Two updates in one night.
Or two updates in the very early morning, but whatever works. I seem to have turned into an insomniac over Christmas.
You might even get a third one tonight. Or if not tonight, then tomorrow. Creating a full plot summary of my work seems to really kill writers block. I'll have to remember that one.
Let's get on with Chapter seven. I reckon this is about halfway through now.
Chapter Seven: Of Discussions And Disguises.
Sally and Patrick sat nestled in the thorn bush as they waited for her parents and her uncle to leave. John and Sherlock were busy arguing about how Sherlock had badgered the poor Rachel when she refused to talk to them about what happened to her. As their voices died away, Patrick tilted his head to look at her. This wasn't without it's difficulties, considering that one wrong move and his eye could be poked out by the thorns surrounding them.
"You know, when you asked me to join you on a highly dangerous, life or death, James Bond style mission, I didn't expect to find myself with my legs poking out of a gorse bush."
"Oh shut up."
"We're going to have to do something about this, you know."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm working on it." When they were sure the coast was clear, they wriggled and crawled out from underneath the bush, dusted themselves off, and headed up the driveway to the front door. It was answered by a woman with brown curly hair, dusky skin, and deep set eyes. She wore a long sleeved, pastel blue cardigan, which covered half her hands.
Rachel Prewett had once had a younger sister, Elizabeth, who had known Elijah Doyle at school. She had been a few years younger than him, but had clearly seen enough of him to develop some form of attraction towards him. As he started to create his empire, he had used her and his affections for her to gain another runner for his drug cartel. Elizabeth had started using, and became an addict. Nothing her family could do or say made it stop. She spent three years in prison, and was shot dead soon after she was released, while performing another job for Doyle.
"Hello Miss Prewett, my name is Sarah Holmes, and this is Patrick Chambers. May we come in?"
"Holmes? As in the bloke who was just here? You can get lost, he was a nightmare."
"Yes, he is. I am sorry about that, can we just–"
"Go away!" Rachel shouted, and went to slam the door on them. Patrick stuck his foot out and blocked the door.
"Please, Miss Prewett. May we just have five minutes of your time? I promise there won't be a repeat performance." He asked calmly.
Forty-seven seconds later, the two teenagers were settled across from the woman in her living room.
"Miss Prewett, do you remember what happened when you were kidnapped." Asked Patrick.
"As I told the police, and the three who were just here, I wasn't kidnapped. That's ridiculous. I went camping."
"Miss Prewett, please don't try to cover this up. Even if it weren't for the fact that four other people who were all linked to Elijah Doyle's court case have also gone missing, why would you go camping for almost a month without telling anyone where you were going." Interjected Sally.
"I was trying to live without anything electronic for a month. If Ed Sheeran can leave social media for a year, I thought, why can't I try roughing it for a month or so."
"But why wouldn't you at least tell people before you left." Patrick asked.
"I did tell my Dad, but he's the forgetful sort. You know how it is." Rachel shrugged, with a shy smile. She seemed like a very quiet woman, but Patrick remembered how she had been described on the news by her friends after she went missing; bubbly, loud, the life and soul of a party, were just a few of the adjectives used. So if her absence was as innocent as she said, why was she so different now.
Sally looked up from the screen of her phone.
"Mrs Prewett, may I ask you to remove your cardigan please?"
"What? Why?"
"Because George Cook, the third witness from the case to go missing has been found dead at around the same time you returned home last night. He's been tortured and murdered, and there are clear signs of restraint bruising around his wrists and ankles. May I please see your wrists?"
"No, no you can't. I've got nothing to do with the missing people. I went camping. I wasn't there. I just went camping." She broke off, choking back a sob. "I'm fine really. Nothing happened, I wasn't involved. Please just leave." Sally looked like she was about to continue, but Patrick pulled at her arm, and they left the house.
"Why are they torturing the victims?" Asked Patrick. "What could they possibly get from that?"
"It's to keep them quiet. It must be. Not just now, but forever. If these people are being tortured into silence, they'll be making sure they give them such a going over that they'll never speak about Doyle or Donnelly ever again. They'll be too scared to even think their names."
"So why would they kill one of them." Sally thought for a moment.
"What was George Cook's background?"
"His daughter was raped and murdered by Elijah Doyle. It was the first time they brought him to court, but he was proven innocent."
"No, not his connection to the case, his work background."
"Erm... Ex-military? Something along those lines."
"What do you reckon the chances are of him being something more along the lines of MI5? Someone trained in enduring torture."
"Someone who couldn't be made to fear Doyle's lackeys."
"And if you had lost your daughter to someone so viciously, how likely is it that you'll break under pressure, and call off the hunt."
"Not a cat in hell's chance." Replied Patrick, grimly.
"So he wouldn't back down from the court case, and Donnelly is left with no choice but to kill him. His silence is then assured... but why did they bust his face in then?" She grimaced in confusion, looking back down at her phone.
"Wait, what?"
"His face was smashed in beyond recognition. They had to perform a DNA test to even identify the body."
"But why."
"I don't know. I'll sleep on it. But first, we need to pick up a few things."
'A few things' consisted of a small, blue, flowery hat, a nondescript brown wig, slightly curly, brown eye contacts, a navy-blue coat, navy blue nail varnish, a bottle of bronze coloured foundation and a plain, bronze lipstick.
"This," Sally announced, "will be my disguise while were avoiding my parents."
"... What?" Asked Patrick in befuddlement.
"Every morning while we're working on the Doyle case, I will come to your house, put on these brown contact lenses, and apply this makeup on all visible parts of my body – legs, hands, face, neck – which will make me look more tanned. I'd use fake tan, but cleaning it off would be a nightmare. Foundation is far quicker. Then I'll use this wig, and then add this hat, to make the wigginess of the wig less visible. Then–"
"Hold on, the 'wigginess of the wig'? What the flying fuck does that mean?" Sally sighed, and had the audacity to look at Patrick as if he was the idiot.
"It means that wigs almost always look like wigs, especially cheap ones. And I don't want my dad to suddenly notice that I've bought a really expensive wig, or he'll start watching out for me in a wig while he's working on this case. Which will defeat the purpose of a disguise. So, then after the wig, put on the nail varnish as an added detail, because that is what my mother will be looking for and she is like a bloody hawk, damn her, and finally the coat. Two sizes too big, and with a big jumper that I'll steal off Uncle John, will create the illusion that I've gained weight, another thing that will hopefully throw them off. Anything else?"
"Seriously though? 'The wigginess of the wig'? That's what you came up with?" Asked Patrick, incredulously. Sally looked at him for a long time.
"Shut up." Patrick sighed.
"Fine. But are these just going to be left in my wardrobe then? What if my mum sees them?"
"Then you tell her they're mine and I forgot them at yours, and I'll pick them up the day after. Why is common sense so difficult for you to use?"
"Sod off!" He laughed.
I'm still not tired, even though it is three in the morning here, so I'm going to start Chapter Eight right about now. Hope you've enjoyed the past two chapters, and I'll probably have to update tomorrow evening rather than now. I do have shit to do in the morning, and I should probably go to sleep at some point soon.
Keep reading,
ReaderMagnifique.
