Felicity Harbord—Fizz to anyone who knew her properly—was halfway up Grimshaw Moor when she decided retirement was an overrated concept.

She used to think it would be heaven. No more on-call nights. No more being dragged out of bed at two in the morning to examine a body in a ditch. No more standing under strip-lights in mortuaries, dictating notes in a calm voice while some poor constable tried not to faint.

She’d lasted six months.

The long holiday in Cyprus had been lovely. Sea, sun, cheap wine, a stack of unread novels. When she’d come home, the first fortnight had been tolerable: pottering in the garden, walking, the church choir, long baths.

Then the boredom had set in.

The days had begun to spread out, all the same colour. She missed the...

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