Dilemma. Jon Cleary

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      ‘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?’

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