The wild beast of Wuhan al-3

by Ian Hamilton

  “Have you told May Ling?”

  “No, and I’m not going to.”

  “Probably best.”

  “Uncle, I need you to call the accountant to organize a wire transfer. It’s for forty thousand U.S.”

  “When do you want it sent?”

  Ava looked at Helga and Jan huddled together at the dining room table, he writing intently as she read from various files. They were going to give her what she wanted. “Send it now and get him to scan the wire confirmation and email it to me.”

  “I will have it done… Are you getting close?”

  “Maybe once removed.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  “I will,” she said.

  She hung up and pulled her notebook from the bag. She opened it to the page where she had listed the paintings. If she was correct in her assumption, Sorensen had started painting the fakes five years ago. The Wongs had stopped buying two years ago. During the three-year gap, they had bought seven paintings that Torrence thought were fakes. Those paintings were what she expected to see on Sorensen’s statement.

  Helga came into the living room with Jan in tow. He looked sheepish, like a kid who had been caught doing something naughty. “Here,” she said, thrusting the papers at Ava.

  Six paintings were named, the last six, in the exact order in which the Wongs had purchased them. Sorensen had been paid ten thousand dollars for each one. She turned to the second page and saw the name Glen Hughes, with a London address.

  “How did this Hughes find you?” Ava asked.

  “Through Maurice O’Toole,” Helga said. Her husband nodded in agreement.

  “We got a letter from Maurice when we were still in Skagen,” Helga continued. “He said he had been doing some work for a dealer and that he was going to have to give it up. They were looking for a replacement and he wanted to give them Jan’s name. He wanted to make sure we were okay with it.”

  “How did Jan know O’Toole?”

  “They went to art school together and kept in touch afterwards. They had a lot in common, Maurice and him, both of them drawn to water, to seascapes.”

  “And they could both copy.”

  “Of course, it was part of their training. Jan told me he and Maurice spent many hours in galleries copying the masters. They were at the top of their class. When they graduated, they went their separate ways but always kept in touch with letters and cards. Jan had some success in Skagen but poor Maurice could not find a market for his work and became very frustrated, bitter. That is when he started to play around with forgeries. It was just a way to make a living, to get by until his own work made its mark. He wrote to Jan about it — that was before he started on the Fauvists. He developed quite a reputation, he did, in some parts of the art world. It wasn’t surprising that those people sought him out when they decided to concentrate on Fauvist art.”

  “So why did he give it up?”

  Jan spoke, his eyes welling. “He was dying — brain cancer.”

  “Did you know that around the same time you got your first ten thousand dollars, O’Toole’s wife was sent a hundred thousand?”

  “No. How would I know that?” she said.

  “Why do you think it was sent?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. We were happy to get ten. It bought us this house. It got us out of Skagen.”

  “How did Jan and this Hughes person connect?”

  “Maurice wrote to Jan and explained his problem. He knew we were hard up for money and he thought Jan could pick up the assignment. That’s when Hughes wrote to us.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Hughes came to Skagen to meet Jan. He brought one of Maurice’s Fauvist paintings with him and asked Jan to duplicate it. It took him only two days. Hughes asked us to take over the project when he saw the result.”

  “Did he explain what the project was? I mean, you knew you were doing something that was probably illegal. Weren’t you curious about what he was doing with the paintings?”

  “We didn’t care.”

  “No curiosity at all?”

  “You have to understand how hard it was for us in Skagen. We lived hand-to-mouth, we never had enough money, and I was tired of Jan begging his brother for loans. We didn’t care what Hughes was doing with the paintings as long as he kept paying us ten thousand for each one.”

  Ava could hardly imagine what it would be like to care for seven children. “How did Jan decide what to paint?” she asked.

  “Hughes would write and suggest an artist, maybe a theme, and then leave it to him.”

  “You sent him the paintings?”

  “Yes, to London.”

  “Did Jan sign them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you meet Hughes, Mrs. Sorensen?”

  “Yes, that one time in Skagen.”

  “What kind of man is he?”

  “I didn’t like him.”

  “Why not?”

  Jan Sorensen was shifting uncomfortably, his eyes on the floor.

  “He was one of those overly polite people, the kind who knows he’s better than you and lets you know it by talking down to you. And he was too friendly, saying how wonderful our family was when I knew he didn’t mean it, and talking about what a great partnership he and Maurice had, and how he was sure he and Jan would be great mates. That’s the word he used, mates.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He is a tall man, a full head above Jan. He’s thin, bony, his face is long and pointy, and his eyes I found very strange.”

  “His eyes?”

  “Yes, they were so close to his nose, pressing in, almost running into each other. When he looked at me, I had the sensation that he had one big eye instead of two like the rest of us. But one eye or two, he still looked sneaky.”

  “He kept his word, though?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He always paid you in full, on time?”

