by Ian Hamilton
“So what does Locke want to do?” she asked.
“He has now agreed that for the good of the firm, my reputation, and the peace of mind of our clients, the best course of action is to ignore the fact that the forgeries exist. I call it our strategy of blissful ignorance.”
“And Locke thinks I’m the only person who can upset that,” she said.
“Precisely, which is why I need you to come to London as soon as possible.”
“And what am I going to do in London?”
“Internally, we have kept this strictly between Frederick and myself. I want to keep it that way. So you’ll meet with just the two of us and you’ll give both of us complete assurance that you have no interest in pursuing this matter further.”
“That sounds a little loose, don’t you think? Will Locke be satisfied with my word?” she asked.
“He’s most keen to have you actually meet me and for me to be the one to persuade you to stand down. He’s handing you off, of course — transferring any and all responsibility for the decision to trust you to me.”
“Still, what’s my promise worth?”
“Well, you could offer to give up your files.”
And give up all my leverage? she thought. “No, not until all the financial matters are settled.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Draw up a written agreement, some kind of non-disclosure contract that binds all parties to secrecy.”
“That’s a bit of smoke and mirrors, isn’t it?”
“Look, make reference to the paintings in it. Say something like, while the parties have questions about their authenticity, they have agreed on balance that the paintings could be genuine and that they have agreed not to pursue the matter any further. You and I can sign it. Leave him out of it. That should cover his ass, calm him down.”
“Okay, I can see where you’re going with this. I’ll work on something, and I won’t tell him. I’ll spring it on both of you in the meeting and I’ll make more of it than it actually is.”
“And I’ll spin it back,” Ava said. “I actually made some promises to Edwin Hughes and the Sorensens that I’d keep them out of this if they co-operated. I’ll make it clear that I’m just as anxious to keep this quiet as you are.”
“Well, Ms. Lee, it appears we have a plan.”
“But I don’t have a flight,” Ava said. “Let me work on getting to London. I’ll be there either late tonight or early tomorrow morning. Either way, I can be at your offices by eleven. Does that work?”
“That sounds fine. And Ms. Lee, thanks for doing this. I know it’s a bit extreme bringing you all the way back here just to help settle Locke, but we can’t afford to have any flies in our ointment.”
“Careful is good,” Ava said. “And that raises some questions in my mind about the Picasso and the Gauguin. How are you going to handle them? Surely Locke is going to be atwitter for a while.”
“No one here knows about them yet, and I’m going to keep it that way. They’ll be sold through my private client list, a list that I guard with my life. My CFO will personally handle the accounting. At year-end the sale and the commissions will show up on the books as a surprise burst of profit. I’ve done it before and no one will be shocked by it.”
“Frederick Locke?”
“Not a whisper to him.”
(31)
Ava thought she’d change her schedule and fly directly to London, but Gail dissuaded her from that idea. “There isn’t a single direct route from LaGuardia right now,” she said. The best she could do was a one-stopper through Detroit or Philadelphia. “You might as well come back to Toronto and catch one of the overnight Air Canada flights,” she said.
Ava’s flight to Toronto landed on time, and she phoned Maria from the limo. Her job at the Colombian consulate, as an assistant trade commissioner, came with reasonably flexible hours. She got Maria’s office voicemail, hung up, and dialled her cellphone, only to get voicemail again. She left a message, saying her plans had changed and that she was off to London at eight o’clock that evening. She’d email when she knew when she was coming home.
Ava walked into her apartment feeling both welcomed and relieved by the familiar surroundings. She realized that with the cruise factored in, it had been more than two weeks since she’d been home. She unpacked her bags and sniffed at her running shoes. The smell wasn’t noticeable but she would still soak them. She laid the Steinum sweaters on her bed and stood back to look at them. It was her experience that some clothes didn’t travel well. Something that looked absolutely fabulous in a bar on a Thai beach could seem absurd in Toronto. A barong looked great in Manila, not so hot in New York. To her delight, the Steinums, if anything, seemed even more beautiful than when she had bought them. Mimi would look wonderful in hers. So would Maria: her light copper skin and wild mop of curly black hair went well with bright colours.
She packed a fresh set of clothes: a midnight-blue shirt with an Italian collar she had bought during her previous trip to London, a white Brooks Brothers button-down shirt, a clean pair of black Brooks Brothers slacks, and a light tan pencil skirt that came just above the knee. She threw in a pair of brown stilettos. She debated whether she needed to bring the files with her, and decided against it. They would just be dead weight.
After a quick shower she put on a T-shirt and a clean tracksuit consisting of dark blue Adidas pants and jacket. It was five o’clock and she realized she was going to run into rush hour. Dinner would have to wait until she got to the airport.
“Don Valley Parkway or Gardiner Expressway?” the cab driver asked.
“Your call. They’re both going to be slow,” she said.
They were crawling along the Gardiner when Maria called her back. “I’m so mad. I had a meeting I couldn’t get out of,” she said.
