“You should be pretty good, then,” said Reilly. “What do you play?”
“Look, is all this necessary?” Robbie Carter asked. “I thought we were here to talk about my wife being murdered.”
A knock on the door meant the coffee had arrived. Reilly took the tray and brought it back to the table.
Gardener noticed two coffees and something herbal. Good old Maurice.
“It is necessary,” said Gardener. “I want to establish your movements and the build-up to what you found.”
“You mean you suspect me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Would you just answer my partner’s question, please?”
Robbie Carter glanced at Reilly. “Guitar and vocals. Glam Rock: T-Rex, Slade, Sweet, The Glitterband, all the big names.”
“How did you get the booking?” Reilly asked.
“My agent. Steve Crossman. Has an office in Leeds.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“About four years.”
Reilly made a note of the answers. “Do you have his contact details?”
Robbie Carter rattled them off.
Gardener was eager to press on and immediately brought the subject back to the evening itself. “So, you had a half and then what?”
“Left the club.”
“What time?”
“About quarter to one, a little later maybe.”
“Who were you having a drink with in the club?”
“The manager, the compère, and one or two regulars.”
Gardener passed Robbie Carter a sheet of paper and asked him to write down the names. “Did you drive straight home?”
“Yes.”
“When you got home, can you tell me exactly what happened: how you found your wife, and when?”
“I’ve already said, I got home about one-thirty.”
“Did you find her straight away?”
“No. I put the gear in the house first. Called out her name a few times. She often goes to bed before I get in. I went upstairs and she was on the floor.”
“Where on the floor?” Reilly asked.
“What do you mean, where?”