Читать книгу Dilemma - Jon Cleary, Jon Cleary - Страница 9

Chapter Three

1

Ronald Glaze’s arraignment got only five lines, narrow single column, in the News Briefs in the next day’s papers. Even Channel 15 did not run an item on him in its evening news on the day. Apart from political and economic stories and more scandal out of Washington, the big news was the kidnapping and demand for ransom of Lucybelle Vanheusen.

‘Who is Lucybelle Vanheusen?’ asked Malone at breakfast.

‘She’s that brat in the McDonald’s commercials,’ said Tom.

‘And in the Toyota ads,’ said Maureen.

‘And in the Coca-Cola ads,’ said Claire.

Malone groaned, remembering the moppet with enough red hair to have played a grown-up role in Days of Our Lives. ‘I know her now.’

‘Don’t say it,’ said Lisa.

‘What?’

‘That you hope the kidnappers don’t give her back.’

Malone nodded; but he had been on the verge of being callously unfunny. ‘I remember Dad used to say when he was growing up he couldn’t stand Shirley Temple. She used to do dances up and down a staircase with some black dancer and Dad always wished she’d fall and break a leg. But I’m sorry about this kid. How much are they asking as the ransom?’

‘A dollar ninety-five,’ said Tom and jerked his head back as his mother swung the back of her hand at him. He grinned, but said, ‘Sorry.’

Breakfast was the one meal that Malone insisted they all had together. All three were at university. Claire was doing Law and, already a lawyer, was advising her father on points that didn’t interest him; her only good point, he would say, was that so far she wasn’t charging him. Maureen was doing Communications and forever telling him he didn’t know how to use the media. Tom had just started Commerce and after a month’s study already knew more than Dr Greenspan, George Soros and the economic rationalists down in Canberra. They left the house each morning and were free souls; Tom, who liked home cooking, was home for dinner more frequently than his sisters. Lisa, still the boss in the house, insisted that there was a family dinner at least one night a week. The glue that held them together was stretched more than it used to be, but it was still holding.

‘What’s the percentage of kidnap victims who are returned unharmed?’ asked Maureen.

Malone shrugged. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever done a survey on it. Kidnapping isn’t a primary industry in this country.’ But it would develop as more and more wealth was accumulated and the gap between rich and poor grew and violence became a way of life. ‘Who are her parents?’

‘How much don’t you know?’ Maureen was appalled at her father’s ignorance. ‘Her mum and dad are in the social pages every Sunday – they’re on all the freeloader lists. He’s the designer—’

‘Of what?’

Maureen rolled her eyes, at which she was very good. ‘Clothes. He’s Sydney’s Versace, only he’s straight. Mum Vanheusen does nothing but promote little Lucybelle.’

‘If he’s so successful as a designer, why do they need to exploit the kid?’ He was remembering Lucybelle more clearly now. She was in TV commercials as frequently as a certain popular blue cattle dog and Elle MacPherson.

‘The mum was a model who never got as far as she hoped,’ said Claire. ‘Maybe she’s hoping little Lucybelle will be the next – who’d you say Grandpa didn’t like?’

It was Malone’s turn to roll his eyes, at which he was not at all good. ‘You lot know nothing about history, do you? You think everything started with the Beatles.’

‘The who?’ said Tom.

Later, Lisa walked out with Malone to the garage. She paused and looked around the garden; this was her green anchor, burned now by the long summer. She loved their house, though it was no more than a turn-of-the-century Federation 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 at her. ‘I’m not flirting with you, Sheryl. But don’t ever think gender is going to disappear from the Service. They’ll whistle at your walk and put minus marks against you for promotion.’

‘Do you think there’ll ever be a woman Commissioner?’

‘About the same time as there’ll be a woman Prime Minister. You’re in a man’s country, Sheryl. But as Superintendent Vettori said, nice to have you with us.’

‘I’m overwhelmed,’ she said, but smiled to show it wasn’t insubordination.

The Vanheusen house was in a cul-de-sac in Bellevue Hill, a long stone’s throw from the estate of the country’s richest man, a missie’s throw from the western suburbs and the 40-foot plot of Ron Glaze. This was a small district in the eastern suburbs, where wealth hovered like a miasma and the mortgages, if any, were of a size that had banks genuflecting. Most of the houses stood on modest acreage, but Mercedes, Jaguars and the occasional Bentley let you know this was not welfare territory. Two high-fee private schools occupied most of the east side of the main road that climbed the hill; there were no shops, no corner grocery nor a newsagent. It was territory, Malone thought, that would have watered the mouths of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or the Kelly Gang. Burglars tried their luck around here, but it was hard work. Kidnapping was a new venture.

The Vanheusens had built recently; their house was a rarity in the area, a new one. It was built in a style that had become popular in the past few years: Tuscan villas were more numerous than around Firenze or Siena. Columns were everywhere, like fossilized tree-trunks or pillars stolen from a temple; romantics looked for a stray vestal virgin, but there were few in Bellevue Hill. All the Tuscan villas had porticos, like museum entrances. At the moment, with police and media cars crowding the turning circle of the cul-de-sac, one might have suspected there was an exhibition of some sort going on.

Sheryl parked their car at the entrance to the short street and she and Malone walked down. Malone was instantly recognized by the regular police reporters; it wasn’t stardom or even celebrity, it was just familiarity. Cameras turned on him like weapons, tape recorders were thrust at him. One of the closest reporters to him, almost in his face, was the Channel 15 girl.

‘You’re taking charge, Inspector?’ She was tall, with long blonde hair, big blue eyes and the cheekbones that always looked good on camera, no matter what the light. She had a light voice and the local habit amongst TV reporters of moving her head all the time she was talking: a bob here, a nod there, a shake elsewhere, as if every word had to be underlined. ‘Anything to report yet? How soon can we expect the police to come up with something?’