The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf (6 page)

A short man in a leather jacket strode into the bar and sat straight down at a table near the door, entering into intense conversation with whoever was there already. Angelina tried not to look over, but Hobson just chortled.

“Well, they’re definitely passing drugs under the table. This is fuckin’ downmarket.”

Across from their booth, the kitchen doors flapped and a man in white strode out. He wielded two plates, plonking them down in front of Hobson and Angelina before they could even look round at him.

The fried breakfast already looked dry and worn out, yet still warm to the touch, oozing its outline into the brown-white plate. Angelina peered, trying to work out which parts were safe to eat, while Hobson ignored it and looked up at the man who’d served them.

He was large, not a giant like Hobson but vastly overweight, seemingly held together by a greasy apron straining at all its knots. He didn’t look happy. “You snotty pricks,” he greeted them, “what do you mean
downmarket
?”

Hobson and Angelina exchanged glances. “Hi.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Hobson grinned. The excitement of not being recognised must’ve shot straight to his head. “John Hobson. Do you have five minutes to talk?”

Angelina started to feel sick. Never visiting a McHellermans before had been a great decision. And that was before the fat guy shoved his way into their booth, prodding her up against the wall with his beefy arms and sliding the food towards her. She held her breath to avoid vomiting from the smell and hoped Hobson didn’t have a long conversation planned.

*****

This was a serious chat about a real murder, but nonetheless, Hobson stifled a grin. After all, his intern was squashed into a small space at the end of her bench-like seat by a morbidly obese chef. You had to laugh.

Trying to stay dour, he looked at his fry-up, wondering how many of these the chef must have eaten, and sliced into a veiny sausage. A thick trickle of yellowing fat ran out around the sides of his plate, and Hobson groaned. He was big enough to carry some extra weight, but there were limits.

He sopped the slice of meat around the beans to pick up some flavour, swallowed in one quick gulp, then looked back up. The chef didn’t seem placated by Hobson’s willingness to eat one forkful. Oh God, would he have to ingest this entire meal? Including that mushroom with thin crystal deposits on the skin?

“So what do you
want,
Mister Hobson?” The chef leaned forward, releasing the pressure on Choi’s lungs a fraction. “Since this place is so beneath you.”

“I wanted to ask you about the dog fights,” Hobson said, trying to project confidence. “Do you have dog fights here?”

“Are you with the filth?”

“Nope.”

Hobson knew it’d take a whole rasher of bacon to get over this hurdle. He stabbed his fork into it, managing not to wince as the solid pink block snapped open and splintered grey-black shards. It tasted as bad as it looked, crunching into a spiked blob in his mouth, but at least he didn’t break any teeth.

The chef leaned in, showing Hobson was over the first hurdle, even as he growled: “I’ll fuck you up if you’re lying, okay?”

Hobson nodded, and went for another nugget of beans to absorb the remaining bacon. “And I’ll be delighted to let you. What did you say your name was, sir?”

“They call me Micro.” He leaned back, crushing the blood vessels in Choi’s legs. She grimaced but Hobson stayed polite. Whenever a blowhard self-styled crime guy says
‘They call me’
anything, it means they call themselves that, then beat the shit out of anyone who won’t.

“Nice to meet you, Micro.”

There was a tomato at the edge of the plate with a crusty outer layer, dribbling red bile thicker than ketchup — it looked like an animal’s heart. He dug into the wooden bacon instead, hoping to avoid the tough redness. But as the next segment of pink splintering gristle went into his mouth, he coughed up a blob of rancid phlegm anyway.

His next Subway would taste like a fucking salad after this.

“So,” Micro said, pleased by his efforts, “you wanted to know about the dog fights?”

“They do happen?”

“Anything small-time is fine by me, Mister Hobson. Little drug exchange here, small dogfight there. As long as you aren’t serial killing or doing big time mafia shit, there’s a home for you at Lefty’s.”

“For a generous cut, I suppose.”

“Gotta make a living.”

One last chance to build good will before the big questions. Hobson slashed into the decomposing mushroom and put the first chunk into his mouth. Surprisingly, it didn’t crunch or crack, but dissolved into stodgy slime, tasting like soil and liquefied polystyrene. Hobson’s stomach roared in disapproval. He’d known things would be rough when he swore to stop beating people for information, but he hadn’t expected
this
.

