‘I’ll tell you what I know about Robbie,’ I said. ‘He lived alone in a one-bedroom unit. The neighbours liked him. He put in a light bulb for the old lady downstairs, took her garbage out a few times. He wasn’t seen often but he came and went without any noise. That’s it.’
Loder nodded. ‘Did he have a drug habit?’
‘Hard to tell. Can I be impertinent and ask why you wanted him found if you don’t know anything about him?’
He sighed. ‘He’s related to someone. The person turned to me for help. People think…people in my position can reverse gravity, change the orbit of the earth.’
‘So this relative could tell you or me about him?’
‘No. The person hadn’t been in touch with Robert for a long time. Then she met him again, briefly, and then she lost touch. And so she came to me and I contacted Cyril Wootton.’
‘May I ask why you didn’t consult the police? My understanding is that they come when people in your position call.’
‘I chose to hire someone to find Robert.’ A pause. ‘Which brings us to where we are now.’
I looked at the street. A man in a raincoat was approaching, something on a string leading him. It looked like a hairy loaf of bread.
We had a short time of not speaking. The rain was getting harder. I heard him run his hands over his temples, the faintest sound of palms over freshly shorn hair, an electric hiss.
‘This could turn out to be a complete waste of money,’ I said. ‘It probably will.’
‘If the police won’t consider other possibilities, then we must.’ He looked at his watch. His wrists were hairy, wiry hairs peeping out under the Rolex. ‘I must run,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your coffee.’
He dropped a note on the counter, didn’t wait for change. I watched him walk briskly in the direction of Macaulay Road.
8
The Green Hill was once in the worst part of South Melbourne. Now there was no worst part: the whole area was a pulsating real-estate opportunity. Even the most charmless flat-roofed 1950s yellow-brick sign-writer’s shop could be transformed into a minimalist open-plan dwelling suitable for thrusting young e-people.
In defiance of the weather, many of these people were sitting at tables outside The Green Hill, a three-storey Victorian pile. Perhaps the telephone reception was bad inside: at least half of them were talking on mobiles so small that they appeared to be speaking to their fists. As I approached, a short-haired and skeletal waiter wearing a long black apron came out and served coffees to two men, both on the phone. I got to him at the glass double doors.
‘The bar,’ I said. ‘How do I find the bar?’
He tilted his head, eyed me. His skin had a shiny water-resistant look. ‘Bar X? Che’s Bar? Or Down the Pub?’
Too much choice. ‘I need to talk to someone about a casual barman who worked here.’
‘Human Resources.’ He pointed. ‘In there, up the stairs, door’s straight ahead.’
Economical.
I went into a lobby, an empty room with a marble-tiled floor, dark wood-panelled walls, a single painting lit by a spotlight: it was an early Tucker, an angry painting, a political painting, from the heart. At least they hadn’t hung it in Bar X. Doors to the left and right were unlabelled. The staircase was to the right, a splendid thing of hand- carved steam-bent cedar and barley-sugar turnings. I ascended.
The door opposite was open. I knocked anyway.
‘In, in,’ said a male voice.
He was at a long table, a stainless-steel top on black metal trestles, fingers on a keyboard, monitors, printers and other hardware on his flanks.
‘Gerald,’ he said, smiling, a round-headed man around thirty, balding, olive-skinned, in a collarless white shirt.
‘Me or you?’
‘You’re not Gerald?’
‘No.’
His smile went. ‘We’re currently only hiring in kitchen. And if your CV shines.’
‘Glitters,’ I said, ‘but not currently in the market. You employed a casual barman called Robert Colburne.’
He sat back. ‘Police? You’ve been here.’
‘No. I represent his family.’
Represent is a good word. It suggests.
‘I’ll tell you what I told the cops. Colburne worked here for five weeks, three shifts a week. A few times we called him in to fill a hole. He was fine, he was tidy, people liked him. But nobody here knows him, knew him. Outside work, that is.’ He held up his palms.
‘He had another job, did he?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’ Pause. ‘How come his family don’t know?’
‘Drifted apart, lost touch.’
‘The cops wanted to find the next of kin. Has the family been in touch?’
‘I presume so. Did Robbie come with references?’
‘References only mean anything for kitchen staff in this business. He said he’d worked all over the place. Queensland. We gave him a one-hour trial. He knew what he was doing.’
‘Anyone around who worked with him? Just so that I can tell the family I talked to a colleague.’
There was a slight unease about him, something more than having his time wasted. He cleared his throat, picked up a slim telephone handset. ‘I’ll see.’
He tapped three numbers. ‘Janice, call up Robbie Colburne’s last three shifts, see if anyone on them’s here now.’
We waited. He didn’t look at me, looked at the computer screen on his right. Figures in columns, a payroll possibly.
‘Okay, thanks.’ He put the handset down. ‘Down the Pub. Ask for Dieter.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate your help.’
He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile, just nodded, looked at the screen again.
You couldn’t get into Down the Pub from the street. Entry was through a heavy studded door in a narrow lane separating The Green Hill from its neighbour. No need for passing trade here. Beyond the door was a vestibule and then you passed through small-paned glass doors into a long room where lamps in mirrored wall niches cast a warm and calm yellow light. The walls were wood panelled to the ceiling, there were booths and tables with leather chairs, and the oak bar with brass fittings was like an altar to drink.
The place was almost empty: two couples in a booth, three men at a table, two lingering male drinkers at the bar. I stood at the counter as far from them as possible. The barman stopped polishing a glass and was in front of me in an instant.
‘Sir,’ he said. He was tall with wavy dark hair and a neat beard.
‘I’m looking for Dieter.’
‘I am Dieter.’ A German accent.
‘Jack Irish,’ I said. We shook hands. ‘You knew Robbie Colburne?’
‘Not too well, a colleague for a short time,’ he said. ‘It’s very sad. Are you family?’
‘He lost contact with his family.’
Dieter recognised the evasion. ‘So you’re not family?’
‘No. I’m acting for the family.’ I was, at a small remove.
‘Acting? I don’t…’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
