Ling nodded. “I know I’m going on too much. The thing is, you need to understand how he felt about the paintings so you can understand how devastated he was when he found out about the fakes.”

  “So tell me more.”

  May Ling shifted and then looked up at the ceiling. “He said to me that it was like falling in love with a beautiful woman, courting her for years, falling more and more in love with her every year, until she finally agrees to marry you. Then, on your wedding night, she climbs into bed and you find out she’s a man.” She moved closer to Ava, then reached out and grasped her knee. “All I want you to do is try to find out who did this to him.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I could tell you it’s because I want our money back, and maybe that is part of it, but mainly I need you to do it so I can help my husband get some of his pride back. He hasn’t actually said it to me, but I know he equates those pictures with the image he has of himself. If the paintings are shams, then so is he.”

  “What if no one knows? What if you don’t say a word?”

  “He would know, and that’s all that matters. He’s the kind of man who could never show them to anyone again, because if he lied about them, he would be as fake as they are.”

  “Then let them be.”

  “He won’t have any peace. Someone, some people somewhere have made a fool of him. They took his dream and they mocked him. He is convinced that they talk about him, laugh at him — the Chinese ignoramus in backwater Wuhan spending millions of dollars on fake art.”

  “What if I find someone, or some people, who might be responsible?”

  “Then get back as much money as you can. Let us prosecute them in a proper legal manner and expose them so they can’t do this to anyone again.”

  “Are you just telling me what you think I need to hear?”

  “No, I’m being sincere.”

  “But what about your husband?”

  “We won’t tell him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll do the work for me. I’ll pay you. He doesn’t have to know. If you’re successful, then I’ll tell him.”

  “That’s not how — ”

  “Please,” May Ling said, squeezing Ava’s knee again. “I feel responsible for this calamity that’s fallen on my husband. I found the dealer. I encouraged my husband. I even pushed him at times to buy paintings he thought we should hold off on.”

  “But, Auntie, even if I do this I have to tell Uncle.”

  “I know he’s a man who can keep a secret.”

  “And truthfully, I wouldn’t even know where to start. This is so far out of my area of expertise — ”

  “You can find a way, I know you can. Will you do it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ava, please, I need to absolve myself of the blame for this. Every time I look at my husband I want to cry,” May Ling said, her eyes filling with tears. “Do this for me, please.”

  Ava looked into her face, searching for any hint of insincerity. All she saw was grief. “I still don’t know where to start,” she said.

  “The man from Harrington’s — go and see him. See if he can point you in some direction. I’ll give you everything I have on the art dealer Kwong, his business, his family, his friends. Just spend a few days in Hong Kong and then decide. Do that for me. Just that.”

  Ava sighed. “Okay, I’ll tell you what: I will go to Hong Kong. But that doesn’t mean I’m taking the job.”

  “I’ll pay you anyway.”

  “No, I don’t want anything from you unless we have an actual agreement in place. If I decide to take this job, then you can work out the financial details with Uncle.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You can’t say anything to your husband.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And I’m not making any promises past Hong Kong.”

  “I understand.”

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” Ava said softly. “You should know that I’m not hopeful.”

  May Ling touched Ava’s hand. “My husband was the one who insisted on calling Uncle. When I found out, I was nervous. Uncle hasn’t lived in Wuhan for many years, but people here know all about him. They take pride in a hometown boy doing well, even if his chosen profession doesn’t always sit well with the authorities. I made some phone calls and was told that he had retired from the old business to start a new one, and that there was a young woman working with him whom he admired, a young woman who had special talents. So I told my husband he could invite Uncle here only if you came with him.”

  Ava nodded.

  “They told me you were extraordinarily pretty. I admit I was surprised when I saw you, so plainly dressed, hardly any makeup, simple hair. Not what I expected, but very pretty all the same. When my husband saw you, he said that you reminded him of me when I was younger. I know he meant it as compliment, but no woman likes to be told that she’s aged.”

  “Auntie, you’re beautiful and very elegant.”

  “Stop calling me Auntie. It really does make me feel old.”

  “What should I call you?”

  “May.”

  “May, you are very beautiful and very elegant.”

  She shrugged as if it was something she had heard countless times. “Ava, I would give up everything — everything — if I thought I could undo the harm that has been caused my husband.”

  (7)

  Ava had difficulty getting back to sleep after May Ling left. Changing her mind wasn’t something she did often, and she couldn’t help but feel she had been manipulated at some level. The woman was shrewd, coming to Ava in the middle of the night to share confidences, appealing to her as a woman living in a man’s world. Well, what’s done is done, Ava thought. She had given her word and she would honour it. She’d spend two days in Hong Kong, and if nothing came of it she’d move on.

  Uncle was an early riser, and the door to his room was open when Ava went to see him.

  “Wong Changxing was here an hour ago,” Uncle said. “I told him that we are not going to take the job. Tam is outside waiting to take us to the airport.”

  “May Ling came to my room last night,” Ava said.

  Uncle looked surprised, an infrequent reaction.

  “She begged me to talk to some people in Hong Kong. I said I would.”

  “You want to take the job?”

  “No, I would never agree to anything like that without talking to you first. I just said I would do some investigating for a couple of days, no commitment beyond that. She was very persistent. It was hard to turn her down.”

  “Wong did not mention this to me.”

 
“He doesn’t know, and that’s part of the arrangement. I don’t want him to know; I only want to talk to May Ling. Uncle, if after Hong Kong I think there is something in this, some way to recover money, then you can negotiate our fee with her.”

  “Are you sure she won’t tell him?”

  “If she does, I’m gone. I refuse to be a party to some triad vigilante action.” She regretted the words the moment she had said them.

  “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.