  “He did.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “It was almost two years ago. He wrote to say he had terminated his agreement with the person buying the Fauvist art and that he was going to have to stop buying from us. We wrote back saying there had to be a market somewhere for the forgeries, and that if he wanted, Jan could paint in other styles. He responded by saying that we misunderstood the nature of the commission — that he wasn’t in the business of selling forgeries, that the customer he had was knowingly buying fakes. He said they loved the Fauvists, couldn’t afford originals, and were very happy to hang Maurice’s and Jan’s interpretations. He underlined interpretations.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Was it true?” she asked. “What Hughes said about the customer?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if it was true,” Ava said.

  Helga looked at her husband. “I told you it was a lie,” she said, then turned to Ava. “My husband is too trusting at times. He believed that story.”

  “Have you heard from Hughes since?”

  “No, and we wrote to him twice, and to the gallery. No answer.”

  “Did you keep his letters?”

  “All of them.”

  “Can I get the one he sent two years ago to end your relationship?”

  “I’m not sure — ” Helga began.

  “I’ll make a photocopy. You can keep the original.”

  “I think that will be okay.”

  “Good. Why don’t you get it for me.”

  Helga returned with a fistful of letters. “I thought you might as well have the other ones too, the ones asking him to paint this guy and that guy.”

  “Do you want to walk down to the hotel with me?” Ava said.

  “Why not?”

  Jan Sorensen sat quietly as his wife got her coat. He’s like a child, Ava thought, one of those men who can’t survive without a strong woman. And Helga fit that bill.


  Helga reappeared with a coat and a Burberry umbrella that was ratty even for a fake. “I shouldn’t be long,” she said to Jan.

  He stood and walked with them to the door. “Excuse me, but do you still want some of my paintings?” he said to Ava.

  “Jan, the business is done,” his wife said.

  “But last night she said — ”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a painting,” Ava said. “The thing is, I don’t want to take it with me.”

  “We’ll send it,” he said.

  Ava gave her business card to Helga. “Send it to this address. Choose any painting you want and send me an invoice.”

  Helga glanced at her husband and then turned to Ava. “I see no need for an invoice.”

  Ava smiled. “Thank you.”

  They walked down the hill side by side, Helga’s arm linked with Ava’s for support. She outweighed Ava at least two to one and wasn’t completely steady in a pair of shoes with small heels. Helga kept glancing left and right, as if anxious about who was observing them, or maybe hoping that someone would see her walking side by side with the exotic young Chinese woman.

  The same man was behind the desk at the hotel, and he nodded as they walked into the lobby. “Can I use the office again?” Ava asked.

  “Sure.”

  Ava went into the office with Helga. She sat at the computer and signed on while Helga hung over her shoulder.

  “Do you know how to use a photocopier?” Ava asked.

  “No,” Helga said.

  Ava took one of the letters and placed it face down on the glass. She pointed to the copy button and hit it. “That’s all you have to do,” she said.

  While Helga copied the letters, Ava checked in to her email. The wire had been sent. She opened the attachment and pressed print. “Your money has been sent already,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Helga said, focused on the photocopier.

  It was just past nine o’clock — three a.m. in Toronto — and Ava knew there was no way she could reach her travel agent. She logged on to the Atlantic Airways site and searched for a flight that would get her to London. There was a 2:45 p.m. flight from Vagar to Copenhagen that would connect with a Cimber Sterling flight to Gatwick, getting her into London just before nine in the evening. “I’m thinking I would like to leave today,” she said, pulling the copy of the wire confirmation from the printer and handing it to Helga, “but if you want to me stay until the money is in your bank account, I will.”

  Helga read the document and said, “You can go.”

  Ava booked the flights and then looked for a hotel. The Hughes Gallery was on Church Street in Kensington. Two months earlier, while on the job for Tommy Ordonez, the Filipino billionaire, she had been in that exact area, at the Fletcher Hotel, and had enjoyed its proximity to Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. It was right on the High Street, directly across from the gardens, and a short walk from Church Street. The room rate was 235 pounds a night — Hong Kong Peninsula Hotel rates. She clicked onto their website and reserved a room.

  Glen Hughes had written to the Sorensens on gallery stationery. The letterhead listed a phone number and a general email address. Ava punched the number into her cellphone. A woman’s voice answered, “Hughes Gallery.”

  Well, it’s still open for business, Ava thought. “Could I speak to Mr. Hughes, please?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t arrive until ten.”

  “Do you expect him today?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what is your closing hour?”

  “We’re open from nine to six every day but Sunday.”

  Ava hung up and returned to the computer. She drafted an email saying that she was the representative for a Hong Kong-based art collector and was in London on a scouting expedition. She asked to drop by the gallery at eleven o’clock the next morning to meet with Mr. Hughes. She sent the email without much optimism. If there was no response, she’d phone again when she got to London, or if necessary make a cold-call visit.

  Helga had finished making the copies and bundled the letters together. She handed Ava her set. “I want to say that I’m very thankful for the money. I just need you to understand that I am still concerned that Jan’s name doesn’t get dragged through the mud because of this. He is a good man and a good painter, and we are forever hopeful that he will find an audience for his own work.”

  “I will do everything I can to protect his reputation,” Ava said.

