had with Helga Sorensen came to mind, along with something Frederick Locke had just said to her. She headed back to the hotel.
When she got back to her room, she wrapped a towel around her shoulders, pulled out the Chelsea- Kensington phone-book, and looked up George McIntyre, the lawyer she had dealt with on her last trip to London.
The receptionist put her on hold. Ava hoped he remembered her and would take the call.
“Well, well. Is this the Ms. Lee who gets phone calls from the Prime Minister’s Office?” McIntyre said.
“Yes, Mr. McIntyre. Thank you for remembering me, and thank you for taking my call.”
“Would you believe me if I told you I was afraid not to?”
“No.”
“Well, rightly so. I’m just surprised to hear from you and curious as to why.”
“I’m calling on business.”
“Roger Simmons again, or has Jeremy Ashton been acting up?”
“No, different. I’d like you to do something for me, for a fee, of course.”
“And what is that?”
“There is — was, rather — an Irish painter by the name of Maurice O’Toole. He died about five years ago. He was married to a woman named Nancy, who died about three years ago. They had no children but there had to be an estate. Could you possibly find out for me if there was one, and if so, who inherited it?”
“That’s all the information you have?”
“That’s it.”
“What part of Ireland? That does matter.”
“Dublin.”
“It may take a little time.”
“Can you get back to me today?”
“Ms. Lee, you are always in such a rush. The last time you were here we papered an agreement in a matter of hours when it normally takes days.”
“I’ll double your fee if you can get me the information today.”
“You don’t know what my fee is.”
“I don’t care. I know it will be fair.”
“All right, let me work on it.”
“Thank you so much. You can call me on my cellphone or at my room at the Fletcher Hotel.”
Ava jumped into the shower and took her time washing her hair. She spent another ten minutes drying it. When she came out of the bathroom, her room phone was blinking. It was George McIntyre, asking her to call him back.
“The person you want to talk to is Helen Byrne,” McIntyre said. “She inherited everything Nancy O’Toole had. She lives in Donabate, a large village or small town — whichever you prefer — on the Irish coast about twenty kilometres northeast of Dublin.”
“That is remarkably fast work.”
“Not really. They’re very well organized over there; all it took was one phone call. A colleague in a Dublin firm, an old schoolmate of mine, found Nancy O’Toole in the death register and the law firm that handled her estate, all while I was still on the line.”
“Do you have an actual address for her, a phone number?”
“Write this down,” McIntyre said, giving her the information.
“Is she a relative?”
“I wasn’t told.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. McIntyre. How much do I owe you?”
“Not a thing.”
“Please, I insist on paying you.”
“No, I would rather have you owing me a favour.”
“And I would rather pay.”
“Your owing me a favour is worth more to me.”
“Done,” she said.
Ava hung up the phone and threw on a clean black Giordano T-shirt. She picked up her cellphone, checked the incoming call list, and saw a Chinese area code. May Ling Wong.
She sat on the edge of the bed and dialled Helen Byrne’s number. If this didn’t work out, then Ava’s next calls would most certainly be to Uncle and May Ling.
“Ms. Byrne, my name is Ava Lee. I’m calling you about Nancy O’Toole and Maurice O’Toole.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, you most certainly don’t, and I apologize for calling out of the blue like this.”
“What kind of name is Lee?”
“Chinese.”
“You don’t sound Chinese.”
“I’m Canadian.”
“I have a brother who lives in Canada, in Hamilton.”
“Hamilton is quite close to the city I live in.”
“What is it you want with Nancy?” Helen said with some force.
“I understand you inherited her estate.”
“I’m her sister. We were close all our lives.”
“It must have been difficult, her dying so young and so soon after Maurice.”
“Cancer is a terrible thing.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Now you still haven’t told me what you want with Nancy.”
“It’s actually Maurice I’m more interested in.”
“That useless piece of shit?”
“Yes, him.”
“I never understood what my sister saw in him, never. He didn’t work a day in his life, just painting, smoking, and drinking. He didn’t womanize, thank God, but I always said that was because no other woman wanted anything to do with him.”
“Still, your sister obviously loved him.”
“She did that.”
“And he did make some money.”
“Oh, the last few years weren’t so bad for that. He left her comfortable, though a lot of good it did her. She died of lung cancer, poor girl, and she never smoked a day in her life. It was second-hand smoke, the doctor said, that killed her. I always thought it was Maurice’s way of reaching out to her from the grave.”
“I’m not fond of smokers myself,” Ava said, trying to find some common ground.
“Well, they’ve passed all these new laws here. You can hardly smoke anywhere outside your own house.”
“Canada is the same.”
Helen paused. “What is it you want with Maurice, then?” she finally asked.
“I’m trying to trace some paintings he did for a client of mine. I was wondering if he left any records behind and if Nancy kept any of them, maybe passed them down to you.”
“I’ve got a shed full of it.”
“Pardon?”
“My garden shed is stuffed with his boxes and things.”
“You’re serious?”
“Nancy couldn’t bear to part with his things after he died. She hung on to it all. She lived here with me and kept it in the shed. I just haven’t bothered getting rid of it.”
“Do you know what’s in those boxes?”
“Paper.”
