Don't explode.

Ricky looks like Shane, I said. So take pictures of Ricky in the way he most looks like Shane. Get him to turn his head slowly like he did when he came out of work, and tell him to hold it where it's best.
All right.
Ricky got out of the car and stood in front of the wall, with Oliver focusing at head-and-shoulder distance. He took the first picture and we waited for it to develop.
Oliver looked at it, grunted, adjusted the light meter, and tried again.
This one's all right, he said, watching the colors emerge. Looks like Shane. Quite amazing.
With a faint shade ofsullenness Ricky held his pose for as long as it took to shoot four boxes of film. Oliver passed each print to me as it came out of the camera, and I laid them in rows along the seat beside me while they developed.
That's fine, I said, when the films were finished. Thank you, Ricky.
He came over to the car window and I asked him without any great emphasis, Do you remember, when Indian Silk got so ill with debility, which vet was treating him?
Yeah, sure, that fellow that was murdered. Him and his partners. The best. Dad said.
I nodded noncommittally. Do you want a ride to Newmar¬ket?
Got my motorbike, thanks.
We took him back to his engineering works, where I finally cheered him up with payment for his time and trouble, and watched while he roared off with a flourish of self-conscious bravado.
What now? Oliver said. Did you say Newmarket?
I nodded. I've arranged to meet Ursula Young.
He gave me a glance of bewilderment and drove without protest, pulling duly into the midtown car park where Ursula had said to come.
We arrived there first, the photography not having taken as long as I'd expected, and Oliver finally gave voice to a long-restrained question.
Just what, he said, are the photographs/or?
For finding Shane.
But why?