About the Author

  Award-winning author Heather Peck has enjoyed a varied life. She has been both farmer and agricultural policy adviser, volunteer covid vaccinator and NHS Trust Chair. She bred sheep and alpacas, reared calves, broke ploughs, represented the UK in international negotiations, specialised in emergency response from Chernobyl to bird flu, managed controls over pesticides and GM crops, saw legislation through Parliament and got paid to eat Kit Kats while on secondment to Nestle Rowntree.

  She lives in Norfolk with her partner Gary, two dogs, two cats, two hens and a female rabbit named Hero.

  See more and sign up for Heather's free monthly newsletter

  at

  www.heatherpeckauthor.com

  Also by Heather Peck

  THE DCI GELDARD NORFOLK MYSTERIES

  Secret Places

  Glass Arrows

  Fires of Hate

  The Temenos Remains

  Dig Two Graves

  Beyond Closed Doors

  Buried in the Past

  Death on the Rhine (novella)**

  Death on the Norwich Express (novella)

  Expedition to Death (novella)

  Milestones (PageTurner Book Awards 2024: winner Best Crime novel)

  BOOKS FOR CHILDREN

  Tails of Two Spaniels

  The Animals of White Cows Farm

  The Pixie and the Bear

  Spinning into the Dark

  not all roads lead home... DCI GREG GELDARD BOOK 8

  Heather Peck

  Ormesby Publishing

  Published in 2025 by Ormesby Publishing

  Ormesby St Margaret

  Norfolk

  www.ormesbypublishing.co.uk

  Text copyright © Heather Peck 2025

  Author photograph by John Thompson 2021

  The right of Heather Peck to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 Sections 77 and 78.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination. Or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Page design and typesetting by Ormesby Publishing

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Gary for everything

  and many thanks yet again to my beta readers Geoff Dodgson, Alison Tayler and Gary Westlake for their constructive criticism and comments.

  This book is all the better for your help.

  Readers may notice a new authenticity in the chapters involving police dogs. This is entirely due to the advice and guidance of Clive Myhill and Neil Mace. Huge thanks to both of you for sharing your expertise. Any mistakes are mine!

  Thanks also to Sharon Gray at CluedUpEditing for her meticulous and knowledgeable proof editing.

  Contents

  Key Characters

  Glossary

  1. Norfolk: 31 August 2020

  2. Addenbrooke’s Hospital, Cambridge: 1 September 2020

  3. 2 September 2020

  4. Cycle 2

  5. Thursday 3 September 2020

  6. Friday 4 September 2020

  7. Monday 7 September 2020 – back to work

  8. Tuesday 8 September 2020

  9. Cycle 3

  10. Later on September 10

  11. Evening: 10 September

  12. 11 September

  13. Postmortems

  14. Next day: 12 September 2020

  15. Out and about

  16. Getting started – Wymondham: 12 September

  17. Aftermath

  18. Slow progress

  19. Evening: journeys home

  20. 13 September 2020

  21. Further investigations

  22. 14 September 2020

  23. Kain Smith

  24. Alpacas and neighbours

  25. The search

  26. Research and leads

  27. More digging

  28. Taking stock

  29. Checking up

  30. Checking out

  31. Checking around

  32. Man down

  33. The reckoning – part one

  34. The reckoning – part two

  35. Following up

  36. Winding up

  37. Five months later

  38. Action here

  Hungry for more?

  Key Characters

  Norfolk police

  Chief Superintendent Margaret Tayler

  Main investigative team:

  DCI Greg Geldard

  DI Jim Henning

  DI Chris Mathews

  DS Jill Hayes

  DCs Bill Street, Jenny Warren and Steve Hall

  PCs Brian Foxton, Vicky Allen, George White , Jack Reed

  Ned George Lead crime scene investigator

  Yvonne Berry Deputy crime scene investigator

  PCs Philips and Scouller Dog handlers

  PDs Meg and Pat Springer spaniel search dogs

  Legal services

  Frank Parker Crown Prosecution Service

  Kenneth Wood and Mr Gregson Solicitors

  Medical experts

  Dr Paisley Police pathologist

  Harper Vaughn Forensic anthropologist

  Toby Blackwood Forensic anthropologist

  Dr Lancaster Director and Caldicott Guardian at the Mental Health Trust

  Other participants

  Mr Geldard senior Greg’s father

  Bobby Greg’s cat

  Tally Chris’s foul-mouthed parrot

  Diana Grain Teacher partner of DS Jill Hayes

  Joanne Hamilton Wife of Fred Hamilton

  Joanne Hamilton/Chalmers Their daughter

  Roy Thurlow and Irwin Lloyd Retired vicars

  Phil Saunders Carpenter

  Jessy Phil’s Jack Russell

  Tina Booth Phil’s neighbour

  Carol Hodds Care worker

  Kain Smith Young and enthusiastic cyclist

  Tristan Smith Alpaca farmer and weaver – no relation!

