The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf (11 page)

After fighting through early ranks of commuters, Hobson reached a peaceful suburb and allowed himself to stroll. No bulking out his shoulders to deflect other pavement users, or kicking the bins.

The next turning led into a square — huge thin townhouses on all sides and garnished with a small park in the middle. Big cars parked around the kerbs, hemmed in to exact spaces, and men in suits marched out towards the main road.

“This, Choi, is rich country.” Hobson laughed. “Big houses, posh cars and a park the size of someone’s back garden in the middle of your square.”

“It’s very nice,” she mumbled. “So where does Lettie live?”

“With her parents at number twenty, the one with the weird basement entrance and ivy all up the front. You gotta hope they have a dog.”

“I thought my parents were doing well with their loft conversion, but this is so… big.”

“Doesn’t matter after you basically disowned them, does it?”

“I didn’t
disown
them, they’ll understand.”

“You can sleep in my office if you want.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Choi stalked off ahead. She crossed the square, nearly colliding with one blue-suited passer-by, before slowing again at the bottom of the stone steps to the destination. They were big, wide and substantial, like the Voles wanted their home to be some mighty Aztec temple. The multiple storeys of redbrick house shot up, like some aspiring skyscraper. Hobson arrived and put his foot right onto the bottom step.

“So what do we
say
to them?” Choi asked.

“Follow my lead, Choi. It’ll be easy.”

Hobson crashed past her, up the steps, lifted his hand and rapped on the door. Curtains twitched all around the square, loud thumps floating from corner to corner, but at least there were no bloody tabloid reporters.

A moment later, the door opened and Mrs Vole appeared in the doorway, as if she’d been standing there all along. The mother of the Vole household was as tall and ginger as both her children, but wider and, unbelievably, even angrier.

The shout of
“What do you two want?”
made an even bigger commotion than Hobson knocking. Her roar rolled through the park, causing some of the curtain-twitchers to stop hiding and lean out of their windows.

Hobson was determined not to seem impressed.

“Mrs Vole? I’m John Hobson, investigating the murders at your daughter’s job. We’re here to talk to Violet?”

“I know who you are, Mister Hobson,” she said, sniffing. “You’re the one on the news.”

“I am that.”

“The policewoman on TV said you’d be dropping the case soon for the good of the families.”

“I’m sure she did,” Hobson said. “If we could just speak to your daughter?”

Mrs Vole scowled. “No. Please leave.”

The door whipped shut, nearly smacking him in the face. That sound was echoed by a string of windows crashing closed as Hobson turned around, like slow machine gun fire.

“And this, Choi, is why modern media is bullshit. I am never taking another case like this again.”

“I know, it’s my fault, I’m sorry, but we’re so close, aren’t we? We can’t stop now, I can feel it…”

“Wait.” Hobson held up a hand to her, a flat STOP signal, and zeroed in on a high-pitched rustle. “That sobbing noise. It’s not you secretly crying, is it?”

“No…”

*****

When she stopped talking, Angelina could hear it too — a heaving, weeping sob, coming from below the stone ascent to the doorway. Underneath was a dip of concrete with steps cut in, descending to a small messy garden. It was like a vine-filled prison cell, a wooden door into some mysterious lower room buried at the back.

Hanging out of there, listening to every word they were saying, was Lettie Vole. “Angie?”

“Lettie?” Angelina jumped back to the street, scuttled down the concrete stairs through a hanging cloud of plants, crunched through mud and leaves. Brushing them away with one hand, she reached out to grab Lettie’s shoulder.

“Are you okay, Lettie? You heard about Matt?”

Her face was bright, she shook a little. Hobson had enough sense to keep back.

“Yeah, um, yeah. Angie, what happened? They said you were there?”

“Well, I was hiding under a desk, to be honest. Hobson, he was, um, more there than me.”

“He said he was just going to meet you then he’d see me later. He wouldn’t tell me why.” Lettie’s teeth gritted and she assumed her more familiar expression of flat rage. “How the
fuck
did he end up dead with you two right there?”

“I’m sorry Lettie,” she said. “I wish we could’ve done… something. I think it must’ve happened before we even arrived, isn’t that right Hobson?”

Angelina looked back up towards the street, and there was the response: “Yeah, I reckon so. The dog was on him a while before we arrived. The twat had legged it.”

