The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf (3 page)

“So why are we here?” she said. “Shouldn’t we be investigating the dodgy neighbour with the attack dog?”

“No. That isn’t the interesting part, Choi. Someone went to the trouble of kicking the door in to kill William Lane. That means motive, and it looks like half his life is in that shitheap over there.”

“And what are we waiting for?” Choi glanced across the road. “It’ll be the end of the day soon.”

“That’s the trick, Choi,” Hobson said. “Or my trick, at least. Catch people late enough in the day that they’re relaxing, but not so late they’ve started going home.”

She started tapping at her phone again — Hobson almost made a sharp comment about texting while the boss was talking, until he realised she was writing down what he’d said.

So he gave her a second to finish, draining his tea from the no-longer-white cup.

“Shall we go?” He pointed at the Inspiration Gestation Station, determined not to speak its name out loud. “Think we’re in the right time zone now.”

“Sure thing!” Choi slipped her phone away and leapt upwards at once, taking another nervous glance at nearby tables. A couple of the stares were lingering on the kid; maybe he’d been too successful in making her uncomfortable.

Shooting a glare at one particularly lascivious middle-aged man, he swept her out to the street. Considering how uncomfortable the Hipster Box Station was about to make him feel, hopefully karma would balance out.

*****

Hobson had never been famous. People rarely recognised him in the streets, and the ones who did either ran away or punched him. So it still came as a shock when he entered the Inspiration Gestation Station, and the receptionist’s eyes widened before the door even fell shut.

The foyer itself, behind the bland-looking glass door, was full of brightly coloured geometric shapes, murals of white-and-yellow flowers, TV monitors and a couple of vending machines. It was like a playground area for tall children. Hobson scowled at it all — Choi was grinning widely.

“Mister Hobson?”

The receptionist herself was a tiny, cutesy thing with long curly hair — the curveless figure of a cocktail stick and the dress sense of My Little Pony. Hobson didn’t like to rule anyone out at this early stage, but she might not be the killer.

He paced across the horrible green flooring — fucking Christ, was this fake grass? — and shook her tiny hand in his enormous one. “Hi, John Hobson. Nice to meet you. You’ve seen us on…” Reluctant pause. “On the
tweets
, I suppose?”

“I’m Jacqueline Miller — everyone calls me Jacq — yes I saw you on Twitter — I can’t believe what happened to William, you’ll catch the killer won’t you?”

“No, yeah. Just getting started right now, we’re here to talk to the victim’s colleagues.”

And oh Lord, Hobson thought, they’ve painted the sun on the blue walls, above the flowers and the actual fucking astroturf. This was the pasture of his nightmares.

“Of course, so you want to go up to Social Awesome on the third floor.”

“Social Awesome.” Hobson sighed. “I suppose so. Do I need to sign in somewhere?”

“Yes, Mister Hobson,” she pulled out a clipboard, “then you can head up to Social Awesome.”

“Can’t
wait
.”

He snatched the pen.

Without waiting for orders like she should, Choi decided it was her turn to question Jacq. He’d thought she was content staring at the awful murals. “So, um, you knew William Lane?”

“Not really, I mean, I just work down here at reception,” she said, “but we talked, I suppose, sometimes, about stuff.”

“And he didn’t, like, say anything to you?” Choi said.

“He never said much.” Jacq shook her head. “I’m sure he had his own problems, I don’t want to be mean about him when he’s only been dead a couple of days.”

“What,” Choi said, “problems like drugs? Or running a brothel?”

Hobson signed his name in a scrawl, then cut in. “What my
intern
meant to say was: did William Lane seem troubled at all in the last few days?”

“No, well, he had been leaving sooner after work, but these guys often have to go to parties and stuff, so I just thought, you know, busy. He was about the same as he ever was. He did, um, well…”

Hobson smacked the guest clipboard over to Choi, almost winding her. “Yes?”

“He’d been on a date with my friend Emily not that long ago. It didn’t work out, but nothing bad, just didn’t work. Can’t believe he’s gone, she was only talking about him the other day.”

“I see.”

“And she also works upstairs, so, y’know, maybe it had been awkward. Still, I can’t believe they would… you know, I just saw him a few days ago.”

“Bloody hell. Right.”

Choi finished off the form, and Hobson pointed at the huge double doors off to the right, with man-sized daisies painted on them. “Is
thi
s the lift?”

“Yes! Press for the third floor.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem! Hope you catch the bad guys!”

Jacq managed a wide smile, which Hobson and Choi returned awkwardly until the lift closed over their rictus faces.

“So, Hobson, think
she
did it?”

“Will you be asking me this whenever we meet anyone?”

“Did she, though?”

“Probably not, but hard to trust anyone
that
twee, innit?”

*****

After a day spent in a tiny office, a dark house and a stinking café where fat stubbly men stared at her and licked their lips, Angelina felt pure joy when she saw the offices of Social Awesome.