  Lucas Willis Mate of Kain’s

  Ann Cooper Retired lady

  Shirley Crabtree Not the wrestler

  Ben Lyell Chef

  Frank Gillan Boat engineer

  Fran Rix Dog walker

  Esther Meadowcroft Proprietor of Meadowcroft Eggs

  Moon River Off-grid dweller and forager

  Warren Thorne Tree surgeon

  Glossary

  a ‘living’ in the Church of England, the term applied to an appointment such as parish priest (vicar).

  ANPR Automatic Number Plate Recognition

  Caldicott Guardian the Director on the Board of an NHS Health Trust, with the responsibility for ensuring patient confidentiality

  CCTV Closed Circuit Television

  Dyke a deep ditch

  On the huh Norfolk colloquialism for ‘messed up’

  Shirley Crabtree the real name of the heavy-weight wrestler known as Big Daddy

  RTA road traffic accident

  1

  Norfolk: 31 August 2020

  After the light traffic of the past few months, the roads were, unfortunately for the cyclist wobbling a little at the edge of the quiet lane, getting back to normal. She’d already had to abandon the centre ground to get out of the way of an oncoming tractor. That had necessitated a hurried foot down, to save herself from flatlining on the grass verge. She’d acknowledged the cheery wave from the driver and pushed herself back into the saddle with another alarming wobble, reflecting that the old saying – you never forgot how to ride a bike – was some distance short of accurate – in her case at least. It had taken several days’ swerving and teetering up and down her drive before she’d felt competent to emerge onto the quiet roads of lockdown. Even then, she’d fallen off twice – once onto the middle of a, luckily empty, road when her arthritic knee had failed to bend swiftly enough to reach the pedal. Once into a wild rose, from which she had extricated herself with much caution and considerable difficulty.

  She was startled by the blast of a horn behind her, as the driver of a battered pickup lost patience with her slow progress. She pulled as close to the verge as she dared, and he roared past, much too close, with another toot of the horn, then disappeared round the bend ahead. She shook her head and pedalled on, reflecting that if she’d held him up at all, it must have been for all of thirty seconds. If the traffic is going to get much worse, then I’d better go back to my exercise bike, she thought. But I’ll miss the fresh air, the scents and the sights.

  The sound of an engine approaching round the bend drew her attention back to the road, and she was surprised to see what looked like the same pickup coming back. That was her last thought. The four-by-four, coming much too fast and on the wrong side of the road, hit her right leg a glancing blow before scraping along her rear wheel. She flew sideways across the verge and went spinning into the ditch, landing face up with all the wind knocked out of her.

r />   After the hot summer, the ditch was dry, but that was where the good news ended. Her cycling helmet had come off, and something was wrong with her leg. She tried to move, but agony shot through her right side. She was trapped, head and torso in the ditch, legs up on the higher ground. A shadow moved between her and the sun, and a pang of relief went through her. Help was on the way. Then her bicycle dropped on top of her and the shadow moved away. She tried to call out, to beg for help, but she had no breath to spare.

  The pickup driver moved away, dusting their hands, and got back into the vehicle. Looking back, they noted that, from the road, all that was visible above the edge of the ditch was a foot and the slowly turning rear bicycle wheel. Then the truck drove off.

  2

  Addenbrooke’s Hospital, Cambridge: 1 September 2020

  Greg pushed the wheelchair, with its furiously protesting passenger, out through the main reception and on towards the car park.

  ‘I keep telling you, I’m absolutely fine to walk,’ Chris insisted. ‘Don’t treat me like an invalid.’ Her mother had had enough. She stepped in front of the wheelchair, and Greg had no choice but to stop abruptly or run her over. Indeed, he stopped so sharply that Chris shot forwards in the chair and was only saved from an impromptu decanting onto the pavement by her mother’s hand on her chest.

  ‘Give the man a break,’ Jane Mathews ordered. ‘It’s a half mile yomp to where the car is parked, and you’re behaving like a toddler. You’re a bit old for the terrible twos! And if you keep on like this, I wouldn’t blame him for leaving you here.’

  Greg realised it was relief from terrible anxiety that was making Chris’s mother so harsh, and hoped Chris realised it too.

  ‘When you two scary women have quite finished,’ he said in as mild a voice as he could manage, ‘we’re nearly there anyway. Let’s save the fighting for when we get home.’

  Jane Mathews stepped back, Chris managed a slightly lop-sided grin, and Greg resumed his pushing.

  Leaving Jane to assist Chris into the car, if allowed, he returned the borrowed chair to reception. By the time he got back, Jane was in her own car and driving off, waving as she went by, while Chris waited in the passenger seat of his red BMW, her fuchsia pink jeans clashing horribly with the paintwork of the car. She was flicking through something on her phone.

  ‘Mum said she was in a hurry to get back, so she’s gone on ahead,’ said Chris, looking up. ‘Sorry,’ she added. ‘This is going to take a bit of getting used to.’

  ‘Which, this?’ asked Greg, fastening his seat belt.

  ‘All of it. The missing couple of weeks, the tiredness, the baby.’ Chris was referring to the triple whammy of the induced coma that had followed her being attacked during a domestic abuse case, the remains of the traumatic brain injury that had been inflicted, and the overwhelming news, on being brought back to consciousness, that she was pregnant.

