‘A man seeking ease,’ said Drew. ‘Aren’t we all? In the old days, your clients were seeking to stay out of the hard hotel.’

‘This is better. These clients tend to have their complete ears and comparatively few are tattooed inside their lower lips.’

Drew turned left into Russell Street. ‘Ah, the holy ground once more,’ he said.

The Melbourne Magistrates’ Courts had been in the stone building on our left, police headquarters across the street, all kinds of squads and units in the building nearby.

Trades Hall and its annexe, the John Curtin Hotel, were just down the road. Drew’s office was two blocks north. Once it had been the office of the firm of Greer amp; Irish, Barristers and Solicitors. The Greer and the Irish often walked down Drummond Street to appear for their clients at Russell Street. They also often drank at the Curtin, took pees with a future prime minister, standing side by side, swaying a little, aiming at white disinfectant balls.

But that time ended when my wife, Isabel, was murdered by a client of mine and I developed a powerful urge to destroy myself.

‘Strictly speaking, Wootton should tell you,’ he said. ‘The person who will add his exorbitant margin to what I am sure are your modest billed hours.’

‘Tell me what?’ I said.

‘To swab Mickey. As man of the track, you’ll know the swab.’

‘Cyril already has a swabbing expert. Cheap.’

‘We don’t need cheap. I can tell you that Cyril’s expert failed the police entrance test. Tester couldn’t fit two pencils above the eyebrows, one between the eyes.’

In silence, we drove down Victoria Parade and turned into Smith Street, Collingwood. The street seemed to be having a dealer-free day. From time to time, the cops came in numbers and displaced the drug sellers. It was like squeezing a balloon. When the pressure was removed, it returned to its original shape.