Dilemma. Jon Cleary
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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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