Nonetheless, here goes nothing: “Did you know Yalin Makozmo, Micro?”

“The dead guy? Yeah, what a fuck-up
that
was. Eaten by his own dog. Shame though,” Micro shook his head, vibrating Choi’s entire body, “they were good animals. Yam’s dogs never lost. He made almost as much from those fights as I did.”

“Hm.” Hobson kept his cool, whereas Choi peered at Micro wide-eyed, despite her obvious discomfort. To keep things rolling, he ate another shard of sausage and didn’t retch any back up.

“So he was good, then? Or his dogs were?”

“Christ, yes. Savage fuckin’ beasts, Mister Hobson. Honestly, not
that
surprised what happened to him — he must’ve done some dark shit to get the bastards so rabid.”

“Right. And Yam never mentioned his neighbours to you at all?”

“The
other
dead guy?” Micro said.

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Micro sat back and surveyed the table. An excited Choi leaned in so far, Hobson was amazed the big bastard didn’t feel squashed.

“He might’ve mentioned them. What’s it worth?” Micro said.

Giving the remains of his breakfast a sad, slow look, Hobson knew there was only one thing to do. Trying not to think too hard, he plunged his fork into the centre of that crusty tomato and ate the whole thing in one go.

In the end, it didn’t taste like anyone’s internal organs — more a small tennis ball filled with paper, dusty ball bearings and rotten ketchup. He chewed through it, feeling the innards scrape on his teeth and plunge, sour and full of bits, onto his taste buds. A burst of blackened, cancerous mess flooded up and down his nose and throat. He washed it down with a mouthful of coffee, not as rancid as the meal, and met Micro’s eyes again.

The chef took a long expectant pause, probably seeing if that tomato would come back. Hobson gulped, and everything stayed down. Just.

Micro burst out laughing. “Okay, then. Yam liked his neighbours, as far as I knew.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Never said a bad word about them, one time I went round to drop off some cash, and he was chatting to the dead one over the fence.”

“So the dog torturers and Twitter morons were all best friends?”

“That’s how it looks. I mean, Yam and I weren’t close, but can’t see any reason he’d up and kill one of them. They weren’t into anything dirty, far as I know.”

Hobson tapped the table, Choi looked just as bemused. Before he could think of any more questions, there was a commotion at the front of the pub as a small crowd in cheap suits shoved their way in.

“Well,” Micro rose from the booth, causing a small tremor, “that’s the lunchtime rush, I’d best be on my way. Nice meeting you, Mister Hobson, and if you come again, I might even make you a proper breakfast.”

For a flash of a moment, Hobson wanted to punch Micro in the face, but let the need wash over him. Tried a few deep breaths, which only brought the taste of stomach juice back. By the time he’d choked that back, Micro was gone.

Choi cut off a slice of her bacon, which didn’t snap like a twig, and chewed for a short while.

“Actually, Hobson, this is pretty good,” she said, with a gleeful smile.

“Great.” He let his head slip into his hands.

“So what now?”

“Well, Choi, in a moment, we head back to Social Awesome and check in with the client.” He forced himself up to his feet, insides swaying.

“But first?” she said.

“First, I’m going to visit Mister Micro’s toilets and stick my fingers right down my throat. But enjoy your breakfast while I’m gone.”

“Right.”

She dropped her cutlery with a satisfying clatter as he left the booth.

SIX: Witnesses

SIX
Witnesses

On their way to the Inspiration Gestation Station to check in with Edward Lyne, Hobson and Choi swung into a nearby branch of production line lunch shop Subway. He’d not been able to get them out of his head since that awful breakfast.

“Second day running?” Choi murmured. “Wow, you really like your subs.”

“I don’t
really
like them,” Hobson said, “I just fancied one after that manky fry-up.”

“That’s how they get you, y’know? First a mild inclination, then a desperate need.”

“I’ll be fine, Choi.”

They joined the queue, standing in silence while Choi checked her phone. Only a day ago, Hobson thought, she was too scared of upsetting the new boss to ignore him in favour of Twitter.

Before he could complain, the intern saw something over the top of her phone and nudged him. “Hobson! Look! It’s Social Awesome!”

