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Emma Longstaff piped up. “Don’t suppose Louise gave you a photo of Grace, did she?”
Sharp deflated. “Oh, God. I’m sorry, I never thought to ask.”
“Have you got her mobile number?”
“Yes. I’ll call her, see if she can email one over.”
“Or point us to a Facebook account.”
Sharp nodded and made a note. Gardener asked him if there was anything else. “Yes. The neighbours talked at length about Raymond Culver being a musician. They gave me a lead on an entertainment agent up in The Borders. McLeod Holden Enterprises.”
“Hardly Simon Cowell, by the sound of it.”
“No. The guys who ran it originally have both retired. The two people in charge now have been there for years. The secretary seemed to remember someone fitting that description. He was called Richard Clayton, but went out on the circuit as Rocker Richards, and he had a red Strat. Anyway, she’s going to circulate the photo and come back to us. Hopefully, we should hear something in the morning.”
Gardener shook his head. The initials RC were cropping up far too much and far too often for his liking. “Excellent work, you two. Seeing as you’re both involved, I’d like the pair of you on those threads in the morning. See what else you can pick up on Raymond Culver, or Robbie Carter as we know him, and the daughter, Grace.”
Gardener glanced at the clock. It was eight-thirty. They still had a lot of ground to cover.
“Okay. Who’s next?”
Gates raised her hand. “We had something come in about an hour ago, sir. I think you’ll like it.”
“Go on,” said Gardener.
Bob Anderson took up the reigns. “A man called Stephen Westgate came to see us. He lives on Carr Road. It’s kind of a neighbouring street to Swansea Court, but there’s a field between them.”
“He works nights at one of the furniture factories about ten miles away,” said Gates. “Starts his shift about two o’clock. Always takes his dog for a walk about twelve-thirty.”
“I hope this is as good as it sounds,” offered Reilly.
“It is,” replied Anderson. “About twelve-forty-five, Westgate and the dog were walking around the perimeter of the field when they were approaching Robbie Carter’s house. His van was parked in the lane at the back.”
“What was he doing?” asked Gardener.
“Westgate doesn’t know. He only saw the van, not Robbie Carter. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he heard raised voices. Which means he was lying about where he was.”
“Absolutely,” said Gardener. “He claims he didn’t get home until an hour later than that.”
“He also said he’d parked at the front to unload the gear,” said Reilly.
“Which he may well have done,” said Gardener. “But we now have a witness that puts him at the house one hour earlier, and his van around the back.”
“Puts a whole different slant on things,” said Rawson. “Question still is, what did he find when he came home?”
“Well I can’t imagine he found Jane Carter in a slinky negligee with Manny Walters,” said Cragg.
“No,” said Reilly. “Well out of his league.”
“And Robbie’s, come to mention it.”
“But was she at home with someone else?”
“I’m not really convinced,” said Gardener. “Carrie Fletcher mentioned nothing about an affair. In fact, she said the opposite, that because of her medication Jane Carter wasn’t interested in sex.”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?” said Paul Benson.
“Why didn’t the witness come forward before now?”
