Ava rode the elevator to the fourth floor. When she approached the receptionist’s desk, she was told that Mr. Po would be with her shortly. No more than five minutes later, a small, trim man in his sixties came through a door behind the desk with a file folder in his hand. Ava gave him her finest smile. “I’m so sorry to bother you with this, and thank you for being so efficient,” she said.
“It isn’t a bother,” he said, “but there isn’t much I can do for you.”
“You don’t have their tax records?”
“Where was the company located?” Po asked.
Ava took out her notebook. “Kau U Fong Road, in Lan Kwai Fong.”
“Yes, that’s the one,” he said, looking at the computer printout in the file folder.
“So you have their tax records?”
“Of course, but as I said, there isn’t anything I can do for you. The records are confidential.”
“My client in Canada is having a terrible time with the tax department there. We believe that Great Wall’s tax records will help to resolve those problems. Even if I could just spend ten minutes with them, in your presence, it might help. I’m not asking to take copies of any documents.” She saw that he was considering her suggestion, and she pressed. “I would sign any confidentiality agreement or any other form you think necessary.”
“No, it just won’t work,” he said. “Our rules are quite strict and I won’t bend them.”
“Well, could you at least help us, and the Canadian tax department, by telling me who filed the returns for Great Wall? I’m sure they used an accounting firm here in Hong Kong. If I could get the name of the company I could contact them directly and see if they retained copies. We wouldn’t be doing all this if Mr. Kwong’s heirs hadn’t so stupidly destroyed the company records after the business was closed.”
Po opened his file again. “They should have kept the records for seven years,” he said.
“I know.”
“There’s a name here.”
“Please.”
He hesitated, and she knew he was searching his mind for the rules. “I’m not asking you to breach any confidence,” Ava said. “You aren’t telling me anything that would compromise the integrity of Inland Revenue.”
“Miss, you cannot tell them that we provided you with this information.”
“Most certainly not,” she said.
“Great Wall used Landmark Accounting. They have their offices in Landmark Plaza,” he said.
She called Uncle on her way out of the building. “It’s Ava. Could you please make some calls for me and see if you can get someone at Landmark Accounting in Landmark Plaza to co-operate with us? They were the accounting firm for the dealer who worked with the Wongs. I need access to some of his old tax records.”
“I think we do have a contact there. How is it going?”
“I’m learning a lot about art forgeries but not much else.”
She took a taxi back to the Mandarin Oriental. It was late afternoon and jet lag was beginning to get to her. She decided she needed a run, and the day was so pleasant that going outdoors seemed ideal. When she got to her room, she put on her running gear and headed back out, walking to the MTR station at Central. It wasn’t rush hour yet so she managed to get on the first train that arrived. Ava got off at the Causeway Bay station, right across from the park.
Ava loved urban parks, and Victoria was one of her favourites. Only nineteen hectares — less than one- twentieth the size of New York’s Central Park — it was the sole piece of green space she knew of in Hong Kong. In a city of seven million people, where space was at such a premium and ninety-nine percent of the population lived in apartments, Victoria Park was a sanctuary. She had tried running there some mornings but found it tough. The jogging trail was only six hundred metres long and not that wide, and there were so many people that she couldn’t run fast enough to break a sweat. Weekends were worse. In addition to the weekday morning mix of tai chi practitioners, people with their caged birds, ballroom dancers, walkers, joggers, lawn bowlers, and tennis and badminton players, there were various protest groups, public forums, exhibits, and a large Indonesian nanny population that congregated there every Sunday, leaving Statue Square in Central to the Filipino yaya s.
Ava’s guess was that a weekday late afternoon might work, and when she got to the park there was hardly a soul using the trail. She ripped off six quick laps, the jet lag receding as her adrenalin surged. She found herself gazing at the apartment buildings and office towers that surrounded the park on three sides and the web of highway overpasses on the fourth. She knew that beyond the overpasses was Causeway Bay, where sampans bobbed at the pier. She couldn’t see it but she could smell exhaust fumes from the late-afternoon traffic.
The MTR was getting busy as she returned to the station. She was sweating profusely when she boarded the train, and the other passengers gave her some space.
When she got back to the hotel she showered and changed into a clean bra and underwear, a clean black Giordano T-shirt, and a pair of Adidas training pants. She turned on her laptop for the first time that day. Nothing from the Caribbean cruisers — that was good. Not much to do with business — also good. An email from Maria that was almost too full of love. The days are too long. This past week has felt like a month. My bed is cold and too large for me alone. Hurry home, she wrote. While Ava liked the fact that she was being missed, she was troubled that Maria seemed so needy. She clicked on an email from Mimi that was even more unsettling. Thought I’d let you know that things are moving more quickly with Derek than I could have imagined. Love the man. Just love him to death. I’m going to sell my condo, I think. We’re talking about buying a place together. In fact, we’ve started looking. What next? Ava wondered. A wedding? Children? Her thoughts were interrupted by her cellphone. “Ava Lee.”
“Brian Torrence.”
“Thanks for calling so promptly.”
“I spoke with Locke. Write down this number: it’s his direct line. He said you can call anytime.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Enough to have dinner with me?”
“I told you, I can’t make it this evening.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure I’m going to be here.”
“How about tentatively?”
“Okay, tell you what, if I’m here I’ll call you,” she said.
“Brilliant.”
Ava hung up and checked the time. It was mid-morning in London. She dialled Frederick Locke’s number.
“This is Frederick Locke.”
“Thank you for taking my call,” she said. “This is Ava Lee. Brian Torrence gave me your number.”
“Brian tells me you’re poking into this fake painting mess he’s uncovered.”
“ Poking is probably the right word. I don’t know enough to manage it intelligently.”
“Well, it does get a bit complicated, and I don’t pretend to know everything myself.”
“Brian explained to me how the forgers work and said that you’re familiar with some of them. I was wondering if you had any idea who might have done these paintings.”
Locke chuckled. “I don’t have the foggiest.”
“No idea at all?”
“They don’t exactly advertise their services. Those that are known usually pack it in after they’re identified.”
“Brian thought it was probably one person who painted all the fakes.”
“I would agree with that.”
“How does that work from a business viewpoint?”
“What do you mean?”
“The painter obviously wasn’t selling directly to my clients,” she said.
“Of course not. He or she would have worked through a gallery or an agent.”
“And produced the works to order?”
“Probably not specifically, I would think. I mean, I can’t imagine the agent saying, ‘Give me a Monet Water Lilies.’ He might say, ‘Give me a Monet, two Derains, and a Matisse,’ and then let the artist sort it out.”
“For a fee?”
