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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