The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf (2 page)

“Hey, Hobson, um, do we have to walk out past the main reception desk? The one where… Will sits?”

“Yes, that’s the front door.”

“Can we maybe use a back door?”

“Why?”

“Never mind.”

TWO: Dry Blood

TWO
Dry Blood

There was a
lot
of police tape on Markham Road. Far more than she’d ever expected. Angelina stood outside the two houses, staring at the shiny web criss-crossing and peeling off their porches. No sign of any policemen or police cars, smashed in front doors or blood seeping under them, but yellow tape? Yeah, a
lot
of that.

She glanced at Hobson. “So, um, we just knock?”

“Let’s get this clear now —
I am not Batman.
”

“No no, I just mean…” She gulped as a gaggle of men moved closer — a cliché of a tabloid reporter, cloned. “Isn’t this a bit insensitive? Turning up at their house like this?”

“Heh.” Hobson chuckled and kicked the garden gate open. “Should’ve thought of that before you put them on the internet as a freebie really, Choi.”

Without pausing, he swept the tape aside with one huge arm and strode up to the door in his black suit like a visiting undertaker, knocking so hard Angelina saw it shake. She chased along behind him, the assembled journalists turning towards the noise like a flock of birds.

“Hobson, with all the tape, doesn’t that mean…”

“Oh, they’re in.”

A rustling behind the door, a crunch in its frame as someone inside leaned forward to look through the peephole. Behind them in the road, definite camera clicks. At least someone appreciated her amazing first-day outfit, Angelina thought, hoping the guy would open up before the paps asked her a question.

“Don’t get excited, Choi,” Hobson said, “we may not get in right away, might have to negotiate through the door, exchange numbers and call them later…”

The entrance swung open, to reveal a man with crimson gelled hair and oddly wide eyes. He was wearing a baggy hoodie, jeans and a huge grin, considering the murder in his house.

“Hey!” he said. “You’re the internet guys! I saw your hashtag! Hobson, right?”

Angelina flashed a smug grin at her boss but he faced forward.

“Yeah, that’s me. This is my assistant Angelina Choi,” awkward wave from her, poking a hand out behind Hobson, “we wondered if we could speak to you about the murders?”

“Wow, you’re actually investigating? I assumed that was just shitty online marketing.”

Only then did Hobson return Angelina’s smirk, before turning back to the resident. “We are looking into it. Can we come in, mister…?”

“Oh, yeah, Ric McCabe, hi.” Broad wave, before looking past them to the photographers barely keeping off the front garden. “Best get inside, it’s a jungle out there.”

Ric ushered them in and slammed the door; Angelina was pretty sure he gave a middle finger to the waiting hordes before it fully closed.

Inside, all was dark; dim light and faded walls combined to blanket them with a sickly yellow glow. There were no windows, just a couple of heavy fire doors to the right and a staircase up to a world of darkness. It was about as homely as prison; she missed her mother’s flowery wallpaper.

“Nice place,” Hobson nodded, sincere as ever, “looks very secure.”

Ric just laughed. “You mean aside from the dead housemate?”

“Obviously. Speaking of which, I’m told it happened in the kitchen?”

“Wow, you’re a cheery fun guy.” Ric looked over to Angelina. “Isn’t he fun? With his serious face and his funeral suit.”

“Thanks,” Hobson said, not letting her speak. “You’re quite cheery and fun yourself, considering your housemate’s just been ripped to shreds by a wolf.”

“Well,” Ric said, “we never liked him.”

Not letting them digest that, Ric pushed open the second of the two doors on the right, and they entered a dingy living room. It had a window, at least, although enclosed by overhanging neighbours to stop too much light reaching it. There were two dusty sofas, a small TV and one used breakfast bowl on the table.

Commanding attention above those things was another mess of police tape around the closed door at the back. That must be the kitchen. A smear of red slipped beneath the crack of this door, and she could see more reflecting behind it, clotting and dark. That packet of cheap crisps stirred inside her.

“Hobson…” She said his name without meaning to. At least she hadn’t called him “Daddy”.

He glanced over at her, kept his face immobile but seemed to register something. Was she turning green, like a cartoon character?

“Mister McCabe,” he said, “has the mess from the murder been cleaned up yet?”

