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“I’ll come with you,” volunteered Phil.

“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “We’ll start with the teenager, Jessica Bradley.”

“That’s been in all the papers,” said Phil. “Left the Happy Night Club at one in the morning and just disappeared. The police haven’t been able to find a trace of her.”

“I’ve interviewed the people who run the club,” said Agatha, “and her friends. She left alone. Doesn’t seem to have a boyfriend. I don’t know what we can find out that the police can’t.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Phil, “we could walk from the club to her home, just to get a feel of the area.”

“I’ve done that,” snapped Agatha. “The police have even had a look-alike on television doing that.”

“Sometimes people try so hard, they’re not really looking,” said Phil. “Wouldn’t hurt just to take the walk again.”

“Oh, well,” sighed Agatha. “It’s better than sitting here. Give me her photo and those cat and dog photos, Mrs. Freedman. Who knows? We might get lucky and find one of them in the street.”

They made their way to the Happy Night Club. It was in a dingy backstreet.

“It’s quite a walk,” said Agatha.

“As far as I remember,” said Phil, “she lives in Old Brewery Road out by the bypass.”

“Right. I don’t know what you hope to achieve by this walk, but I’m prepared to try anything.”

The day was becoming quite hot. Agatha had put on a pair of high-heeled sandals that morning and her feet were beginning to ache. The houses began to thin out as they approached the bypass. “We take the bridge over the bypass,” said Agatha.

As they reached the centre of the bridge, Phil said, “Stop!”

“What?”

“Just want to look. How long’s she been missing?”

“Three days.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

Phil was carrying his camera bag. He knelt down and opened it and took out a camera and a telescopic lens.

“Going to photograph the bypass?”

“Sometimes I can see things with this that other people miss.”

Normally Agatha would have protested, but it was a relief to stop walking and ease her feet.

“It’s a high climb up to the bridge,” said Phil after what seemed like an age, “and there wouldn’t be much traffic on the bypass at that time of night. Now, if I were Jessica, I wouldn’t bother climbing the bridge, I’d nip across the dual carriageway. So say she’s standing over there waiting to cross and a car pulls up.”

“I don’t think any teenager is going to get into a strange car in the middle of the night.”

“True. But what if it were someone she knew?”

“So, Sherlock, we’re worse off than ever. She gets in the car, is driven off and could be anywhere in England.”

“Tell me about her parents.”

“Then let’s get back off this bridge. I’m frying up here. There’s a nice bit of shade in the grass on the other side.”

They walked over and climbed up a grassy bank. “Father, Frank Bradley, works in an ice cream factory. Forties. Cut up about his daughter. Wife about the same age. Tired-looking, cries the whole time.”

“What were they about, letting Jessica stay out so late? I mean, she’s only sixteen.”

“They had told her to be home by eleven. When she didn’t show, the father went out looking for her.”

“What if the father did find her? What if she got in the car and he lost his temper and she cheeked him and he thumped her too hard? Have the police looked closely at the family?”

“Yes. First thing they thought of.”

“Okay.” Phil’s eyes looked oddly young in his wrinkled face. “But they wouldn’t make any particular push. Grieving parents and all that.”

“I thought of the father right off as well as the police,” said Agatha. “But I’d swear to God the man is genuine.”

“What about uncles? Neighbours?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha crossly.

“You know, we could go back and get the car and pretend that she was picked up and drive along the dual carriageway and see if there’s anywhere to dump a body. The police can’t search everywhere.”

“I’m the detective, not you,” snapped Agatha. Phil looked at her mournfully.

“It’s the heat,” said Agatha by way of apology. “Look, my feet hurt. Be an angel and get the car and I’ll wait here.”

“Righto,” said Phil cheerfully.