“Our collection was already impressive and, more important, we loved it. My husband started every day with tea, hot and dry noodles, and time alone in the room with the paintings. But he was never really comfortable with the Monet Water Lilies because it was clearly Impressionist. About six weeks ago we decided to sell it. We had no idea how to go about this, so I called Harrington’s auction house in Hong Kong and told them what we wanted to do. They sent an appraiser here to look at it.”
“A tall gweilo with no manners and bad teeth,” Wong Changxing said.
“He was just doing his job,” May Ling said. “He spent more than two hours with the painting and then he spent another two hours on his laptop. When he was finished, he told us he thought the Monet was a fake.”
“How did he know?” Uncle asked.
“There was no record of it. It had never been catalogued anywhere. And when he checked the provenance, it was fictitious,” she said.
“Do you understand this?” Uncle said to Ava.
“Some of it.”
“What did you do?” Uncle asked May Ling.
“I asked him to look at our other paintings.”
“He did?”
“He spent close to a week here. I never knew just how much detail they go into, and how much detail is available.”
“What was the outcome?”
“He was certain that ten other paintings were fakes, three were probably genuine, and the rest were problematic.”
“What did you do?”
“We gave him a cheque for eighty thousand Hong Kong dollars and asked him not to say anything to anyone until we had a chance to investigate.”
“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.