“That’s okay; this should be a quick trip. I may even get home tomorrow night.”
“I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too.”
Their conversation stalled. Neither of them was entirely comfortable with sharing endearments over the phone. “Look, I’ll email as soon as I figure out my schedule.” Ava said.
“I’ve already told the office I’m taking a few days off. When you get back, I’m going to stick by you till you can’t stand it anymore.”
“Do you still have a key to my place?” Ava asked, knowing she did, and also knowing that Maria would never think of using it without Ava’s express permission.
“Yes.”
“After work, go over there. I bought two sweaters. They’re on the bed. One is for Mimi, the other is for you. You have first pick.”
“I’m leaving in five minutes.”
Pearson Airport was jammed but most of the crowds were for U.S. departures. The international departures area was a peaceful island by comparison. She checked in and then hit the lounge for a couple of glasses of white wine. She figured if she had two more on the flight, she’d sleep most of the way to London.
They boarded and took off exactly on schedule. Within fifteen minutes of liftoff Ava had a glass of wine and was nestled in her seat watching Extras. Her intention was to watch one episode while she sipped her wine and relaxed enough to sleep, but Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant were so funny, and the series premise so clever, that she had to force herself to turn off the entertainment system after three episodes. She dozed off, and woke only when the flight attendant told passengers to prepare for landing.
They disembarked at Heathrow at nine a.m. Ava hustled through Immigration and went to the ladies’ loo. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and fixed her hair with the ivory chignon pin. Then she went into a cubicle to change into her midnight-blue shirt, tan skirt, and brown stilettos. Then she stood at the mirror to apply a light touch of red lipstick and black mascara. By nine thirty she was in a taxi line and by nine forty-five was inching her way into London.
Sam Rice had impressed her the day before. He saw no reason to discuss their involvement,
no reason to make excuses for his actions. He knew they had a problem and he was eager to address it and put it behind him. She liked a no-nonsense approach, and she was sure that when she got to Harrington’s, Rice would be well organized.
She reached New Bond Street at ten past eleven. The last time she had been to Harrington’s it was after office hours, and she had been greeted by a security guard. This time she found herself talking to a beautiful young black woman with short, stylish hair. Ava signed in, was given a visitor’s badge, and was told that Mr. Rice was waiting for her in the boardroom on the third floor.
When the elevator doors opened, Frederick Locke was waiting for her. He looked sheepish, and Ava saw no reason to let him off the hook. “I hope you’re here to apologize. Do you even understand what it is to make a promise?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“You have no idea how tortured I was feeling. I mean, I was having nightmares, Ava, about how this would affect the firm. I had to tell Sam. And he’s been great, really great.”
“I talked to him yesterday.”
“I know, and I couldn’t have been more pleased.”
“Frederick, we all want the same thing here, but we’re not going to get it if we can’t trust each other.”
“Ava, I’m so sorry. This will never happen again.”
“Where is Mr. Rice?”
“In the boardroom.”
“Let’s go see him.”
Ava was guided through the high-rent district of Harrington’s: big offices filled with antique furnishings and collectible paintings on the walls. The boardroom was large; in the centre was a massive oak table surrounded by matching chairs. The only modern piece in the room was a credenza pushed against the wall. On it was a tray with a coffee urn, cups, saucers, and bottles of water.
Sam Rice stood to meet her. He was extraordinarily pale, his skin almost translucent, which made his full red lips and ice-blue eyes stand out. He was large and soft, about six foot two and close to three hundred pounds.
“Ms. Lee.”
“Mr. Rice.”
“Sam.”
“Ava.”
“Thanks so much for coming at such short notice.”
“This is important,” Ava said.
“For all of us.”
“Are you Scottish, Sam?” she asked.
“Welsh.”
“Ah. I love your accent.”
“There was a time when it was a handicap. The auction, the art business in the U.K. was run by an old boys’ club who all went to the same public schools and the same university and spoke with one accent. It’s only in recent times that they’ve made room for us provincials.”
Ava sat down in a chair directly across from Rice. Locke looped around the table and sat next to his boss. “Coffee, tea, water?” Rice asked.
“I’m fine.”
He saw her looking at the table. “It was Oliver Cromwell’s. It was the family dining table, and some of the chairs were his as well. The table has been in our firm for more than a hundred years.”
“And how many times over those hundred years has the company dealt with an issue like this?”
Frederick Locke glanced at his boss, and Ava saw that he was as curious as she was to know the answer. “More often than I care to recount,” Rice said. “This isn’t an exact science, you know, and sadly, things do slip through the cracks. We like to keep our secrets well buried. My predecessors always believed that sustaining the credibility of the firm was our primary goal. Without trust, we have nothing. So if from time to time they needed to shade the truth for the sake of the greater good, they were prepared to do that.”
“And you learned your lessons from them?”
Rice smiled. “I guess that’s as good a lead-in to the subject at hand as we can expect. Ava, would you like to start?”
