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worker in one respect, but there was always the lingering doubt that the only reason he wanted to get their pants off was to get into them. It was remarkable how many successful glamour photographers were overweight or very old or had some image that models felt safer with. The grey hair worked that way. Not that it was a problem - he’d only ever fell for three of his models and had affairs with two of them. And he was still married to the last one. He had to admit, though, that the fatherly image was an advantage. When his clients were always looking for the new face and the new body, his ability to make models feel at home - and to feel at home with their clothes off - was a real plus. He had to make the most of that advantage to keep the dollars rolling in.

      Casey’s beard was also grey, framing a face that had a habit of bursting into laughter at the slightest pretence. His eyes were large and bright and blue. He wore a blue denim shirt over blue jeans. He was shoeless, having kicked the white sneakers into a corner of the studio only minutes after they’d started their session.

      “Any gin?” she asked.

      “Later.”

      Casey watched her walk to the far corner of the studio where the fridge sat. She was, he thought, quite a magnificent creature. She wore black lingerie - bra, panties and suspender belt and stockings - and black leather high-heeled shoes. Not just with magnificent breasts, he thought, but all over. He watched her buttocks move as she walked away from him.

      Her name was Tracey. Tracey with an “e” she had said, when he had first met her. That had been almost two years ago. Tracey Howard. He used her a lot, because she had a lot going for her. She had many facets to her photographability.

      A lot of the models he used were used because they had a beautiful face - and nothing else. Or a good tight backside. Or great long legs. Good breasts. Neck. Hands. And depending on the job you selected the best. If he was shooting something for a hair commercial, shampoo, hats, he’d use Maggie. Great hair. Long and natural redhead that looked good loose or tied back or permed. But he’d never use Maggie for nudes - she didn’t really have a good body.

      “The milk’s off.”

      “There should be a new one in there. Unopened.”

      “Got it!”

      Casey had it all sorted out where models were concerned. After all it was a competitive field and one had to use what one could to stay one jump ahead of the pack. He’d started with a set of filing cards and he’d written the names of his models on them and under their measurements he’d indicated which of their features were the most photogenic. Maggie - hair. And ,depending on the job he was doing, he could sort through them and pick the right model. What had that been? Five years ago? Now it was a file on the computer in his office and he could sort the records in whatever way he wanted and he could collect more information that might be valuable for certain shoots. Has her own underwear - great range. Good for nudes but has a tattoo on her shoulder - careful. Great feet.

      And he could cross index that with the negative file and slide number references. Now there was Lightroom, a software package that made keeping a database of photos a dream. He’d hired a young turk to set up a customised screen - name on the left hand side, telephone number, key point. Eyes. And on the right hand side of the screen two photos - one the face, the second, the eyes. Hit the keys and draw up the photo references.

      But Tracey was different. The equivalent of the sportsman who was an all-rounder. Great body from all directions. She kept herself in good condition. Good face, great smile and good hair. He’d sold a set of her photos to Australian Playboy and they’d come back to ask for more. This would be a different set.

      She took another drink and looked down to straighten a bra strap. The movement was there for a second, the downcast eyes, and the fringe of light across the nape of her neck, delicate fingers at the strap. He’d have snapped that picture, but it was gone. He smiled.

      “Three minutes,” he said.

      “Fine.” He decided that she looked great in black.

      The phone rang.

      “Get that will you, Trace.”

      “What’d your last one die of?” She picked up the phone and said, “Casey’s Studio. Yes. Yes, he is, just a minute.”

      “It’s for you, Bob.”

      “Who is it?”

      “Fay. Fay Walsh.”

      Casey took the phone and said, “Fay? What can I do for you?”

      “I’ve just had a visit from the Federal Police.”

      “Police? Why?”

      There was only silence at the other end of the line.

      “Fay? Fay? Are you there?”

      “Sorry. Yes. The police were here.”

      “You said. What’s happened?”

      “Amy.”

      “Amy?”

      “She’s been killed, Bob. They came to see me as part of their investigation.”

      “Amy? Amy Deacon?”

      “Yes. Yes, Amy.”

      “Are they sure, Fay?”

      “Yes.”

      “What did they want?”

      “Just information. How long she’d been working for me. People she knew. I gave them your name.”

      “Amy?” He was having trouble. “My name? That ... that’s okay. Are you okay? What happened?”

      “They didn’t expand too much. She’d ... she’d been shot.”

      “Shot! Are they sure it’s Amy?”

      “Yes, Bob. Bob, they’ll come and see you. Have you got some recent photos of her?”

      “Of course. Hey, are you all right?”

      “I’ll be fine.”

      “Come over.”

      “What?”

      “Come over. Stay the night.”

      “I don’t think ... I ... Could I?”

      “Not a problem.”

      “I’d like that. Is Susie there?”

      “Yeah. Come now.”

      She hung up and Casey replaced the receiver slowly.

      “What is it?” Tracey asked.

      “Something’s come up, Tracey. Let’s call it a night.”

      “All right. You okay?”

      “Just some bad news. I’ll ring you later, all right? We’ll organise another day.”

      Day 4 - Melbourne

      She decided that she’d call herself Kathy. Kathy Turner. Harmless enough. But she needed something she could respond to effortlessly, that would run off her tongue without thinking.

      The phone answered on the third ring.

      “Federal Police.”

      “Is Inspector Barron there, please?” she asked.

      “No, I’m afraid not. Can someone else help you?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “What was it in connection with? There may be someone who can ...”

      “I’m trying to locate James Christie.”

      “James Christie?”

      “Yes.” She’d sensed the hesitation in the

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