Sure enough, it was a group of them: receptionist Lettie Vole, her brother Pete, quiet programmer Matt (who Choi believed was a heartless killer), and Jacq, front desk woman of the whole Inspiration Defecation Installation. Hobson wasn’t so much impressed by Choi noticing them as annoyed with himself for not doing so — wasn’t he meant to be a detective?

After all, they were hardly hiding, just slumped around a small table eating sandwiches. Maybe they’d faded out of view because they were
using
the tables provided in Subway — who would risk food on those crusty plastic spindles?

Of course, the moment Hobson and Choi noticed the Social Awesome crew, they all looked up and around. Only for a moment, though — after a short, unified stare, the whole table went back to their food, talking quieter than before.

Hobson went back to reading the menu, but out of the corner of his eye, noticed Choi giving them a tiny, awkward wave.

It was the kind of twee hand-flutter Hobson hated, but it seemed to strike a chord with these bastards. They smiled and waved back — except sullen potential psychopath Matt, who kept examining the swirling table pattern.

“Choi,” he hissed, a plan forming, “do you think you can get
in
with these people?”

“Who?”

“That lot,” he muttered, taking care not to gesticulate, “the Social Awesome awful cool Twitter nightmare over there. They seem to respond to whatever it is you do with your arms and your dithering.”

“My arms?”

“Look,” he said, “get your sandwich, then go over there and make friends. I’ll cut my losses and go ahead to their office.”

“Wow.” Choi’s eyes widened, as if he’d asked her to scale a tall building. “Do you think I could prove Matt killed William?”

Hobson only sighed. “Maybe focus on being friendly. Ask them why they Twitter, or something.”

She sighed right back at him. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

*****

Angelina walked over to their table, putting one foot in front of the other. She decided to open her attack with another small wave. After all, the last one had gone pretty well — this time, though, they seemed bewildered.

“Hello,” she added, standing next to their lunch table and gazing. What if she couldn’t get them to accept her? Would she have to go and eat lunch on her own? It’d be like school. Lettie moved to assume her role as grumpy gatekeeper, even though she wasn’t behind a reception desk, but a friendlier face leapt in first.

“Hi Miss Choi!” Jacq sounded so overjoyed to see her again, Angelina found it a little annoying. “Are you just having some lunch?”

“Um, yeah. You?”

This time, angry Lettie got straight in there. “What do you think, Miss Detective? We’re in a sandwich shop, eating sandwiches, at lunchtime. What can you deduce from this?”

“Oh, well, I’m only an intern, but I thought you might be here for work — you know, just so you can tweet and Instagram and stuff about it.” Nervous laugh. “Sound like you’re doing something cool.”

To her relief, everyone laughed, although Lettie’s was more a scathing cackle.

“Oh, Angelina, this isn’t us being cool,” Pete leapt in, “this is merely lunch. Subway isn’t cool anymore.”

“Right, of course.” She smiled again, and Pete and Lettie pulled their chairs apart to make space for her. She sat down before they could change their minds and shut the gap.

“So,” she didn’t want to lose momentum, “what
is
cool?”

“You can’t label cool, sweetheart,” Pete continued, “but it’s a good bet that if the place is owned by an international corporation, it ain’t.”

Over Pete’s shoulder, Angelina caught Lettie grimacing at her brother’s smugness, as Jacq burst out laughing.

“Yeah,” Lettie snorted, “you’re so awesome, Pete, you’re a tastemaker — if that taste was bile and cruddy Subway bread. So, Miss Detective,” she continued over Pete’s look, “found out whodunnit yet?”

Angelina’s eyes widened, as she became very interested in unpicking the paper around her sandwich. “Well, y’know, we’re looking into it.”

Right then, mid-sentence, she had an amazing idea: “Who do
you guys
think did it?”

She tried not to stare at Matt. He hadn’t spoken since she sat down, which struck her as suspicious.

“You want us to do your job for you?” Lettie smirked.

“I don’t get paid,” she said. “Don’t you want to find out who killed your colleague?”

“Ha.” Lettie thought for a moment, before coming back with: “I think it was our boss. Got sick of everyone hating William instead of working.”

“Nah,” Pete grinned and leapt in, “It’s gotta be Jacq. She’s just too nice to be true.”

Everyone looked over at the accused, who blushed, before mumbling: “Well, I don’t know who it was. Maybe the dog got in by itself?”