She liked the way he had sidestepped her question and passed the meeting over to her. “As you both know by now, I was hired by a client in China to investigate a potential scam involving some Fauvist paintings,” Ava began. “In the course of my research I came across possible irregularities involving some other paintings not directly connected to my client. I have since resolved the Fauvist issue to my client’s satisfaction, and the other paintings now hold zero interest for them or me.”
“For the record, what does that mean exactly?”
“As far as we’re concerned, they don’t exist. I understand that you can’t take the exact same position, at least with one of them, since you sold it at auction. So I’m curious — for the record — as to how you want to proceed.”
Rice looked at Locke as if to say, See? Nothing to worry about.
“The painting you refer to, the one that was sold through Harrington’s for a client — we have reviewed the provenance and our original evaluation, and on balance we think it would be irresponsible to cast any shadow of doubt upon it,” Rice said.
“So we seem to be on exactly the same page,” Ava said.
The door behind Ava opened. She turned and saw a young woman with a slip of paper in her hand. Rice looked annoyed. “What is it, Melissa?” he said.
The woman seemed distressed. “Excuse me, Mr. Rice, but something has come up and Mr. Tomlinson thought you should be informed.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“He thought not.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“Excuse me,” the woman said to Ava as she reached past her to hand the note to Rice.
He read it and then looked up. Ava saw shock in his eyes. “Does he have any more details?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
Rice stared at Ava and she felt a shiver. Does this have something to do with me? The Wongs? she wondered. No one knew she was at Harrington’s.
“There has been an incident at the Hughes Art Gallery in Kensington,” Rice said.
“An incident?”
“Something serious enough to involve the police. They have the gallery cordoned off.”
Ava froze.
“How does Tomlinson know this?” Locke asked.
“He lives in the neighbourhood. He went past the gallery on his way to work and saw that the police were there. He called from his mobile,” Melissa said.
“That’s all he knows?” Locke pressed.
“Melissa, is Tomlinson still there?” Rice asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have his mobile number handy?”
“I wrote it on the bottom of the paper,” she said, pointing to the slip in Rice’s hand.
“I’ll call him from outside. I’ll be right back,” Rice said as he moved quickly towards the door.
When he was gone, Locke said quietly, “What can this mean?”
Ava didn’t know if he was talking to her or himself, and in either case she wasn’t going to respond. She had too many questions in her own head.
“I want to go to the gallery,” she said to Locke. “Can you drive me?”
“You don’t want to wait for Sam? It could be something minor.”
Ava got to her feet. “If you won’t drive me then I’ll just catch a taxi downstairs.”
“I think we should wait for Sam,” Locke said.
She turned and left the boardroom. As she was walking to the elevator she saw Sam Rice standing at a desk, a phone to his ear. The look on his face told her more than she wanted to know. “Ava, wait!” he yelled.
She didn’t stop. The elevator doors opened as soon as she got there and she stepped in. As the doors closed she saw Sam Rice running towards her. He moved quickly for a big man, but not quickly enough.
Ava was starting to give the taxi driver the gallery address when she caught herself. The street would probably be closed to traffic. She directed him instead to the Fletcher Hotel.
Sitting in the back of the taxi she tried to calm herself down. I don’t know, she told herself, what happened on Church Street. But the dull throb in the pit of her stomach wo
uldn’t go away.
Her cellphone rang. Harrington’s. “Ava, we’re on our way. Sam and I are getting into his car as I speak,” Frederick Locke said.
“See you there,” Ava said, turning off the phone and throwing it into the bottom of her purse.
As the cab pulled into the Fletcher Hotel, she looked up Church Street and saw police barriers and what looked like the blinking lights of police cars and ambulances. She went into the hotel and almost threw her bag at the concierge. “I’m Ms. Lee. Tag my bag and store it for me. I’ll be back.”
She walked slowly towards the gallery, trying to let the scene develop gradually in her mind rather than erupt before her. She was accustomed to the yellow tapes used to seal off crime scenes, the wooden barriers to keep onlookers — two and three deep around the outer perimeter — back. She tried to find a gap in the crowd, and at the north end she saw an opening and wormed her way to the front.
Three ambulances were parked outside the gallery. Waiting, Ava thought. Uniformed police stood in a small circle next to their cars; others in plain clothes huddled by the gallery’s door. Beyond the ambulances Ava saw two television trucks, and to her right, cameramen stood with reporters holding microphones.
“Do you know what’s happened?” Ava asked the woman next to her.
“Bit of a shoot-up, I gather. Robbery attempt maybe.”
One of the television crews moved towards Ava as the cameraman tried to find a good angle for his shot.
“Excuse me,” Ava said to the reporter. “Do you know what happened here? I’m acquainted with the people who work at the gallery.”
“A shooting. Actually, shootings.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
Ava paled, the throb in her stomach now beginning to pound. “You wouldn’t have any names, would you?”