front.
Dean scowled at the interruption by one of the detective constables who worked for him on FMIT, then his expression changed to one of puzzlement at the grim look on the younger manâs face. He had a piece of paper in his hand which he held out to Dean.
âBoss ⦠sorry to butt in,â he began.
Because Jerry Topeâs body had floated tight up to the side of the dock wall, it was an hour before a passer-by, a man out walking his dog, paused for breath and happened to spot Topeâs legs in the water below him. The police were on the scene less than ten minutes later, but after that it took some time to retrieve the body because the waterline of the dock was about ten feet below the level of the surrounding walkway. It was impractical to reach down with hooks or ropes, plus the first officer on the scene, having peered perilously over the edge, saw the wounds to the back of the floaterâs head and realized this could be something more than a simple drowning. His first thoughts were that the body of the man could have been the victim of a mugging.
Topeâs body was eventually recovered by use of a Rigid Inflatable Boat owned by the chandlery at the opposite end of the dock and two CSIs and two uniformed constables dragged Tope on board and then brought him ashore on to one of the wooden jetties in the marina, which was then secured and cordoned off as a crime scene.
Rik Dean met the first officer on the scene at the point where Topeâs body had been pointed out to him in the water. The PC indicated exactly where he had seen Tope floating face down in the water, explained how he had seen the wounds in the back of the head but had thought they could have been caused by a blunt instrument. It was only closer inspection that revealed they were bullet entry wounds, and it was only when Tope had been hauled into the RIB that the exit wounds had been seen and Tope identified.
Dean nodded gravely as he ingested the information, all the while looking across the port at the converted warehouses opposite with all those apartments and balconies and windows facing this way.
Then, rather than driving the quarter of a mile or so, he decided to walk along the dockside to where Topeâs body had been drawn on to a jetty.
Although it was not a long walk, it felt so to Dean, but he wanted to do it to get a feel for the scene â even though this was an area he was familiar with.
He reached the small marina, populated by a few uninspiring motor boats, canal barges and small yachts. He was met by a PC at the security gate and allowed through after identifying himself.
Topeâs body lay under a plastic sheet.
âLetâs look,â Dean said to the CSI standing next to him.
The woman bent down, picked up a corner of the sheet and drew it back.
Dean stared down at Topeâs body, hardly able to draw breath. His nostrils dilated and his heart hammered against his rib cage. The grinding of his teeth echoed around his cranium.
âThis was floating on the water next to him,â the CSI said. She handed Dean a clear, sealed bag containing the sodden photograph of Craig Alford and others, all of whom Dean recognized. âDonât know if itâs relevant or not.â
Dean looked at it and shrugged. âInasmuch as two of the people in the photo are now dead in bloody quick time, youâd think it might be.â
Like his predecessor, the man into whose rather large shoes Dean had stepped, very much a mentor and patron to him over the years, Dean liked coincidences because, as that previous incumbent had once declared to him, âCoincidences is clues.â
Steve Flynn ploughed through the day with his clients, a nice family group â mum, dad, two teenage kids â who had rented the boat with him as skipper; Santiago came along and helped with food and drinks and the social side of things, at which she was far more adept than Flynn.
He sailed north out of Santa
Dean scowled at the interruption by one of the detective constables who worked for him on FMIT, then his expression changed to one of puzzlement at the grim look on the younger manâs face. He had a piece of paper in his hand which he held out to Dean.
âBoss ⦠sorry to butt in,â he began.
Because Jerry Topeâs body had floated tight up to the side of the dock wall, it was an hour before a passer-by, a man out walking his dog, paused for breath and happened to spot Topeâs legs in the water below him. The police were on the scene less than ten minutes later, but after that it took some time to retrieve the body because the waterline of the dock was about ten feet below the level of the surrounding walkway. It was impractical to reach down with hooks or ropes, plus the first officer on the scene, having peered perilously over the edge, saw the wounds to the back of the floaterâs head and realized this could be something more than a simple drowning. His first thoughts were that the body of the man could have been the victim of a mugging.
Topeâs body was eventually recovered by use of a Rigid Inflatable Boat owned by the chandlery at the opposite end of the dock and two CSIs and two uniformed constables dragged Tope on board and then brought him ashore on to one of the wooden jetties in the marina, which was then secured and cordoned off as a crime scene.
Rik Dean met the first officer on the scene at the point where Topeâs body had been pointed out to him in the water. The PC indicated exactly where he had seen Tope floating face down in the water, explained how he had seen the wounds in the back of the head but had thought they could have been caused by a blunt instrument. It was only closer inspection that revealed they were bullet entry wounds, and it was only when Tope had been hauled into the RIB that the exit wounds had been seen and Tope identified.
Dean nodded gravely as he ingested the information, all the while looking across the port at the converted warehouses opposite with all those apartments and balconies and windows facing this way.
Then, rather than driving the quarter of a mile or so, he decided to walk along the dockside to where Topeâs body had been drawn on to a jetty.
Although it was not a long walk, it felt so to Dean, but he wanted to do it to get a feel for the scene â even though this was an area he was familiar with.
He reached the small marina, populated by a few uninspiring motor boats, canal barges and small yachts. He was met by a PC at the security gate and allowed through after identifying himself.
Topeâs body lay under a plastic sheet.
âLetâs look,â Dean said to the CSI standing next to him.
The woman bent down, picked up a corner of the sheet and drew it back.
Dean stared down at Topeâs body, hardly able to draw breath. His nostrils dilated and his heart hammered against his rib cage. The grinding of his teeth echoed around his cranium.
âThis was floating on the water next to him,â the CSI said. She handed Dean a clear, sealed bag containing the sodden photograph of Craig Alford and others, all of whom Dean recognized. âDonât know if itâs relevant or not.â
Dean looked at it and shrugged. âInasmuch as two of the people in the photo are now dead in bloody quick time, youâd think it might be.â
Like his predecessor, the man into whose rather large shoes Dean had stepped, very much a mentor and patron to him over the years, Dean liked coincidences because, as that previous incumbent had once declared to him, âCoincidences is clues.â
Steve Flynn ploughed through the day with his clients, a nice family group â mum, dad, two teenage kids â who had rented the boat with him as skipper; Santiago came along and helped with food and drinks and the social side of things, at which she was far more adept than Flynn.
He sailed north out of Santa
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