Murder on the Moor - C. S. Challinor [31]
“I also need a tow truck,” Rex informed him.
“Angus went fishin’. A’ll send him tae the lodge when he returns.”
Angus owned the local garage. Rex couldn’t think of anyone else who could help with the tyres.
“A’ll be reit back!” Murray gleefully raided the till, grabbed his cap, and disappeared through the door.
“He’s a trusting soul,” Helen remarked. “But then you are a Scottish barrister and an officer of the court.”
“I suppose we could always run off with an armful of Mars Bars and Malteesers,” Rex joked, gesturing toward the display of candy at the counter.
Pulling the old-fashioned black phone toward him, he dialed 9-9-9 and stated his emergency, adding detailed directions to the lodge. “Aye, that’s right. Off the A82 … between Invergarry and Laggan, north of the swing bridge. Aye, I’m sure the victim is dead,” he told the dispatcher. “Murdered. When can the police get here? … That long?”
“What’s the delay?” Helen asked when he replaced the receiver.
“They’re busy with the latest moor murder on top of all the emergencies caused by the rain. They’ll be here as soon as they can, but since the victim is dead, the dispatcher said it wasn’t a priority.”
“But it’s a murder!”
“I’m no sure she believed me, and all police resources are concentrated on hunting for Melissa Bates’ killer. Every off-duty constable from Inverness to Perth and from the Atlantic to the North Sea has been deployed in the search.”
“Isn’t there a local bobby?”
“Not any more. But not much goes on in Gleaneagle except for the occasional drunken brawl.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.” Rex dialed the lodge and then called the phone company to report that the line at his house was still down. “I wonder what’s keeping Murray.”
“Beer.”
“I’ll track him down next door and see if someone can take us back to the lodge.”
“I’ll go,” Helen said. “He specifically asked you to mind the shop.”
Rex did not much like the idea of Helen going into a pub by herself, but he knew she could take care of herself. After all, a group of lecherous old crofters and shopkeepers could not pose more of a threat than the hormonally active teenagers she worked with at her school.
While she was gone, he leaned against the counter and perused the story concerning the latest victim in the string of child murders on Rannoch Moor. The article did not offer many more details than Alistair had been able to provide. That the police had a traveling salesman from Inverness in custody was the latest development in the case. Chief Inspector Dalgerry from the Northern Constabulary was quoted as saying he was confident they had the right man for the murders and he hoped the public might rest more easy. A pair of photos accompanied the story, the pug-nosed Dalgerry contrasting starkly with the innocent young face of Melissa Bates.
The shop bell rang, and Helen re-entered with Murray and a midget of a man of about fifty with an impish countenance.
“This is Mr. Buccleugh, the fish monger,” Helen announced. “He has kindly agreed to lend us his van—for ten pounds. I explained that our car broke down.”
Good, Rex thought. He did not want to advertise a murder and have nosy-parkers turning up at the lodge and interfering with the evidence until after the police had left.
“I cleared oot the crates,” Buccleugh said. “Ye can return the van on the morrow.”
“Most obliged. Is there petrol in the tank?”
“Enough tae get ye tae Gleneagle Lodge an’ back. Tis the yellow van parked ootside the pub.” He gave Rex a key.
Rex paid the man and left money on the counter for the newspaper.
“Guid cheerio the nou!” Murray called after him as he and Helen left the shop.
Rex felt certain the locals exaggerated the Highland dialect for his benefit. But when he saw the van, he stopped short on the pavement. Now he knew he was the butt of a joke.
“No way!” This was what his Americanized son would say.
“It’ll get us there,” Helen said hesitantly.
The van was a mustard yellow Reliant Regal three-wheeler of the most basic design, with a bare metal floor and a window in the