No Mark Upon Her by Deborah Crombie Page A

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,” Kieran said into the radio. “Just unscrew the lock.”
    Scott fumbled, his mouth moving in a silent swear, handing the pink-bladed oar to Sarah. Then he had the shell right side up and was peering into the stern. “They’re open, the Velcro things.”
    “Okay, don’t touch anything else,” broke in Tavie. “Scott, you and Sarah will have to stay there and secure the scene for the police. I’ll have another team leapfrog you on that side, as chances are they’re not going to find anything upstream. Kieran and I will continue on to Hambleden Lock on this side.”
    Scott gave her a wave of acknowledgment, but Kieran was already turning away, sending Finn out with an arm signal and the Find command. Tosh shot out to join Finn, a black and tan streak momentarily merging with Finn’s black silhouette, then she moved away from the Labrador, settling into her own search pattern.
    Kieran heard Tavie on the radio, the words unintelligible, fading as they were caught by the wind, then the crunch of her booted feet on the gravel as she jogged to catch up with him.
    “If she kicked herself free, she could be caught somewhere, injured,” he said. “Or unconscious.” He scanned the opposite bank. There was no way to cross the river without going back to Henley or on to Hambleden Lock.
    “Kieran, even if she did kick free, she’s been in the water all night. You know how cold it is.” Tavie’s fingers brushed his arm, slowing him until he had to look at her. “You need to leave the search. Now.”
    He saw that she wasn’t angry at his insubordination, but afraid for him.
    Shaking his head, he said, “I can’t. I’ve got to see—she might be hurt . . .”
    The drone of the chopper grew louder. Looking up, Kieran saw it downriver, moving slowly, inexorably, towards them.
    Tavie raised her voice against the increasing noise. “They’re not picking up anything on the thermal imaging.” She was telling him that if Becca was there, she was cold. Too cold.
    “She could be hypothermic, under cover somewhere.” But they were passing the manicured grounds of the business college at Greenlands across the river now, and the meadow ran down to the path on their own side. There was no easy cover on either bank.
    This time Tavie didn’t contradict him, but settled in beside him at a steady trot. The dogs were working fast, but she didn’t slow them down, and he knew it was because she didn’t believe they would find anything here.
    The path turned and Hambleden Mill came into view across the river, its perfect mirror image below it in the water, like a painting on glass. Above it, dark clouds were building once more, a bruise against the sky.
    On the near side, the water was flowing faster, rushing towards the weir. It flowed between the stanchions of the footbridge in great molten sheets the color of peat, and poured over the terraced weir in foaming, plunging chaos. A piece of driftwood had hung on one of the