Free Raw Bone by Scott Thornley

when I was working freighters, eh. I like the old guys there, always somethin’ to talk about, something to watch on TV, and I’m crazy about Fish ’n’ chips. Reminds me of a place in Southampton during the war. That was the best you could hope for: getting there in one piece, then Fish ’n’ chips and a pint. Funny eh? Unlucky, and you were fish food; lucky, and you ate good fish … Anyways, it’s pretty clean, and I’ve only ever had one thing swiped—my duffle bag. And I don’t know why anyone would want that old thing. My name was on it—F. A. Dewar—and stencilled below was “Stoker.” The thing has to be sixty years old or more.”
    “When was the bag stolen?”
    “Pearl Harbor Day—last December 7th.”
    MacNeice watched the old man mop up the remaining syrup and cream with the last section of the pancakes, creating an elegant series of looping blue and gold and white swirls on the plate. Freddy had a steady hand, absent of any tremors of age. When he was done, the waitress came by and scooped up the plate in one hand, pouring Freddy a top-up with the other.
    At last, MacNeice produced the photograph of the young woman. Before showing it to Dewar, he told him that she had died violently out on the bay. He said there was a chance, a remote possibility, that she may have had a beer, or fish and chips, or even stayed a night or two at the bar. He laid the photo on the table and waited.
    Freddy wiped his mouth with the napkin, adjusted his glasses and looked down at the face.
    “She’s a goner in this picture?”
    MacNeice nodded.
    “You been to the bar, detective? I mean when they’re serving?”
    “I have.”
    “Well there aren’t many women who come in for a beer, let alone dinner. The ones who do are geezers like me and some don’t bother putting their teeth in.”
    “Her face isn’t familiar to you then?”
    “Oh, I didn’t say that. No, I’ve seen her all right.” He tapped the photocopy with a crooked right index finger. “I can’t say where … but not at the bar. I can tell you the hair’s wrong. You’ve made it straight, eh, and this gal’s hair was wavy.” He handed the photocopy back to MacNeice.
    “Try and recall where you saw her, Freddy, and why you’d remember her at all—especially her hair.”
    “Oh, that’s easy. An early life at sea, eh. The only thing we ever talked about was girls. We had pin-ups taped everywhere.” Freddy sat up and said, “Betty Grable, that’s it. Her hair was blond and wavy like Grable’s.”
    MacNeice was struck by how animated the old man had become. “Anyways, ever since then, I’ve liked looking at girls—though not without clothes Our pin-ups always had something on, a bathing costume, a fancy dress …”
    MacNeice asked again, “Can you recall where you saw this particular young woman?”
    Freddy sipped his coffee, taking warmth from the mug, thinking hard, but finally gave up. “I can’t.”
    “Give me an idea of your typical day. Do you go for walks?”
    “Oh yeah, I walk everywhere. Over to the main library … I can spend a day there. Or down to the water, sometimes the botanical gardens or just along Burlington to see the ships coming and going. Mostly, folks pass you by like you was invisible, eh, and I don’t blame them.”
    After breakfast, MacNeice dropped Dewar back at the BTB. He wrote his cell number on the back of a card. “You’ve seen her face, Freddy. When you remember where you saw her, call me right away.”
    On his way back to the division, MacNeice drove slowly past Byrne’s house. A patrol car was already parked in the driveway, facing the street with its engine running. The uniform inside spotted the unmarked Chevy passing slowly and nodded.

Chapter 8
    The name appeared for the first time on November 14, not as a roomer, but scrawled across the spot for Day/Night Clerk, the final box in the column: Duguald—no last name. The entries prior to that had been Byrne, and on December 28,