Lettie coughed, then retreated back into her house. Angelina looked back to Hobson, who only narrowed his eyes and jabbed towards the open door.

Lacking a better idea, she followed Lettie inside. This bottom room in the house was furnished with battered sofas, messy piles of boxes covered in dust and a small TV in the corner — this clearly wasn’t the main entertaining area. The boxes were full of old books and board games, tidy but not neat.

Lettie herself sprawled along one of the sofas, arms behind her head. Angelina went over to her, as Hobson entered the tiny dip with a flurry of snapping twigs and ducked to get under the doorway. He knocked his head anyway and cursed.

“So, um, are you okay?” Angelina tried. “You seem to be taking this hard.”

“Yeah, you just don’t expect this sort of fucking thing in your own office, do you?” Lettie growled.

Hobson passed through the room to poke around in the adjacent kitchen, pulling his phone from his pocket as he went. Angelina ignored him and tried to keep Lettie talking.

“No, I suppose you don’t,” she said.

“I mean, why bother doing all this?” said Lettie. “Taking a dog up and down a building, killing programmers who never hurt anyone just because, what, bored? Pissed off with their boss?”

“You think it’s someone trying to hurt Lyne?”

“Look, either it’s someone trying to get him, or it
is
him. His fucking fault, one way or the other. Fucker.”

“Maybe, maybe.”

Angelina’s phone beeped and she checked it on reflex. It was a text from Hobson in the next room:
Ask her why she said she’d see Matt later that night.

“Um, why did you say you’d see Matt later last night, anyway?”

“What?”

“Outside just now, you said you were meeting him after he’d seen us.”

Angelina sensed Hobson looming in the kitchen doorway behind her.

“Oh, um, we were just going for a drink. Or a movie, you know, he was a nerd, he liked movies, in fact he…”

A quiet exhale of annoyance escaped Hobson’s lips. “Okay, were you two fucking?”

Eyes wide with fury, Lettie leapt up from her sofa. Angelina turned on him as well, her own face going the same way.

“He’s dead, how fucking
dare
you.” Lettie marched round the room. “He’s dead because you couldn’t solve the crime, or you’re working for Lyne, maybe you’re helping him avoid getting caught, and you come round here….”

“But you were,” Hobson made a visible effort to moderate his language. “Seeing each other? Something like that?”

Her shoulders slumped and another brief sob escaped her. Angelina inched closer, unsure whether she would get punched.

“Yes. Something like that. Not for long, though.”

“Okay. Thank you. Can I just ask a few questions about…?”

A heavy stamp crashlanded in the kitchen, as Mrs Vole made her way down from the upper floors. “Are you two down there? I thought I told you to get lost!”

At the same time, Hobson’s phone rang. He checked the screen, swore, then picked up the call anyway. “Ellie? What is it?”

He stepped away towards the back door, leaving Angelina to deal with yet another angry mother.

“Hi, sorry, Lettie, um, Violet let us in down here, I think she just wanted to talk about…”

“If she needs to talk, she can talk to me. Or the police
or
a psychologist, just not you people. Now
get out
before I have you arrested.”

Just as the police were mentioned, Hobson yelled into his phone: “You’ve
arrested
Edward Lyne? What the fuck? He was my client.”

“Were you not listening?
Leave!
” screamed Mrs Vole.

*****

For a few moments, as Mrs Vole shoved herself into Hobson’s face while his ex-wife hung up on him, he lost touch with the outside world. His ears felt walled off, a solid burst of white sound tunnelled in, and all he could hear, all he could feel, was a silent screaming. Trapped in this dusty, unused cave below a house, he felt it squeezing him.

His fingers twitched, and he wondered if clamping his hand over the yelling woman’s mouth was an option. She’d pushed his tiny assistant out of the way, the daughter was standing to one side wailing, nothing remained between them.

Just as his forearm was tightening to lift, Lettie yelled out: “HEY!”

Hobson turned to her. “Yeah?”

“Did you say they’d arrested Mister Lyne?”

“That’s the news.”

A grim smile spread across her face, accentuated by the perpetual scowl. “Good. He deserved it.”

“He
was
a bit of a twat, but ain’t sure he deserved this specific thing.”

