by Ian Hamilton
As the Kowloon banker had said, there had been seventeen wire transfers, and the envelope contained copies of them all. As she expected, fifteen wires had been sent to the Liechtenstein bank. The other two were more interesting. One, for US$100,000, had gone to a bank account in Dublin in the name of N. O’Toole, five years ago; the other, for $20,000, had been sent to a Jan Harald Sorensen in Skagen, Denmark, two weeks after the O’Toole wire.
It was just past nine o’clock in Hong Kong, late afternoon in both Dublin and Skagen. Ava found the Dublin bank’s phone number online and dialled the number. It took her two minutes to work through the prompts and get to a person.
“Hello, my name is Ava Lee. I work at the Kowloon Light Industrial Bank in Hong Kong. We’ve been asked to send a wire transfer to an account at your branch. Before transmitting it I wanted to confirm the account number and the holder’s name.”
“Yes, go on,” a woman replied.
“The account is in the name of N. O’Toole, and the number is 032-6567-4411.”
There was a pause. “You said you were going to send a wire?” the woman asked.
“That was the plan.”
“You should change it. That account was closed three years ago.”
“That’s strange. Mr. O’Toole gave us the number himself.”
A longer pause. “There was no Mr. O’Toole on this account, just a Mrs. O’Toole.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Let me double-check,” the woman said. “Yes, it was Mrs. O’Toole. It’s quite clear.”
“And the N was the first letter of what name?”
“It doesn’t say, and I’m actually surprised that you wouldn’t know at your end. I mean, you’re the one sending the wire.”
“We Chinese aren’t all that good with Western names,” Ava said quickly. “Do you have any information on file that might help me contact Mrs. O’Toole?”
“No.”
Ava started to phrase another question when the line went dead. Maybe the Danes will be more co-operative, she thought, and dialled the number of the bank in Skagen.
She got a live person at the Skagen bank on the second ring. She repeated her story about preparing to send a wire transfer and passed along the account number and the name Jan Harald Sorensen.
“Yes, we can confirm it,” a woman said.
“Would you also have contact information for Mr. Sorensen?” Ava asked. “We normally like to put an address on the wire.”
“No, we can’t give out that type of information.”
“It would — ”
“No, we don’t do it under any circumstances,” the woman said and hung up.
Bankers in Europe aren’t very accommodating, Ava thought. But then, they aren’t connected to Uncle and his network of friends.
She went online and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to find a Jan Harald Sorensen in Skagen, a town with a population of fewer than ten thousand people. She found a number of Sorensens, but no Jan, Harald, J.H., or even J.
She pushed her chair back from the desk and walked over to the window. She had the name of a Liechtenstein bank that wouldn’t talk to her and the names of two people she couldn’t locate. She knew that the bank had some kind of connection to Mrs. O’Toole and Mr. Sorensen, whoever they were. She also knew that it had been directly responsible for setting up the second Great Wall company account at the Kowloon bank, and the money from the forged art sales had flowed to them. Given that the company existed for the sole purpose of selling forged art to the Wongs, it made sense to her that this somehow linked O’Toole and Sorensen to the scam. But how? Ava thought. Were they agents who set up a deal or two? Were they artists? Were they the painters who created the fakes?
Ava caught herself. She went back to the desk and leafed through the wire transfer copies. What it came down to, she finally decided, was that she had to assume that O’Toole and Sorensen were directly linked to the forgeries and were — a big leap in logic, she knew — probably the painters who had been used. It’s the only connection I have to pursue, she thought, as she started to call London.
“Frederick Locke.”
“This is Ava Lee.”
“Ms. Lee, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“Something’s come up,” Ava said. “Do you know an Irish painter from Dublin named O’Toole?”
“Maurice O’Toole?”
“All I have is an initial, N, and I’ve been told the person is female.”
“I don’t know any female artists named O’Toole.”
“I thought it was a bit much to expect.”
“And if it’s Maurice you’re after, he’s been dead for some time.”
“Did he do fakes when he was alive?”
“Not that I know.”
“Are you being circumspect?”
“No, Ms. Lee, I’m not. I’m telling you I have no idea whether Maurice O’Toole painted forgeries or not.”
“Okay,” Ava said. “Now I have another name for you: Jan Harald Sorensen. He’s Danish, I think, and lives in Skagen.”
“Sorry again. I’ve never heard of him, although Skagen does have a very famous art colony, and the fact that I’m not familiar with him doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist and doesn’t paint.”
Ava sighed. “I think I’m just about ready to pack this in. I’m running out of doors to go through.”
“I wish I could be more helpful.”
“I understand, and thanks for taking the time. By the way, if my hunch is right, the two Dufy paintings among those Brian Torrence wants you to authenticate are the real deal.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve found a financial trail that indicates they were purchased like the other three that are genuine.”
“I’ll take a close look at them as soon as I possibly can.”
“Look, if you can think of anything about an O’Toole or a Sorensen, call me on my cell. I think I’ll be leaving Hong Kong tomorrow, but I’d still be interested if you uncovered anything.”
