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Trent glanced up and smiled. “Mrs Pendlebury. What would I do without you?”
“Well, it isn’t just you who likes a biscuit or two.”
She patted her stomach, feeling a little guilty. Until a number of years ago she’d been slim, but an under-active thyroid gland had increased her weight: when her figure had gone south, so had her husband.
“Well, don’t they say a little of what you fancy does you good?”
“In that case, surely a lot of what you fancy must mean you’re in heaven.”
Trent arched his brow. “Not for long.”
“A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mrs Pendlebury. None of us can control a thyroid gland.”
She smiled and sat down. Trent glanced at the file she’d brought in. “I thought we’d finished with patients for today.”
“We have.”
“Is that one for tomorrow?” he asked, sipping his tea.
“No. I’m afraid this patient won’t be coming to see us anymore.”
He placed his cup on the desk. “Why not?”
“I’m not one for gossip as you know, but I was speaking to a friend of mine earlier, and I’m really rather concerned about something.”
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“It seems that one of our patients has been brutally murdered.”
“Excuse me?”
The secretary opened the file so Trent could see exactly whom she was talking about. He picked it up. “Nicola Stapleton? Murdered?”
“Yes. The police were called to her house at midnight.”
“How do you know?”
“My friend, Angela Freeman, is a district nurse. One of her patients is a woman called Beryl Potts, lives next door to Ms Stapleton in Batley.”
“What happened?”
Margaret Pendlebury had her hands clasped around her cup, as if she was cold. “By all accounts, it was Beryl Potts who found her. She was tied to a chair, and she was naked. She been stabbed a number of times, and she also had a bayonet run straight through her that had pinned her to the floor.”
“Good grief,” said Trent.
“Puts us in an awkward situation, wouldn’t you say?”
“Why?”
“Think about it. If she was naked and tied to a chair, what had she been subjected to? Whoever did this may have had unprotected sex with her. I think the time for patient confidentiality has gone out of the window.”
“I see what you mean,” said Trent, glancing at the file. “If Nicola Stapleton’s killer had unprotected sex with her, they could be in serious trouble.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Sitting on the swing seat, Chris Rydell glanced out across the fields, reflecting on the day he’d had: pretty rough by anyone’s standards. Staring out at the fields helped him to think, to come to terms with his situation.
