The Scent of Death

One

There were five of us out in the field that bleak February day. Five pairs of canine nostrils sucking each new shade of odour from the sodden earth beneath. Other than my Labrador, Dudley, there were two bloodhounds, a German shepherd and a beagle somewhere out there in the late-winter mist, each specifically trained in the hunting down of human remains. Recent, semi-decayed or else completely decomposed - it was all the same to them. Even just a tooth or the merest fragment of bone was enough. If death was anywhere within their radar, those dogs would sniff it out.

It was approaching five pm, the scant daylight which filtered through the mist already beginning to fade. I was following a path which divided two agricultural fields, the nearest lines of furrow visible to each side. Dudley was off somewhere to my right, beyond my limited sphere of vision, his pants of exertion muffled in the moist air.

From my shoulder radio came the static-fizzed voice of Dominic Kelso: "Your location please Jennifer." A retired police dog handler, Kelso had for several years served as search coordinator of the Wynmouthshire cadaver team. It was he who was tasked with overall strategy, the tracking of the team's movements on a 1 to 10,000 ordnance survey map.

I pulled my GPS tracker from coat pocket. "SS 571 643. A mile or so north-east of the village of Kelby." My voice bounced with the steady pace of my step, the words blurred by a slight breathlessness. Dudley and I had hit the road at quarter to six that morning, a fifty mile journey through the twisty backroads of the county before heading out into the fields at the first faint light of dawn. Though at 32 I was considerably younger than the majority of my fellow handlers, and made a conscious effort to keep myself in good shape, even I could come close to exhaustion at times.

A little further ahead I could discern a jagged wall of darkness through the mist. "Looks like we're about to enter a wooded area."

"Just a quick look," advised Kelso, "see if he picks anything up. After that you need to get yourself back to the village. Can't have you out there alone in the dark Jennifer, you hear? We'll have a patrol car swing by and pick you up."

With that, a crackle of static signalled that the call had come to end. As I entered the treeline a few moments later, Dudley cantered briefly into view between the silhouettes of the trunks to my right, his red search dog harness a rare flash of colour in the gloom. Circling behind me, he then shot off to my left, disappeared back into the whiteness.

The mist seemed to grow thicker with each passing step, the sub-zero temperature slipping still further. As I paused to check the map, I now required my flashlight, its illumination jerking in my shivering hand. The woods were a little larger than I'd anticipated, a square mile or so it seemed.

Kelso was right: I needed to get back to the nearby village. Wait for the police patrol car to come and whisk me off to the bed and breakfast which had been booked for us in the town of Woodbridge, the centre of the search zone. I needed to stuff my mouth with something more substantial than just another energy bar. Collapse like a bulldozed chimney into bed and snore for nine hours straight. Today had gone. It was time to think about tomorrow.

When the person you're looking for is a 10-year-old child, logic and rationale can be difficult concepts to grasp however. And so we pushed further on, Dudley and I. Battled our way through the darkness and the mist, the beam of my flashlight bouncing off each approaching tree, the soles of my boots occasionally slipping on the exposed roots.

Meghan Shaw's face had been all over the regional bulletins of course. A school portrait - white blouse, blue jumper. Such a pretty thing, a tight-lipped smile dimpling her cheeks. Sleek brown hair had been woven into a plait, its white-bowed tail snaking over her shoulder. Young. So tragically young, puberty still some dark unimaginable ambush lurking far ahead.