Ava closed her Wong notebook. She doubted it would be opened again. Liechtenstein wasn’t going to give her the information she wanted. She had a dead Kwong and a dead O’Toole, and that left her with exactly one lead. If she wanted to pursue it she would have to fly to Denmark and tromp around Skagen looking for someone named Jan Harald Sorensen, and if she found him, she had to hope he actually was an artist. That was too small a needle in too big a haystack.
She opened her laptop and emailed her travel agent, telling her to book the next day’s Cathay Pacific flight to Toronto. Then she let Mimi and Maria know she was heading back to Toronto. Maria answered immediately. I’ll meet you at the airport.
Yes, I’d like that, Ava replied.
Before turning off the computer she wrote to her father. She asked how the cruise was proceeding, told him that the Wuhan job wasn’t going to materialize, and then, almost as an afterthought, wrote, I met Michael at dim sum yesterday. He looks very much like you, and acted very much like you. It felt strange even writing his name.
She wasn’t sure what time she had fallen asleep but she knew it was just past two a.m. when she woke, the digital clock glowing next to the phone that rocked her into consciousness. “Ava Lee,” she said.
“This is Frederick Locke. I’m sorry for calling so late, but I knew you were going to be travelling and I thought you’d want to know what I’d found out before you left.”
“Found out?”
“The two paintings by Dufy — I think you were correct. I had a quick, intense look at the provenance and it seems to hang together.”
“That’s good. I’m sure the Wongs will be pleased.”
“And while I was looking into that, I had one of my assistants do some research on your O’Toole and your Sorensen.”
“And?”
“I had her check into Maurice O’Toole, and it emerges that he was married to a woman named Nancy. She managed his business affairs befor
e he died.”
“Did she locate Nancy?”
“Yes, she died three years ago.”
Ava groaned. “Great. Everyone I need to talk to is dead.”
“The thing is, my assistant also said that Maurice was known to do a bit of funny stuff now and then. The idea of his painting some fakes isn’t out of the question.”
“How could I confirm that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they have children?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a long shot that any records still exist.”
“I agree.”
“One more dead end, pardon the pun.”
“Don’t be gloomy. We haven’t talked about Sorensen yet.”
Ava detected a touch of excitement in Locke’s voice, and whatever disappointment she felt vanished. “I’m listening,” she said.
“My assistant thought the name sounded vaguely familiar and went hunting through some Danish art databases. The reason we couldn’t find Jan Harald Sorensen is that he paints and sells under the name Jimmy Sandman.”
“Strange name.”
“Strange man. The name was originally a nickname his Skagen colleagues pinned on him because of his habit of scouring the beach every morning for driftwood, which he used to paint on. His paintings were focused on the seas and beaches around Skagen and were filled with repetitive characters: a Lutheran minister in his religious garb, a black-haired woman with bright red nipples, and a mournful clown-type character that was his take on himself. He is very, very talented, but limited in imagination and range.”
“Is he alive?”
“Well, there’s no record of his passing.”
“Is he in Skagen?”
“I have no idea.”
She began to weigh her options. “Is he talented enough to have done at least some of the forgeries?”
Locke didn’t respond right away, which pleased Ava. He was at least taking it seriously.
“I think he is,” he said.
“What else can you tell me about him? Age? Any physical description? Married?”
“Definitely married. He has seven children with a woman named Helga. Age, mid-forties. How does he look? Well, in the photo I have, he has a thin, rakish beard that runs around a very ample jawline. He is a rather plump man.”
“The data you have, what does it say about his residence?”
“Skagen, but the information is old. He could have had two more children, gained another twenty pounds, and moved to Norway by now.”
“Is Jimmy Sandman his legal name?”
“I think it is.”
“You think?”
“It does say he changed his name, but I have no idea if he actually did it in the formal sense.”
“Are you always this careful?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good, I like that,” Ava said.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
(13)
She tried to get back to sleep and did manage to log half an hour here and there, but her mind was too active to sustain her slumber. She had been one phone call away from catching her flight to Toronto, and now she was locked in an internal debate about whether to go there or head to Denmark.
After the call from Locke, Ava had gone online to research Jimmy Sandman. She found most of the material that Locke’s assistant had uncovered, but not what she was really looking for — an address, a phone number, anything that could help her actually locate him.
Knowing he was already up, Ava phoned Uncle at six thirty and explained to him what she had found.
“It sounds flimsy,” he said.
“I know, but it’s all I have. Kwong’s dead, the O’Tooles are dead, and there’s no chance of getting anything out of Liechtenstein. The only path I can see is through this Sandman.”
“And you are not even sure he was involved.”
She had thought about that during her restless night. “No, I am sure, actually. It makes too much sense not to be true. Why would the numbered company wire money to O’Toole and Sorensen otherwise?”
“They did it just once.”
“I know, but there had to be a reason for that as well.”
“You sound as if you are trying to talk yourself into going to Denmark.”