“Wait,” Mrs Vole turned down the volume to face her daughter, “your boss killed those kids?”

“Yes,” said Lettie.

“No,” said Hobson

“Maybe,” she conceded.

His patience exhausted, Hobson caught Choi’s eye and gestured towards the door. She went for it in silence; the noise seemed to have scared her mute.

He turned back. “Lettie, did your boss know about your sexual relationship with the deceased? It’s relevant, I promise.”

“Um, no. Not that I’m aware.”

“Cheers, Violet. We’ll leave you in peace now, ladies, thanks for your time.”

Mrs Vole’s glare turned on her daughter as Hobson swept away to duck out of that basement. The yelling started before they’d finished climbing the stairs to the street.

Choi scurried along behind, brushing specks of leaf and dust off her coat. She looked up at him once finished. “You know her Mum’s going to give her hell about that.”

“Oh, is she? Whoops.”

“Did you really need to say
sexual
?”

“Maybe I didn’t
need to
, Choi, but I do enjoy it, y’know?”

“Ugh.”

“You’re just jealous because she still has a Mum to yell at her.”

Choi stormed off, making it a fair way back towards the station before turning back to ask Hobson where they were going.

TEN: The Quiet Ones

TEN
The Quiet Ones

Despite Angelina complaining it was distasteful, Hobson called the hospital pretending to be Jacq’s father to ask if she’d been discharged yet. Thanks to the high profile nature of the case, several journalists already tried that one. The nurse hung up.

Not easily discouraged, Hobson instead phoned a couple of reporters, pretending to be one of their colleagues. They coughed up the information soon enough: Jacqueline Miller sent home mid-morning, a few stitches but nothing more serious, no brain damage, quite upset.

Hobson grinned at Angelina over his mobile. “And released into the care of one Emily Allen. I’m guessing they went to Emily’s place, she’d definitely fake being too hopeless to look after herself. Slots right into her pissweak persona.”

“You still think she’s hiding something?”

“You bet.”

“Surely she couldn’t hurt anyone, though? I mean, she’s just too nice?”

“Have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“So we’re going over there?”

“Obviously.”

Before she could argue any more, a skinny man in a baggy shirt and small glasses came over to their table. He’d been sitting nearby, and Angelina thought she’d spotted a couple of looks over. She’d liked how self-assured and cool he seemed, even if about ten years older than her. Disappointing to discover he’d only been after one thing: “Mister Hobson? Ross Watts, Evening Star. Any comment on the arrest of your employer?”

“None.”

“Any comment on the rumour that the real reason you’ve been hired is to clean up after Edward Lyne’s crimes?”

“No.”

“Any comment on what’s with the tiny Asian girl?”

Both Hobson and Watts looked at Angelina for a moment, and she did her best to glower with authority. Hobson turned back to the journalist, not smiling at all.

“No comment at all, you four-eyed beanpole fuckwit. Choi,” he pointed to the exit, “let’s go see these girls.”

*****

They snuck into Emily’s building when someone else left the door swinging a little too long. Angelina wanted to ring the doorbell like a normal person, but Hobson wasn’t doing that. “If we only went where we were wanted, Choi,” he said, smug as ever, “we’d be sitting in my office doing the fuckin’ crossword.”

They swept into the foyer, past the notice board and up the stairs for the flat number Lyne had given them: number twenty-two. As they marched up the grey, stained stairwell, Angelina shivered at the thought of poor Matt, dying alone in a similar boring column. Ridiculous, of course, she’d barely seen it happen.

Whereas Hobson splashed through Matt’s blood with his own two boots, yet bounced up these stairs without a care in the world.

They reached the second floor and there were two flats: twenty-one and twenty-two. Not missing a step, nor consulting with his assistant about how to approach this sensitive conversation, Hobson pounded on the door.

After no-one responded, Angelina piped up. “Hobson, maybe we should leave them be. They might be at Jacq’s place.”

“Nah. Wouldn’t fit the cover story.” He hammered the door some more, adding a yell. “Emily, it’s John Hobson! Open up!”

The lock crunched, door shot a few degrees open, revealing an angry Emily standing in the gap. “What do you two want?”

“Hi, Emily.” Angelina waved, remembering she was the one with connections.