Dead Point (5 page)

‘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.

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.’

‘Legal business?’

‘Sort of, yes. There’s an estate involved.’ There had to be.

He nodded. ‘I saw him here only. A friendly person, a person easy to work with. Yes. Not like some.’

‘Friends?’

‘Friends?’

‘Barmen have friends. They make friends.’

‘Oh, friends? I don’t know. He was friendly to everyone. But that’s part of the job.’

‘So he didn’t have any personal friends come in?’

‘Excuse me, sir.’ Alerted by something, he left me to pour a glass of red from an open bottle. I glimpsed the label: a Burgundy, a Pommard. Dieter took the drink over to the florid man at the opposite end of the bar and came back.

‘Robbie’s friends,’ I said.

‘Yes. No. Not here at work.’

A voice behind me said, ‘Now Dieter, the guest hasn’t got a drink, what’s goin on?’

It was an Irish voice, a lovely purring, lilting Irish voice. The owner was a man in a tweed suit, a pale, handsome man in his mid-thirties with dense black curly hair, red lips and perfect teeth. He had his hand out to me and he was smiling.

‘Xavier Doyle,’ he said. ‘I’m the publican here and I don’t know your face and I want to do somethin about that.’

‘Jack Irish,’ I said.

‘Irish? There’s a name to make a man sing. What’ll you be drinkin? First one’s on the house, first and a few too many in the middle says the accountant. Got no heart, these counters of beans.’

He was a man you could like without thinking about it.

‘A beer,’ I said.

‘Not just a beer in this establishment.’ He waved. ‘Dieter, my fine Teutonic friend, a couple of pints of the Shamrock, there’s a good lad.’

‘Sir.’ Dieter slid off.

Doyle leaned his back against the bar, patted my arm.

‘Now Jack, the feller upstairs says you’re askin about young Robbie. There’s a tragedy for you. Why would a young feller like that get into the drugs? We’ll never know, that’s the answer, isn’t it?’

‘Someone who knew him well might know.’

‘I can’t say that I did, Jack. I wish I could. You’d like to know all your staff well, wouldn’t you? But there’s near sixty work here and they’re comin and goin, grass’s always greener, and the competition always out to poach em.’ He paused, a sad look. ‘So, no, I can’t say I knew Robbie well. But an excellent worker, top of the class, we’d a put him on permanent at the drop.’

The beers came, silver tankards topped with two fingers of foam.

‘Let’s get in front of some of this Irish gold,’ said Doyle. He had a way of holding your eyes, as if looking into them gave him great pleasure.

We drank. It wasn’t bad stuff. I wiped off my foam moustache. ‘Robbie didn’t want a full-time job?’

‘Bernie asked him but he said he had other commitments.’

‘Another job?’

‘Entirely possible. How’d you like this beer?’

‘I like it.’ I drank some more. He drank, wiped his lips with a red handkerchief drawn from his top pocket.

‘Next time you come we’ll be drinkin The Green Hill pinot noir. We’re takin delivery of vintage number one in a coupla days. From our own little estate out there on the Mornington. Nectar, I tell you, a drop fit for a crowned head.’

He waved at the barman.

‘Some of them pecan nuts, Dieter lad. Now Jack, you’re in the legal line the boyo says. That’s the solicitorin, is it? Or are you one of them fellers wears a ferret on his head?’

‘Solicitor.’

Dieter positioned a silver bowl of pecan nuts.

‘Good few of your kind drop in here,’ said Doyle. ‘Corporate, a lot of em, the Lord knows what they do. How’d you get involved in this unfortunate affair?’

I chewed a nut. ‘His relatives,’ I said. ‘Lost touch with him, now they want to know a bit more about his life.’

Doyle nodded. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ He flashed a cuff, looked at his watch. ‘Day’s flyin away from me. Jack, it’s a pleasure to meet you. We’ll be seein more of you now? Promise me that.’

‘Promise,’ I said. ‘Xavier.’

‘Call me Ex,’ he says. ‘It’s what they call me.’ He turned his head to Dieter. ‘Fix this feller in your mind,’ he said, ‘and take proper care of him.’

He was at the inside door when he turned and came back. ‘Next week we’re launchin this little cookbook we’ve knocked out, Jack.
The Green Hill Food
it’s called. Lots of the legal brotherhood comin. And the sisterhood, mind you. Your presence is required. Got a card on you?’

On the way out, I waved goodbye to Dieter. He was standing at a hatch talking to a young woman on the other side. They were both looking at me. He waved back, a polite wave.

Outside, in the rain, the meter had long expired and the Stud had a note under the driver’s wiper. It read: ‘If you ever consider selling this, ring me.’ There was a name and a number and, after it, in parentheses, the words Traffic Inspector. Such is luck.

‘Kashboli?’ I said, studying the menu. ‘What does Kashboli mean?’

‘Where have you been, Jack?’ asked Andrew Greer, my former law partner and friend since law school. ‘Kashmiri plus Bolivian. Two interesting cuisines.’

I loosened my tie. ‘With absolutely fuck-all in common.’

‘Exactly. Until united by fusion cuisine.’

We were sitting in the window of Kashboli, an eating and drinking place on lower Lygon Street whose premises had previously housed a famous Carlton dry-cleaning establishment. Where a bar with a mosaic top now stood, garments were once handed over, precious garments, mainly Italian men’s items handed over by Italian women – dinner jackets the men had proposed in, wedding suits, good linen trousers, dark single-vent jackets, many let out a bit at the seams by the skilled fingers of loved ones. It had been my dry-cleaner when I was a five-suit man practising criminal law with Andrew in nearby Drummond Street.

‘Hello, young lovers, wherever you are.’

A seriously big man, big and fat man, in loose white garments, shaven skull, no neck, head like a nipple with features, had appeared behind the bar, sang the line in a singing pose, chin raised, hands up, palms outwards.

Andrew gave him a wave. So did all the other patrons, late-working trade unionists from headquarters down the road by the grim and dedicated look of them.

‘Our host, Ronnie Krumm,’ said Drew.

‘Is that Kashmiri Ronnie Krumm or Bolivian Ronnie Krumm?’

‘Neither. Ronnie’s from Perth, travelled widely in search of the new. I understand the family’s in hardware, very big in the hardware.’

‘Hardware, software, Ronnie’s big all over. What’s the fat content of Kashboli tucker?’

Drew was intent on the menu. ‘Excessive but only good fats. Premium, I’m told. No finer fats available. Well, what’s your fancy or will you be guided?’

‘Be my trained labrador.’

Drew ordered what appeared to be a form of fish stew. It came in minutes, a minefield of a dish. You chewed uneventfully and then you bit on anti-personnel chillies and your eyes lit up from behind. Fortunately, it came with a glass of a sweet off-white substance, a neutralising agent, possibly crushed antacid tablets in a sugar solution.

‘Interesting,’ I said, recovering. ‘Fusion brings electrocution. Tell me about The Green Hill.’

Drew was savouring the Kashboli fish and chilli stew with no sign of strain, no resort to the pale liquid.

‘The Green Hill?’ He raised his glass of Bolivian cabernet to the light, his eyes narrowed, the long face took on a stained-glass religious look. ‘Not your kind of place. Very few geriatrics arguing about football at The Green.’

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘Thinking of taking someone? A date, is it?’

‘With destiny. It’s for a Wootton client. And I’ve been there. This afternoon.’

‘Shit. Boring. How is the love life?’

‘She’s taking pictures in Europe. Not enough time between assignments.’