“Afraid not,” he sighed, “they make you do it yourself, did you know that? The cops cart off your mate’s body, then you have to either scrub his guts up, or pay through the nose to get a crime scene cleaner in.”

“What, seriously?” Angelina said. “They just leave them there?”

“I know, it’s a fucking disgrace isn’t it? I mean, it’s not as if I killed him.”

“Thanks for clarifying, Mister McCabe. So you haven’t called a cleaner?”

“Well, y’know,” Ric said, “it took us long enough to arrange a guy when the washing machine packed up.”

“I can probably recommend someone if it’ll help.”

“We’re kinda hoping the landlord will take care of it, to be honest.”

“I see. You say
we
, is the other housemate in?”

“Pete, no, think he’s at work. Do you want to question him and stuff?”

“Would be nice to have a word. But I should probably look at your kitchen first.”

The thought of hard blood left untouched on a kitchen floor was scabbing over Angelina’s thoughts, but instead of wrenching the door open this time, Hobson turned to her.

“Choi,” he said, pulling out his wallet, “saw a Subway up the road, could you get me a meatball sub? Brown bread, no onions, coke. And whatever you want too.” He thrust a ten pound note at her.

She wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or disappointed. “But… what about…”

“I’ve asked my friends and they say this is what interns are for. Get the sandwich. Mister McCabe can talk me through the murder. You’ve read up already, it’ll be boring for you.”

Telling herself it was fair enough, Angelina nodded. She took the money, turned and headed out the door with a wave, pulling her hood up to deter the paparazzi. It was unlike her to be conflicted about the prospect of a free Subway — last time her Mum had offered to buy one, she’d danced two full circuits around the living room.

As soon as she popped her head outside, the flashing and clicking started, but died down when they realised it was just some little girl. She sighed and headed back the way they came.

Must try not to look too hard at the meatball sandwich with globs of tomato sauce, in case it reminded her of crushed guts.

*****

“Seriously, Mister Hobson, you sure you’re a detective?” McCabe was facing the other way when he said it, so chanced a clever-clever smile. Hobson saw his smug face reflected in the living room window. “Because based on the suit, you’d be better off as an insurance salesman.”

“Right. Thanks.” Hobson ignored him and kept listening for the front door slam. He was old enough not to care about awkward silences — in fact, you could get a lot out of people by riding them longer.

The crash sounded, and Choi was gone. No shuffling to indicate she’d faked her exit to listen in. Time to get to work, then.

“Okay then, Mister McCabe,” he indicated the still-closed kitchen door with his entire hand, not even bothering to point with a specific finger, “let’s see the crime scene.”

“Um, sure.” McCabe said, suddenly shy. “Of course.”

More
squeamish panic? Should he send McCabe off to pick him up some cake? He settled for an angry glare. McCabe was skinny and defensive, he’d bow down to sheer size.

Sure enough, Ric’s hand went straight to the door handle. It swung open to reveal, at long last, the scene of a brutal murder. It was a kitchen, the kind Hobson hadn’t lived with since his
very
early twenties — a few plates which obviously rotated on and off the drying rack, rusty cutlery, one browned-to-death baking tray, barely enough space to swing any pet, even a hamster.

However, it turns out there
was
enough room for a dog to maul an adult male to death with tooth and claw. They’d removed the whole body — few police were cartoonishly incompetent enough to leave a stray finger behind — but the blood splashed far and wide, dribbling towards the entrance down a slight incline in the floor.

It spattered down the fridge, rendering the magnetic poetry illegible, seeped into the loaf of half—chopped bread on the side, forming a new dark crust. Even with afternoon light flooding in, it was a defiled, scabby mess. Hobson couldn’t even find an unbloodied spot of floor to step inside.

“So,” Hobson said, “could you walk me through what happened here?”

“Well,” Ric said, “in case it wasn’t obvious, my housemate William was ripped apart by some sort of huge dog or wolf or whatever. Maybe a fox, I hear they’ve been trying to get into our houses and eat our babies for years now. Or that’s what the newspapers say anyway.”

McCabe snorted with laughter, Hobson refused to smile.

“Thanks,” he said, voice flat. “But maybe some more detail?”

