No Mark Upon Her

really, as a paper bag was nestled inside the plastic one—and pulled out a white scrap of fabric. A woman’s stretchy knickers, the utilitarian, moisture-wicking kind that absorbed sweat from a rowing workout. A perfect scent article, and horribly familiar to Kieran.
    Tavie held the pants out to the dogs, an inch from their noses. “Smell it, Tosh. Smell it, Finn,” she encouraged in the high, singsong voice that made the dogs quiver with excitement.
    The dogs sniffed obediently, and Kieran imagined, as he always did, the rush of scent molecules flowing into their noses and triggering the receptors in their brains, a sensation that humans could never duplicate. For the first time, the idea made him feel sick rather than envious.
    Traffic crackled over the radio as the teams on either side of the river marked their positions, and Kieran heard the distant drone of a helicopter. Thames Valley Police had got the chopper up. The chopper would search the area simultaneously, using both sight and thermal imaging.
    Tucking the pants back into her pack, Tavie said, “Find her, Tosh, find!”
    But before Kieran could echo the command to Finn, both dogs began to whine and paw at his legs. Finn jumped up, putting his front paws on Kieran’s chest, his signal for a find.
    “Finn, off.” Kieran pushed the dog down as Tavie stared at him.
    “Kieran, what the hell? Did you touch any of my kit?”
    He knew she was worried about more than confusing the dogs. She’d have signed off on chain of evidence for all the scent articles and would be responsible if anything had been contaminated.
    “Of course not. I haven’t been near your pack.” It was only half a lie. He tried to pull himself together. “Come on, we’re losing ground here.” Turning to the dogs, he clapped his hands. “Finn! Find her!” he managed, but he couldn’t bring himself to say her name. He began to trot towards the river, the signal for Finn to begin checking the scent cone. Tavie followed, and the dogs quickly ranged out in front of them, falling into their familiar zigzag pattern.
    The wind was blowing upriver, the ideal working condition for the dogs, but he knew the morning’s heavy rain would have seriously reduced the dogs’ chances of finding an air scent.
    Just as they reached the river, they heard the team directly across the river on the radio. Scott’s voice came through intermittently. “Dogs . . . alerting . . . can’t—”
    “They’re just opposite us,” said Tavie, then called Tosh to her with the Wait command. “Look. Can you see them? They should be just there, where Benham’s Wood comes down to the water.”
    Kieran skidded to a halt behind her, gazing past the end of Temple Island towards the cluster of trees on the far side of the river. Then he saw a flash of liver and white as Scott’s springer spaniel broke through the heavy cover at the water’s edge, followed an instant later by his partner Sarah’s golden retriever.
    The dogs bounced excitedly as Scott and Sarah appeared behind them, but neither dog ran back to its handler to signal a find.
    The handlers came to the bank, squatted, and reached out. Sarah’s voice, a little high, came over the radio just as Kieran made out what they were pulling free of the reeds. “It’s a boat,” she said. “We’ve found the boat.”
    It floated hull up, the distinctive colors—white with a thin blue stripe—visible from across the water. One slender oar was still fastened in its oarlock.
    “It’s a Filippi.” Somehow it infuriated Kieran that Sarah didn’t know. “What—”
    “No sign of the victim,” Scott chimed in. “And the dogs aren’t alerting strongly on either the water or the bank.”
    Kieran keyed his radio again. “Check the trainers.” He saw Scott look up at him, and even at a distance Kieran could see he didn’t understand. “Turn the boat over. Check the Velcro straps on the trainers.”
    “Kieran,” said Tavie, “the boat’s evidence.”
    “Just do it,” he told Scott, ignoring her. Rowers slipped their feet into shoes that were glued to the footboard of the shell. And while it was possible to get one’s feet free without unfastening the Velcro closures—the shoes weren’t meant to be tight—Kieran felt an illogical hope that if Becca had released the tabs, she might have swum free.
    He saw Scott shrug, then lean forward, struggling to right the shell, soaking himself in the process. “You’ll have to release the oar,”