“Uncle, even with the genuine paintings factored out, we’re looking at a seventy-million-dollar fraud here. I’m trying to convince myself that I have a chance to recover some of it.”
“And this Sandman is the link?”
“The only one I have, but I think he’s a good one. And if I can get to him, I’ll convince him to lead us directly to the people who orchestrated this.”
“Then I think it is worth pursuing. It should not take more than two or three days, and it will show Wong May Ling that you have taken your commitment to her seriously.”
“Seriously enough that I’m going to phone her in a few hours and tell her it’s time she called you to settle on a fee.”
“You are that confident?”
“No, of course not. You know I don’t take things for granted. But on the chance that I can get some money back, I want to have an agreement in place. It’s just good business, and May Ling knows all about good business.”
“When will you leave?”
“Today. I just need to put a flight schedule together. I have no idea how to get from here to there. My agent is still up, so I’m going to contact her when I hang up with you.”
“Let me know your schedule. We will take you to the airport.”
Ava had been using the same travel agent for years, and even in the age of online bookings she liked the assurance of having someone cover her back if she ran into problems. Squabbling with airlines was not on her list of favourite activities. She emailed her new destination and asked for options.
Half an hour later she had a reply. She couldn’t get to Skagen by air; the closest airport was Aalborg, about an hour’s drive away. Every schedule to Aalborg involved at least two stops, and all of them landed her via the same local carrier at 11:20 the following night, so it came down to airline and airport preference. She opted for Lufthansa and a Hong Kong-Frankfurt-Copenhagen-Aalborg route because it was a few hours’ less flying time.
Ava told her agent to book the flight, check her into an Aalborg airport hotel, and rent a car for her for the following day.
She phoned Uncle. “My flight is at one forty. Could you pick me up at eleven?”
“We will be there.”
She made herself a cup of Starbucks VIA instant coffee and collected the South China Morning Post that was waiting for her at the door. Iran. Afghanistan. Pakistan. North Korea. Thailand in some kind of upheaval again. On the cruise she hadn’t missed reading about any of it.
She thought about going for a run, but a quick look outside negated that idea. The sky was dark, the rain pelting down sideways as it crossed Victoria Harbour. Instead she emailed Mimi, Maria, and her father to let them know about her change in travel plans. She knew Maria would be disappointed and would start to worry again, so she stressed the urgency of the business that kept her away from Canada.
At ten o’clock she called May Ling on her direct office line. Briefing clients was a tricky business. Uncle believed it was always best to under-inform, to keep expectations to a minimum. If anything, Ava was even more closed.
“Ava, I was hoping to hear from you.”
“I’m leaving Hong Kong in a few hours. I have a small lead I’m following up on.”
“Where are you going?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Does it have anything to do with the banking information I gave you?”
“That was very helpful, thanks.”
“You must be making progress of some kind.”
“Actually, we managed to confirm that two more of your paintings are genuine. Someone from Harrington’s will probably contact you today with the details.”
“That d
oesn’t have anything to do with your leaving?”
“No,” Ava said. “I have a small lead I have to follow up on. And I want to repeat the word small. It may come to absolutely nothing.”
“When will you know?”
“A couple of days.”
“And if it comes to something?”
“It would be a piece of the puzzle, nothing more than that. Certainly nothing conclusive.”
“And you can’t tell me?”
“It’s better if I don’t. There are too many ifs attached to it.”
“And if it comes to nothing?”
“Then my work for you is done.”
“I hope not.”
Me too, Ava thought, and then said, “I’ll call you when I know something definite.”
She was packing her bags when she got a call from the lobby. Uncle was early. She quickly organized the rest of her things and rode the elevator to the lobby, where Uncle was waiting for her.
“I spoke to May Ling and told her about the other two paintings being genuine,” she said as the car eased out of Central.
“What was her reaction?”
“Hardly enthusiastic.”
“The fakes are weighing more heavily on them.”
“I also told her I was leaving Hong Kong, but I didn’t say where or why.”
“Wise.”
“I also think you shouldn’t call her about our fee — she’ll read too much into that. Let’s wait until I see what happens in Denmark. There’s no point in even talking about money unless I can find this Sandman.”
“I agree.”
“I arrive late tomorrow night, their time, so I won’t know anything until the next day at the earliest. Have you been to Denmark?”
“No. They make good beer — that is all I know,” Uncle said. “I do not imagine we have any people there, but I will see who is close by.”
“I don’t think I’ll need any people. These are artists and art agents and galleries I’m dealing with.”
“You never know.”
(14)
It reminded her of Vancouver — the Aalborg weather, that is. Cold, damp, lingering. It had been wet when she arrived the night before on the Cimber Sterling flight from Copenhagen, and it was the same in the morning as she rode a taxi back to the airport to get her rental car. The airport had been deserted and the rental booths shuttered when her flight arrived, so she had taxied to the Hotel Hvide Hus, where she spent most of the night wide awake, wondering exactly what she expected to find in Skagen.