December Newsletter

Hello all, and welcome to December.

I wonder, are you in the Christmas-decorations-up-in-mid-November camp? Or of the not-until-Christmas-Eve party? I fall somewhere in the middle, so those of you who get my Christmas letter - brace yourselves! It will be winging your way soon. 

November has gone by in a mad whirl. The discussions with the publisher I mentioned last month have borne fruit, and I’ve signed with Joffe Books! Big fanfare!!

They are a major publisher and I’m beyond excited that they approached me. They will be republishing the whole Geldard series next year, and will follow up with subsequent books.

As regards new books, I’m happy to say that Final Cut is with the proofreader and I’ve made good progress with Book 11, provisionally entitled Cry Wolf. I also have a rough outline for Book 12, and for a trilogy of historical novels. More about those next month. 

Those of you who wait for the audiobook versions, the good news is that Scott is on track to finish recordings of Last Act by the end of this week, so it should be available before Christmas as promised. The blogtour of Last Act was also very successful. 

Here’s one of the early reviews: 

“Another great crime novel from Heather Peck. This is the ninth novel in the DCI Greg Geldard series and is just as good as all the others!

I love the mix of the old familiar characters and getting to meet new ones. I have enjoyed watching the characters grow and develop through the series.

Last Act sees DCI Geldard get a promotion and whilst dealing with the office politics surrounding that has several murders and attempted murders on his hands! There is certainly no shortage of action. I highly recommend for any crime novel enthusiast.”

For those who live in or near Norfolk, I’m at the Scratby Christmas Fair on 6 December with copies of all my books and a giveaway! Hope to see some of you there.

Finally, as promised, here is a new short story, especially for you. 

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. 

See you in 2026.

Heather

Dog snack

Fern and Bracken were digging in the corner of the garden. Again. It’s bad enough having every molehill turned into a molehole, but digging up the flower beds is strictly forbidden. They know that. At least, I think they do: judging from the guilty looks when I shout at them. 

It wouldn’t be so bad if I was fit enough to put the damage right. But I’m still getting over a hip replacement, so digging is a no go. The hole has to stay until the jobbing gardener comes back on Friday. 

I call the dogs away, and they trot in, very pleased with themselves. Fern is chewing something, but my instruction to ‘drop’ is met with a hurried swallow and it’s too late for me to recover whatever disgusting item she’s dug up from the garden. 

The following day she seems a little off colour. I put it down to the - no doubt rotten - item she’d eaten the day before, and stand by for copious quantities of vomit and/or diarrhoea. But nothing. Nonetheless, she seems unusually languid. This is a dog that can levitate off a cushion to the backdoor at the mere suggestion of a letter hitting the mat. But not today. By midafternoon, while still lethargic, she somehow manages to be restless at the same time. And she still hasn’t done a poo. I’m getting worried and after dithering about for a bit, I ring the vet and get an emergency appointment. 

It’s a quick drive to the next village and I take both dogs, as Bracken doesn’t like being left on her own. We’re called from the waiting room without delay, and the vet takes no more than a quick look before telling me ‘You were quite right to bring her in.’ He sticks his head round the door and shouts for a veterinary nurse, who joins him at a near run. I’m beginning to panic at this point and Bracken is looking worried. 

The two vet specialists have a mutter to each other, then the surgeon turns to me.

‘With your permission, I’m going to take her straight into surgery,’ he said. ‘We’ll do an X-ray to make sure, but I’m pretty certain she swallowed something that’s causing a blockage, and the sooner I operate the better.’ 

In short order, I find myself signing the authorisation for them to proceed, and back in the waiting room, a distressed Bracken sitting on my knee. I tell them I’ll wait to see how Fern copes with the operation before heading home. 

It’s less than half an hour when I see the surgeon come out in his scrubs and have a quick word with the receptionist. I stand, intending to ask him how well she’s doing, but he waves me back down.

‘In a moment,’ he says in a rather brusque way, and whispers to the receptionist again. She gives me a funny look, nods to the surgeon and disappears into the back room. 

I’m panicking again by now, but it’s only five minutes or so, when the surgeon reappears and tells me, ‘Fern has stood the operation well. We’ll keep her in overnight, and you can see her tomorrow.’ He sounds rather over hearty, but I put that down to the lateness of the hour. 

‘What was the problem?’ I ask.

‘Oh, just a bit of a blockage, all sorted now. If you don’t mind, there are things I need to do.’ He waved me goodbye, in a dismissive sort of way, so Bracken and I returned to my car. 

I called at the farm shop on my way home, to get a pork pie for Bracken’s and my tea. I thought we both needed a bit of a treat after the stress of the day. We were both looking forward to a quiet evening and having Fern home in the morning. At least, I realised he hadn’t exactly said I’d be able to ring her home, but I hoped so. It was a bit of a shock, therefore, to find three cars with blue flashing lights in my drive and swarm of policemen and people in paper overalls all over my garden. 

Bracken and I get out of my car. Bracken is barking, no surprise there, and I feel like joining her. I try the human equivalent.

‘What the devil are you doing in my garden?’ I shout at the nearest officer. 

‘You’re the owner?’ he asks me. When I nod, he turns to shout ‘He’s here sir.’ A plainclothes officer bustles over. 

‘Name?’ he demands. 

‘How about you give me yours first,’ I reply. ‘You’re the one trespassing.’

‘If you want to play it that way,’ he mutters, clearly irritated. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Ward. And you are?’

‘The home owner, James Farrell,’ I say. ‘Now tell me what the hell’s going on.’

We’re interrupted by a shout from the back garden. ‘Found it sir, or most of it anyway.’ 

Inspector Ward stiffens, then looks back at me. ‘Please go into your house. This officer will accompany you. I’ll be with you in a moment.’ He ignores all my further questions and I give up. I pick up the pork pie, unlock the front door and take Bracken in, followed by PC Plod. 

‘Coffee?’ I ask him.

‘No thanks sir,’ he says and takes up a stance in the corner of the kitchen, while I put the kettle on and put the pie on a plate.

Bracken is sitting looking at me with her ‘surely you’re going to share’ expression on her face. ‘You won’t mind if I have my tea,’ I say, taking the remains of a loaf from the breadbin and the butter from the fridge. I’ve just sat down at the kitchen table with the pie, a tomato and the bread and butter when the Inspector comes in. 

‘Mr Farrell, I’d like you to accompany me down to the station,’ he says.

‘What!’ In contravention of a lifetime of good manners, I’m talking with my mouth full. I swallow hastily and try again. ‘What the hell for? Look, I’m not going anywhere until you explain what the hell you’re doing in my garden.’ I feed a chunk of pie to the delighted Bracken. Suddenly I’ve lost my appetite. Ward sits down opposite and sighs.

‘Mr Farrell, we know about the body buried in your garden.’ I just gape. I’m completely lost for words. ‘When your veterinary surgeon removed human finger bones and a man’s signet ring from your dog’s gut, he phoned us. You’d already told him where your dog found its unusual snack. So the body wasn’t hard to find. Judging from what we’ve just dug up, it hadn’t been there long. So, who was it? And how did they get there?’

It’s a moment or two before I get my breath back. I explain about my hip, about the not digging, about my weekly gardener. About how I have no idea how a body came to be buried in my garden. It doesn’t sound very convincing, even to me.

Which is how I come to be sitting in the cells at the local station, waiting for a duty solicitor, and worrying about my dogs. 

Copyright Heather Peck 2025