Chain of Evidence

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Down here in Victoria he was the Rising Stars Agency, but he’d been Catwalk Casting up in New South Wales, and Model Miss Promotions in Queensland before that. Pete Duyker figured that he had another three months on the Peninsula before the cops and the Supreme Court caught up with him again, obliging him to move on.

‘Gorgeous,’ he said, firing off a few shots with the Nikon that had no film in it but was bulky and professional-looking, and emitted all of the expected clicks and whirs. For his other work he was strictly digital.

The mother simpered. ‘Yeth,’ she said, reminding Pete of that old Carry On movie, the doctor with his stethoscope saying ‘Big breaths’ and the tarty teenager in his consulting room saying, ‘Yeth, and I’m only thixteen.’ He fired off a few more shots of the woman’s five-year-old. The brat’s lank hair scarcely shifted in the breeze on the top of Arthur’s Seat, the waters of the bay and the curve of the Peninsula spreading dramatically behind her, the smog-hazed towers of Melbourne faintly visible to the northwest. ‘Just gorgeous,’ he reiterated, snapping away.

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