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patch was losing its war to keep weeds at bay
from the adjacent unploughed field. A low-flying military aircraft – the vibration of which she could feel through her feet – screamed across the sky above her, drowning out
Naylor’s voice.
    ‘Can you repeat that, Ron? I’m being bombarded by UFOs.’
    ‘Yeah, I heard.’ Naylor shuffled papers at the other end. ‘I said she was a student. Twenty-one years old.’
    ‘Studying at Durham?’
    ‘As it happens.’
    The portrait of Jessica Finch flew into Daniels’ head, a young woman at the prime of her life with everything to live for. ‘Pretty blonde girl? Very tall?’
    ‘You psychic now?’
    A second wave of military aircraft passed overhead.
    ‘We need to meet,’ she said.

9
    D etective Superintendent Ron Naylor turned up at twelve thirty, as planned, at a pub not far from the Northumbria/ Durham force border. Daniels had been there ten minutes
already, having fought her way through a myriad of smokers at the front door, and used the dead time to scan the morning’s papers and order a coffee at the bar.
    The room was busy when she arrived, with people spilling in from offices on the high street looking for a quick bite to eat before heading back to work. The music was too loud for the time of
day, many of the tables set for dining. The aroma of food from the kitchen made her hungry. A banana for breakfast hadn’t been sufficient to carry her through to lunch.
    Ron Naylor tapped her on the shoulder. He was around six feet tall with bright eyes and a winning smile, going a bit thin on top. He looked really smart in a dark suit, pinstriped shirt and
striped tie, a combination that suited his switched-on personality.
    ‘Got an appointment with your bank manager?’ Daniels grinned. ‘Good to see you, Ron.’
    She leaned forward and gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. They’d known each other since training school and had worked together often, mostly on joint training initiatives, but
occasionally on enquiries that straddled the two forces. They ordered more coffee and had a quick chat before setting off. The missing girl’s house was just a few minutes away.
    Daniels was still curious to know why someone of his rank had involved himself in the case of a missing girl. Different if he knew she was dead. Naylor explained that a rumour circulating at his
station had become fact. Some nasty individuals were encouraging students into prostitution, preying on their financial hardship in order to get them on the game. A group of worried parents, one of
whom he knew personally, had begged him to nip it in the bud.
    ‘You made any arrests?’
    ‘I’m working on it.’
    They had reached the house: a part brick, part pebble-dashed 1960s mid-terraced, situated on a quiet tree-lined street on the outskirts of Durham City. Amy Grainger’s mother let them in,
showed them into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Her husband stood nervously by her side, his right hand on her shoulder. The man was unshaven and unwashed, having been up all night at
his wife’s request, searching every place he could think of where their daughter might have gone.
    ‘As I’ve already explained to Superintendent Naylor, Amy hasn’t been home the last couple of nights. Mind you, she’s done this before. But she usually sends a text saying
she’s on her way home and we’re not to worry.’ Mr Grainger looked down at his other half. Mrs Grainger sat rigid and upright, her arms folded across her chest. They had obviously
had words. ‘I told my wife we should’ve waited, not wasted your precious time.’
    Daniels could see that the couple were beside themselves with worry.
    ‘You’re not wasting anyone’s time,’ she said. ‘Do you have a recent photograph of Amy I can look at?
    ‘Will that one do?’ Mrs Grainger pointed at a photograph on the mantelpiece.
    Daniels twisted in her seat. As soon as she clapped eyes on the girl, a fist closed around her throat,