I’d say he tripped and fell there. Last casing from a coup de grâce to the head was in the sand directly below. Not where we found him, no. Like I say, he probably rolled with the currents a bit over the weekend.’

She could see it — a chase along these jagged rocks and bushy fringes. Then an execution. Both the victim’s shins were a mess of cuts and scratches, some deep… his fingers and palms had also taken a beating. ‘Hard to run along those rocks,’ she observed.

Jean-Marc confirmed. ‘Examiner says he fell more than once.’

She suggested, ‘Maybe the chaser had some of the same difficulties, left something for us.’

‘We’re looking.’ Then, in his usual low-key manner, Jean-Marc hit right on it. ‘I’d say the gun’s your best indicator. Such a weak throw. Too easy to find. I’d say someone panicked. Which probably means: not a pro.’

Merci, Jean-Marc. ‘Think there was more than one?’ Chasing the victim.

‘Not clear…’ Jean-Marc Pouliot scratched at an ugly red spot on his inner arm. The breeze was minimal, the horseflies owned the shoreline. ‘Those kids didn’t help us any. Made a mess.’

‘No ID beyond a missing wallet?’

‘No. His things might help locate him. His suit especially. We’ll find his tailor.’

‘Or we may get lucky with the gun.’ She noted the serial number in her book. Snazzy clothes like that — maybe with a gang. Payback. Punishment. But her colleague was right: no pro would leave the weapon so easily found. Maybe some desperate soul fighting back against the gangs?

‘And we have this guy,’ Pouliot said, now kneeling to unfold a rectangular package carefully wrapped in plastic. It was a painting of an old man.

He’s taking a break for tea, pouring the brew carefully into a cup, a cup without a handle held lovingly in the palm of his hand. Not a tea cup. More like a cereal bowl. Un bol. His tools, pliers and a punch are most evident, and several pots make a workaday shambles of his table.