  ‘I hate to admit it, but you’re right. I do tire quickly. And whether that’s my battered brain or the baby, I can’t tell. And I know I’m being an unreasonable, stroppy cow…’

  ‘But you’re my unreasonable, stroppy cow,’ said Greg. ‘And it’s an improvement on being comatose. If a rather small improvement,’ he added with a wicked grin.

  ‘Swine!’ she said, and the smile seemed more genuine this time. ‘Look, I’ll do you a deal. I’ll try to rein in the temper, if you stop treating me with kid gloves. I can’t stand all this walking round me on eggshells. I’d rather you just told me when I’m being an old grouch bucket. Or better still, just walk away and give me some space.’

  ‘I’ll try both solutions,’ promised Greg. ‘But you’ll have to let me spoil you a bit, oh mother of my child.’

  ‘Once a week, no more,’ said Chris.

  ‘OK. It’s a deal.’ Greg put the car into gear and headed for the exit and the road north, to Norfolk and home.

  ***

  At his desk in Norfolk Police HQ, Wymondham, DI Jim Henning was praying for Greg’s prompt return. There was so much paper on his desk, largely due to Greg’s absence on compassionate leave, he couldn’t even find space to put down his bacon butty. Perching it on top of a – very boring – financial report, he took a swig of his coffee and flipped through the morning’s intelligence summary. Unwrapping a deliciously fragrant pile of back bacon, just on the right side of crispy and barely contained within two crusty slices of supremely fresh bread, he took an enormous bite. As he caught the dribble of fat trickling down his chin on what remained of the top slice of bread he noted, with resignation, that within the miniscule space of time the sandwich had sat in its wrappings on the paperwork, a substantial quantity of grease had transferred itself to the report he was due to pass on to the Chief Superintendent. He was dabbing it to no avail with his clean hankie, when a cough attracted his attention to the woman in the doorway.

  ‘I hope that’s not for me,’ she said, nodding at the now translucent top pages of the report while taking the seat in front of the desk. Jim stared at Chief Superintendent Margaret Tayler with faint horror and gulped down the last of his bacon so hurriedly he choked on it and had to tip some coffee after it to persuade it to move on down his gullet.

  ‘No! Well, yes,’ he admitted. ‘Everything’s for you ultimately, isn’t it?’

  ‘Glad you’ve noticed,’ she replied briskly. ‘Now, how’re you getting on without Greg?’

  ‘Struggling,’ he admitted. ‘I had no idea how much of this crap he got through. Sorry, I meant…’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ said Margaret with a dry smile as she ran her hand through her fluffy brown hair. If the gesture was meant to tidy it, it didn’t. ‘Just bring me up to date, will you?’

  ‘OK. Let’s deal with the issues that’ve been put to bed. The Waters brothers, Ade and Nick, have at last seen sense and put their hands up for the car thefts and arson attacks on farms. The last bit of evidence that placed Nick’s fingerprints in the Range Rover found at Felixstowe docks clinched it. It’ll be a while before the cases make it to court, but the hearings should be short.

  ‘Similarly, Joanne Hamilton has admitted the unlawful burial of her son and the manslaughter of her mother, along with multiple counts of fraud arising from her masquerading as her mother for several years. That accounts for two of the bodies found in the garden in Ormesby, leaving us with the problem of the unidentified third body.’

  ‘I thought that was Joanne Hamilton’s father.’

  ‘So did we. And it still looks like it’s the body of the Mr Hamilton who’d been living in Great Yarmouth. But the preliminary DNA results have bowled us a googly. They say it’s not Joanne Hamilton’s father. No relation.’

  ‘Really!’ Margaret picked up a pencil from among the mess of papers on the desk, apparently for the sole purpose of tapping it irritatingly on her teeth.

  ‘Either way, we don’t have a suspect for the murder, if it was a murder. Joanne Hamilton claims to know nothing about the body, and unless she’s a superlative actress, I’d say that’s genuine. She certainly seemed surprised when Greg and I asked her about it.’

  ‘You said “if it was a murder”?’

  ‘We’re treating it as a murder, not least because of how the body was buried in the garden, but the doc says she can’t be definitive about the cause of death. Not from what she has to work with. The prime suspect was Joanne Hamilton’s mother, until we got the DNA back. She must still be a front runner, but as she’s dead…’ Jim shrugged. ‘Anyway, we’re waiting on more results, but at the moment it seems likely to end up as a cold case.’

  ‘What else have you got on?’ asked Margaret, nodding her understanding.

  ‘The usual drink, sex, drugs, and rock and roll,’ said Jim. ‘To be honest, I don’t feel I have a proper grip on what else is out there. I just haven’t had time to give it the thought it needs, not with Greg missing and us still short-handed without Sarah.’ He looked at Margaret reproachfully. His colleague DI Sarah Laurence had never been replaced after her sudden departure following a death in custody. 1

  ‘The good news is, I believe Greg’s back at work tomorrow,’ said Margaret.