41. Handing Over Pictures

Ashbury was waiting for her at the security desk of her office building. He was holding two bankers’ boxes and looking strained. When he’d said a couple she thought it would be two albums, not two big boxes.

“Wow, that’s a lot of photographs, Grant.”

“I haven’t looked at them in a while,” he said breathlessly, dropping them onto the desk. “I remembered storing albums in the basement, but when I saw how many there were, I thought what a chore it will be for you to go through them all.” He patted the closest box. “They’re probably of no interest to anyone but me, but if they help catch a killer I’m glad to share.”

He paused, waiting for her to say something grateful. When she missed her cue, he shrugged and turned to smile at the camera that would spit out his visitor’s badge.

With the badge clipped to his shirt, he lifted the boxes with a grunt and walked through the security arch with Kathy following.

“Give me one of those,” she reached for the top box.

“It’s okay, they’re not that heavy.”

“Come on, it’s the 21st century, women share the load.” She grabbed the box and found it much heavier than expected, she staggered but smiled, glad that she’d kept up the weight training with Deborah.

They rode the elevator in silence up to the third floor, walked down the corridor to a small meeting room where she dropped her box onto a table and tapped two buttons on a console built into its polished surface. Overhead lights came on and translucent shades slid smoothly down over the glass walls and door making the room totally private.

Ashbury put down his box and eased into a high-backed leather chair. “Where shall we start?”

“Take it from the top,” she said lightly. “Start with the first album and work our way through.”

She pulled a chair up beside him and began leafing through the first album. The first thing she saw was he had a good eye for composition and lighting.

“These are good. Have you thought of showing them?”

He looked pleased. “I never got around to it, then digital photography took over and everything was being shared on social media. I stopped printing and kind of forgot about my old work.”

“Shame.” She meant it. “You have a good style. Did you enter any contests?”

“Interesting you should ask. Four years ago I sent a print to a local juried show and won second prize,” he said. “But it was only ever a hobby. I thought I was good, but not many people saw my work, so I didn’t really know.”

Kathy flipped to the end then took out a second album. This was going to take longer than she had time for today. She wanted to study them, not just glance through and make encouraging noises.

“I didn’t expect so many photos, can I take them home? Rather than take up your time, I’ll go through them over the weekend and get them back to you Monday.” She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I promise nobody else will see them.”

Ashbury hesitated, then smiled. “Keep them as long as you want. I haven’t looked at them in years and can’t remember what’s here, but if they might hold clues, go for it.” He flipped the second album shut. “What are we looking for?”

Kathy ignored the we. She tucked the two albums back into the box and fitted the cardboard lid before answering.

“I don’t know. It’s all part of investigative reporting, you don’t know what you’re looking for until you find it. A line of enquiry can be a complete dead end or spark a new idea that really does go somewhere.”

He seemed satisfied with that, and they walked in amiable silence down the hall and rode the elevator down. They carried one box each to Kathy’s car and she used her foot to open the trunk, impressing Ashbury with her agility which was increasing, thanks to Deborah, the oddball new friend and murder suspect.

As she drove off, Kathy could see Grant Ashbury watching her until she turned a corner and went out of sight.

42. Catrina Naked

Saturday morning Kathy made a large pot of tea, shook three oatmeal cookies onto a plate, then reconsidered and took the whole packet to the table where the boxes of photos awaited. She was going to need sustenance to go through all those pictures.

Two hours later she had looked through six albums in the first box and eaten seven cookies. Nothing jumped out, but something nagged her, and she felt sure something was there, hiding in plain view. It hadn’t been in the first box. She resisted reaching for another cookie, just licked her finger to dab at crumbs on the plate.

The first box had contained a lot of girls in bathing suits and short shorts. She reminded herself Grant had taken them as a young university student. As she moved along the timeline the pictures became more artistic, less voyeuristic, fewer girls, more empty landscapes. By the time she finished the first box she was starting to miss the bathing beauties.

In the second box she found more landscapes, more beach shots, a few portraits. She went slowly, looking for anything unusual, or – conversely – anybody familiar.

She felt a trickle of excitement when she opened the penultimate album in the second box and saw pictures of a pretty cottage. Grant had shot it from the front and back, from a distance and close up. There were details of the windows, even one of the roof tiles. I’d have thrown that one out, she thought, then shook herself and thought, don’t be bitchy. She sighed and set the album to one side. It could be important.

The first page of the last album was an empty beach, the second page was a shock. It held a single photo, a headshot of a beautiful girl laughing and tossing her hair. Underneath it, in neat black handwriting, it said Catrina Somers. Kathy was looking at the cold case murder victim. She really was lovely with flawless skin, large dark eyes and perfect white teeth.

The third page held another surprise, Catrina in the nude. It was subtle, her arm placed demurely across her breasts, one long leg drawn up and face turned slightly away. Her eyes were downcast, but, having seen her face on the previous page, there was no doubt it was Catrina.

The next page had three smaller prints of Catrina on the beach in a bathing suit. In two of them she was looking straight at the camera in the third she looked out over the water.

The following pages had long shots of Catrina on the beach. Kathy guessed they were taken with a long lens and Catrina seemed unaware of being photographed.

The surprises kept coming. There was a shot taken from outside the cottage, looking through the window. It was artsy, roses framing the window were softly blurred, but the figure in the room was in perfect focus. Catrina, naked, toweling her wet hair, not looking toward the camera.

Kathy held her breath as she turned the page to find a naked woman in the arms of a fully clothed man. They were kissing. The picture was not sharp, it was taken through a window and Kathy wondered how far away Grant had been. She was sure it was Catrina, but she couldn’t see the man’s face, only long fair hair, a pale shirt and trousers and blurry hands, one on the small of her back, the other gripping her neck. She peered at the image, cursing the poor quality.

Kathy took a swig of cold tea, grimaced and pushed the last album aside. She went back to the previous album, to the pictures of the cottage. It was the same building.

Who owned it? Why was Catrina there? And who was she kissing? It wasn’t Grant, because Grant had been taking the pictures.