  She walked Helga to the hotel door and stood outside in the drizzle, watching the stout woman make her ascent up the hill. After ten steps or so, Helga turned, smiled, and waved. Ava felt a touch of guilt as she waved back. The truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she would be able to keep Jan Sorensen’s name secure.

  When she returned to the hotel, the front desk had been abandoned. She saw that the man who had been there was now in the office, using the computer. She stared at his back, willing him to see her and voluntarily give it up. He ignored her. “Will you be long?” she finally asked.

  “A few hours,” he said.

  “Could you book me a taxi for the airport?”

  “What time?”

  “My flight is at two forty-five.”

  “I’ll have a taxi here for one,” he said.

  In her room, she went through the letters from Hughes to Sorensen. The last one was a completely self-serving, cover-your-tracks kind of letter. The others were more straightforward, each one asking Sorensen if he could do a work “in the style of” a specific artist. The first four comprised a list of most of the Fauvists — Dufy, Vlaminck, Derain, Braque — while the last two wanted repeats of Vlaminck. There was never a hint that Hughes was engaged in anything shady, although in the letter requesting another Vlaminck he did mention that the customer had been absolutely thrilled with the latest work.

  Ava pulled out her notebook and recapped the morning’s meeting. She then slid the letters inside the Moleskine notebook and placed it in her Shanghai Tang Double Happiness bag. She lay on the bed. The sheets still smelled of Nina’s perfume. The scent was a bit raw, like Nina herself. She thought about calling Uncle and then dismissed the idea. She had nothing new to add, just a name. And until she met with Glen Hughes, that’s all it was — a name.

  (18)

  Ava fought her way out of Gatwick Airport to catch the express train to Victoria Station, and then she fought her way through the station to catch the tube to Kensington High Street. It was close to ten o’clock when she finally walked into fresh air, air that was as cold and damp as in Skagen or Tjorn. Curacao seemed a long way away. She was happy she had worn one of her Johanna av Steinum sweaters, sweaters that she liked so much she had bought one each for Mimi and Maria at the Vagar shop before leaving.

  From the station she had a short walk, past a Marks amp; Spencer and a Whole Foods, along the High Street to the hotel.

  Ava was relieved to check in and get to her room. It was a spectacular modern blend of black, red, and white — sparse, functional, yet still somehow luxurious. A bottle of chilled mineral water and a bowl of fresh fruit were on the coffee table, accompanied by a welcoming note from the hotel administration.

  She was hungry, and called the front desk. The concierge informed her that the main restaurant was still open. She quickly unpacked and then got two laundry bags from the closet. She put the black Brooks Brothers shirt and cotton slacks in the first bag, and in the other the laundry bag from Aalborg with her running gear. She carried the bags downstairs and deposited them at the front desk. “Is there any way I could get these back early tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Is nine a.m. soon enough?” the desk clerk said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ava said, pleased with the five-star service.

  She walked into the Fletcher’s dining room and was immediately led to a seat. She ordered sauteed langoustines with crab tortellini in a shellfish bisque as a starter, and pan-fried black bream with truffle mashed potatoes as her main. Everything came in ra
pid succession; she barely had time to drink half her bottle of white burgundy. She took the balance back to her room in an ice bucket.

  She turned on her laptop; there were more than twenty new emails in her inbox. She quickly deleted the spam, skipped reading any she didn’t think were urgent, and then opened the three she had received from Mimi, her father, and Maria.

  Mimi’s was, as usual, filled with the trivia of her life, but when Ava neared the end, her interest spiked. Derek and I have decided that both our condos must go. He wanted to keep his because his father bought it for him as an investment, but I don’t want him to have a place to bolt to if things don’t work out. He’s agreed. Happy me! So we start out on a level footing. I have two real estate agents scouring the midtown area for a house. I really like the area between Bayview Avenue and Mount Pleasant Road, south of Eglinton. Lots of young professionals with kids and dogs and nannies.

  Ava couldn’t imagine either Mimi or Derek in that environment. But then, she hadn’t ever contemplated that they could be a couple. Ava also noted that Mimi wasn’t asking for her opinion.

  In the last paragraph of the email, Mimi mentioned Maria. Ava paled as she read, Maria and I had lunch yesterday. She told me that her mother is flying in from Bogota for a Toronto holiday. She says she wants to introduce you to her mother but she’s not really sure how you would react to that idea. She also said she wasn’t sure how her mother would react, but that it was time to find out.

  Introduce me as what? Ava thought. The last thing she wanted was to get caught between Maria and her mother. Ava had never discussed her own sexuality with Jennie Lee, and she kept her personal life and her friends private. Jennie knew, of course, about Ava’s sexual orientation and from time to time made vague references, but it was a subject they’d never directly broached and never would, just as Ava never pried into Jennie’s relationship with Marcus. Neither woman needed explanations, and the respect and love they had for each other were absolute.

  I don’t think meeting her mother is a great idea, Ava wrote to Mimi. Then she turned to Maria’s email. It mentioned the lunch and the possibility of Derek and Mimi selling their condos, and then simply said, And by the way, my mother is thinking about coming to Toronto for a short holiday. Ava didn’t know how to reply, and decided not to for the time being.