Dilemma. Jon Cleary
model; the houses had become fashionable again over the last five or six years, a reaching back to a history that property-owners never bothered to read. But it was the garden that held her; it was a calendar marked with azalea, camellia, lobelia, gardenia. The camellia had been a bush when they had first moved into the house; now it was a tree. Each evening, as she held the hose, she liked to think that she was spraying the garden with love. A thought she kept to herself: Malone and the children were not garden lovers.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘Nothing. It’ll soon be time for pruning – you can buy me a new set of secateurs for my birthday.’
‘I’ll buy you a lawn-mower, too. How’re you fixed for shovels and rakes?’
She hit him, loving him more than the garden. She got into the Ford Fairlane beside him. She worked as the Olympics public relations officer for the City Council and each morning he drove her into work before heading back to Strawberry Hills and his own office. He didn’t enjoy the drive, but it was an opportunity for the two of them to discuss their own, and not the children’s, affairs.
‘That man you brought down from Collamundra—’ Usually she waited for him to broach discussion on a case, but he had said nothing since his return home late the night before last. ‘Did he kill his wife?’
‘He did it, all right.’ He took the car out of their quiet North Randwick street into the morning traffic. ‘He’ll lie his head off, but he’ll go down.’
‘What about this little girl?’
‘What about her?’
‘If she’s been murdered—’
‘Don’t think about it—’
‘Of course I think about it! Right now most of the mothers in Sydney will be thinking about it. Look at the number of girls, youngsters and teenagers, who have disappeared – there’s a list in the Herald this morning—’
‘I never anticipate – it’s not Homicide’s job to prevent murder—’
‘That’s pretty cold-blooded, isn’t it?’
He looked sideways at her; in this hour’s traffic it was the only safe way to look. Road rage was becoming endemic; every car had a potential terrorist in it. ‘No, it’s – pragmatic. It’s the only way I sleep at night.’
‘I’ll remember that next time your loving hand gets out of hand.’ She squeezed his thigh. ‘Keep your eye on the road, sailor.’
He shuddered with love for her. Terrorists closed in on either side of him, shouting abuse: ‘Learn to fucking drive, you arsehole!’
Lisa smiled at the terrorist on her side, a woman, then looked at her husband. ‘Be pragmatic. Don’t answer back.’
He dropped her at Town Hall, drove back to Homicide and was greeted by Russ Clements: ‘We’ve got another one. That kidnapped kiddy, they dropped her off a cliff at Clovelly.’
Malone was abruptly ashamed of his approach to the kidnapping this morning; the jokes came back like bile. ‘Who’s handling it?’
‘Waverley. They want us in on it. You wanna take it with one of the girls?’
Malone went out of his small office into the big room. Most of his staff of eighteen detectives were at their desks, waiting for the morning conference to begin. They were a mixed lot, like the population in general; the older ones with that faded look of hope that investigators wear, the younger ones with their enthusiasm still to be tarnished. Police investigation was like gold-fossicking: one searched for the gleam of a clue amongst the gravel.
‘Russ will take the meeting this morning.’ He explained where he was heading. ‘You come with me, Sheryl.’
He made no comment on the grimace that flashed across her face; she would do her job, no matter how much she might dislike the circumstances of this one. Sheryl Dallen had been with Homicide and Serial Offenders a year now and her competency and commonsense had increased with each case. She was of medium height, solidly slim or slimly solid, depending on male prejudice; she was a fitness fanatic, the gym was her church. Her attractiveness lay in her healthy look and her laconic approach to life and death. She would not be fazed by what might come up in the Lucybelle Vanheusen murder.
Driving out to Waverley in the eastern suburbs, under the blue glass of a sky that was forecast to turn black with thunder by evening, Malone said, ‘I know nothing about this little girl, Sheryl, or her parents. You know anything?’
‘I know the mother, slightly. She goes to my gym.’
He made no remark about the coincidence; experience had taught him that life got kick-starts from coincidence. ‘What’s she like?’
‘You mean how’ll she stand up to this? She’s strong, I think. She’s full of herself, but these days women have to be.’
‘Don’t start sounding like my daughters. Does she talk to you at gym?’
Sheryl shook her head. Her shoulder-length brown hair was worn in a ponytail today because of the heat; the ponytail swung like a bird trying to burrow into her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever said more than two words to her – I’ve just observed her, knowing who she was. She’s usually surrounded by guys.’
‘Does her husband – what’s his name?’
‘Damien.’
‘Damien Vanheusen – why wasn’t I born with a name like that? Does he come to the gym?’
‘Occasionally, but he’s not a regular.’
‘What about the little girl – did Mum bring her to the gym?’
‘I don’t think so. Evangelina—’
‘Who?’
‘She’s half-Spanish, I think. She’s usually called Lina. She would usually come to the gym at night, after the little girl would be in bed.’ She was silent for a while, then she said, ‘I don’t think there are any other children. They’re gunna be devastated, both of them.’
‘Well, we’ve missed the initial shock. Someone else will have told them.’
‘That’s a relief.’
The Waverley police station was next door to the courthouse, neither of them obtrusive in the surroundings. This was a small suburb that hadn’t changed in over a half-century or even more; the houses and flats were the dull statements of architects of the twenties, thirties and forties. Under an overhang of trees by the courthouse offenders and witnesses sheltered from the too-bright sun. The offenders had the hang-dog look of people wondering why they had committed the offences in the first place.
The patrol commander of the station was Superintendent Joe Vettori, a handsome, enthusiastic man who this morning showed no enthusiasm at all. ‘G’day, Scobie. A bugger of a case, this one. I heard you’ve just wrapped up an old one?’
‘You lose some, you win some, Joe. What about this one?’
‘So far, no clues. Chris Gallup is at the Vanheusen house right now, he’s in charge. We’ll set up the incident room here, I’ll give you as many guys as you want.’ He smiled at Sheryl; he had an Italian eye. ‘Nice to have you with us, Constable Dallen.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sheryl. Outside in their car again she said, ‘What’s Sergeant Gallup like? I saw you make a face.’
Malone grinned. ‘He’s not an admirer of women, if that’s what you’re looking for. I’ve worked only once with him and he resented us being there. But you may charm him, like you did Superintendent Vettori.’
‘One thing I like about working in Homicide. You’re a cop first and last.’
‘Don’t you believe it. I’ve seen the fellers looking at you.’ He glanced