Honour Among Men by Barbara Fradkin

glanced at her watch. It was just past eight o’clock—peak time in the Halifax bar scene. She dived for her jacket, clipped her gun and phone onto her belt, and went in search of a partner. The Seaman’s Watch was a well-known sleaze bar on Gottingen Street just a few blocks north of the police station. It attracted a prickly mix of sailors and students, as well as the whores who serviced them and the petty thugs who thought there was money to be made. McGrath knew better than to walk in there alone. She commandeered a beefy young constable who was just coming in to write up a traffic accident. Minor, he said, no injuries. It can wait, she replied and led the way to the car park.
    At nine o’clock on a Tuesday night, the Seaman’s Watch was already crowded. The yeasty stink of beer and sour bodies choked her as they walked in, but she stifled her grimace. A lively, inebriated band was banging out drinking songs at the end of the room, and the audience was singing along. Ignoringthe leers, McGrath sought out the bartender and drew him close so that she could shout in his ear. She gave him a vague story about needing to locate Patricia for her own safety. Once he’d deciphered her request, the bartender’s brow furrowed.
    â€œYeah, she comes in here regular like, but I haven’t seen her the past couple of weeks.”
    â€œDo you know where she lives?”
    He hesitated, then glanced at the table nearby, where a group of sailors were roaring lustily. “A few of the lads have taken her home, like, you know, not a regular thing, but from time to time. She’s kind of a sad case, is our Patti.”
    You don’t know the half of it, McGrath thought to herself as she signalled her bodyguard towards the table. Five minutes later, they were back out in the crisp, salty night air, armed with a street name and number. They drove slowly up the street, scanning house numbers until they came upon a tall, narrow clapboard house perched near the top of the hill. It was impossible to be sure of the colour beneath the peeling layers of grime, but McGrath suspected it had once been robin’s egg blue. She rang the top buzzer. It had no name, but the sailors had said she lived on the top floor.
    No answer. McGrath rang again. Still nothing, although she could hear the abrasive buzz reverberate inside. Her sense of foreboding grew.
    It took an hour to locate and summon the landlord to open the apartment door. He was a familiar figure to the police, a low-level drug dealer who laundered his money through several of the less savoury properties in the downtown core. He fumed as he stomped up the stairs to her floor.
    â€œShe’s one of my most reliable tenants. Clean, quiet, always pays on time. Fuck, she better not have done a runner. She knows I need a month’s notice.”
    McGrath didn’t even dignify his whining with a response. As he unlocked the door, she shoved past him into the room. It was almost bare. Only a bed, table and chair, dresser and an ancient TV with rabbit ears. On the bed were neat stacks of old letters, photos and a folded
Sunday Herald
. In the closet, jackets and pants hung on three forlorn hangers, and the dresser itself was half full of clothes. The cupboard above the sink in the tiny kitchenette still held crockery and pots. McGrath ducked into the bathroom. The shampoo and soap were still by the tub, but her toothbrush was gone. So was her purse.
    Patricia Ross had gone away, but she had intended to come back again.
    McGrath returned to the main room to find the landlord rifling through the Sunday Herald. “Don’t touch that, please!”
    He tossed the papers down sulkily. “Just seeing if she left me a note.”
    The papers fell open to an inside page, half of which had been torn off. McGrath looked at it curiously. Page 10 , which was full of local news. She hunted briefly through the rest of the paper, but there was no sign of the