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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 Irishvoice. 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 andgoin, 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