“Do I actually have to go stand in the blood and walk it through? Because these are new shoes.”

“Just shut the fuck up and get on with it,” Hobson said, feeling his fingers twitch.

“At the same time? Because…”

“Mister McCabe.
Now
, please.”

“Right.”McCabe gulped and continued. “Okay. So I was out, came home and the police were all over my house.”

“Out where?”

“Pub. So turns out, William — that’s the dead one — had been in the kitchen making tea, when someone kicked the back door in, looks like, and let his dog in to do the dirty work.”

Tired of being dainty, Hobson ground his boots into the blood and entered. The clots sent up a thin red dust, but he’d stood in worse than that. Sure enough, the back door lock was smashed, didn’t even shut properly anymore. Only a plastic mop bucket on the floor kept it in place.

“So someone let the dog in.”

“Well, yeah,” McCabe said. “Unless it was a fucking werewolf, I suppose. It smashed through the fence in the garden,” he pointed towards the back of the house, “and around the same time it killed our neighbour on the other side too.”

“Yeah, the other guy.” Hobson stroked his chin. Looked down and saw a couple of red flaky pawprints pointing towards the back door.

Without asking permission, he kicked the mop bucket away, sending it scraping through the blood to a halt, then tugged the door open and stepped out.

A thin pathway led alongside the house, weeds sprouting between paving stones and in all other gaps. A few bloody smears next to the doorstep, and after that not a drop, never mind a pawprint.

“Someone picked it up,” he murmured.

“Yeah, but they can’t find it,” McCabe continued. “No sign of it here or next door, and all the doors were shut.”

Hobson ignored the idiot and swept up the garden, glancing over to the afore-mentioned hole in the fence. It looked like it’d been knocked through from the other side.

No obvious blood stains out here, although he’d struggle to spot them among all the mud and overgrown plants anyway. Unfortunately, the pavement finished, and all that remained was a jungle of tall grass and attacking foliage, snaking up then falling back down again. Still, that meant you could see a clear, blood-free trail of stamped-down plantlife where the dog had scythed through the garden.

Hobson nodded to himself, just as McCabe caught back up.

“Right. And you said you didn’t like the victim?” Hobson said, with another firm look.

“Well.” McCabe paused over his answer. “He was a sulky, difficult, messy guy. Not many people did. He worked with my other housemate, no-one at their office really liked him either.”

“Right, thanks. And the other housemate’s at work right now?”

“Pete? Yeah.”

Hobson gave a polite smile, which he only ever granted someone once their audience was at an end. “Good. Just give me the address of that company and I’ll leave you be for now.”

*****

When Hobson emerged back onto Markham Road, Choi was already coming the other way, munching on one sandwich and carrying the other in a bag. She dawdled at first, but picked up speed once she noticed him.

“Choi.” Appreciative nod. “Thanks for the food. Come on, we’re off to meet some trendy brats.”

“What?” she said, almost spinning in place.

“Some social media marketing company in East London. Dead guy and third housemate both worked there, I’m told not many of them liked him. Maybe they whipped an envelope round the office to fund a hitman.”

“Oh.” She looked back at the two taped-up houses and small group of photographers in front of them. “Aren’t we going to look at where the other guy was killed?”

“Not yet,” Hobson said. “He lived alone, and I ain’t breaking in with the paparazzi watching.”

“Right.” Choi nodded, probably trying not to seem relieved. “So what did you make of that guy Ric?”

“Massive wanker.”

“Think he did it?”

“Probably not.”

“Why?”

“I’m just never that lucky.”

THREE: Social Awesome

THREE
Social Awesome

“So it’s not an office block?” Hobson took another look at the mess of conjoined rectangles across the road. “Because it looks a lot like one to me.”

“No,” Choi read out from its website on her needlessly expensive phone, “according to this, the Inspiration Gestation Station is a shared space where ideas can thrive.”

“I see.”

The duo sat in a stained café, down the road from the idea-pod in question. If they were going to enter that hellish new age pit of self-love, Hobson had insisted, they were damn well going to collect their thoughts in a proper greasy spoon first, rather than the heavily upholstered coffee house Choi wanted.

This being shitty East London, of course, it took an eternity to even find an acceptable café.