The foyer area was fun enough, with its field motif and cheerful sheep murals. She’d seen Google’s offices in pictures and always liked their primary coloured amazingness. She liked the sound of that working day too: sit on a cylindrical bean bag during meetings, look through a wall made of glass, play on-site table-tennis at lunch, deliver an inspirational talk on YouTube afterwards.

Upstairs, in Social Awesome itself, everything was clean! Open-plan! Freshly assembled wooden furniture! Office chairs with wheels! White boards with TWITTER STRATEGY at the top! Enough employees to be busy yet unintimidating!

No, Social Awesome didn’t solve murders, but so far, Angelina wasn’t blown away by the glamorous world of detective work.

Angelina and Hobson took a few steps into Social Awesome, and a red-haired woman in dishevelled business casual noticed them. She seemed pissed off about looking away from her computer, and seeing the guests responsible only made it worse.

“Hey, are you Hobson?” she said.

Hobson didn’t help by sighing. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

“I’m Lettie Vole, I’m office manager here,” she got up from her seat, striding around the desk to shout at them, “and you vultures can
fuck off
back where you came from.”

“Okay, look, Ms Vole, we’re just trying to…” Hobson began.

“Pick up Twitter followers from William’s murder? Look, he may have been a bit of a nob, but he was
our
nob, and I’m not going to let you cash in. You’re like those lawyers on the TV, telling people they could claim a huge pay-out from the accident they had.”

There was a pause. Angelina almost blurted out a tearful apology, but Lettie Vole continued: “Only worse, because at least
those
accidents aren’t fatal since people are still alive to claim on them.”

That seemed to be it. Hobson didn’t have much to say, although he did give Angelina one of the now-familiar
I Told You So
glares.

“Look, Lettie,” Angelina said at last. “I’m really sorry, I was just trying to…”

She was on the verge of crying now. Not how she’d wanted her first day to go. Between Lettie shouting and her own high-pitched squeaks, the other four people in the office couldn’t help but watch.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m the one who did the Twitter thing.” She was dying on her feet. “Hobson was just humouring me because it’s my first day. We’ll go.”

“Sorry,” said a voice from off to one side, “I couldn’t help but overhear — that was
your
Twitter strategy?”

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Angelina looked round. There was a guy there, casual shirt, same shade of red hair as Lettie, small pointy face. “Um, I guess,” she said. “Don’t know if it was exactly a strategy.”

He gave her a patronising smile. “Well, if it helps, it was pretty good. I’m Pete, I’m an account executive here, and an unknown brand picking up followers at that speed gave us all something to think about. Don’t get me wrong, it was in terrible taste, but y’know, what
is
taste, nowadays?”

He gestured at Lettie. “Excuse my sister, she likes to shout and swear.”

“That’s okay.” Angelina nodded at said sister, but Lettie was busy narrowing her eyes at her brother, as if hoping he’d be the next person shredded by a wolf.

Something here seemed to reignite Hobson’s interest. “Sorry,” he leaned in, “you’re Pete?”

“Pete Vole, yeah,” he said, “have we met?”

“No, but I spoke to your housemate Ric, he said you all worked together here.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

“Excuse me,” Lettie said, “are we actually letting them do this, then? Exploit Will’s death for pageviews?”

“Oh, well.” Pete paused. “I was just trying to stop you making this little girl cry.”

“So,” Lettie continued, “I can kick them out? As long as I don’t upset that one?”

“Actually, Pete has a point.” A tall man joined the conversation now. “I’d like to have a chat with you, Mister Hobson.”

The newcomer was long, thin, almost skeletal, and wearing a skinny suit that emphasised it. When his gaunt face smiled, the skin stretched. Angelina wondered how old he was — could be in his thirties, could easily be someone’s great-grandfather.

“I’m Edward Lyne,” he continued, “the owner of Social Awesome, and I think we could be of use to each other.”

His voice was totally accentless — snuck under your skin, slithered in your ears. Angelina glanced at Hobson for reassurance, but he wasn’t taking his eyes off Edward Lyne.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Lyne,” Hobson smiled, unblinking, and went through yet another handshake. “What did you want to chat about?”

“First off, I’d like to do it in my office,” Lyne said, gesturing to a small box in the corner. Clearly only the boss got his own walls. Inside, darkness, filing cabinets and a single desk. “I’m sure Peter and Violet can look after your young friend.”

Angelina simmered. Why did everyone here treat her like a schoolgirl? These people were meant to be Awesome! But no, just some angry ginger siblings and the missing link between Jack Skellington and Lord Voldemort.

“Choi,” Hobson risked looking away from Lyne to give her instructions. “Have a chat with these nice people, especially the ones we haven’t met yet, ask about William. Looks like I’m going to have a word with Mister Lyne.”

“No sweat, Hobson!” she said. Maybe the thumbs up had been overkill.

“Kids nowadays.” With a shake of his head, Hobson gestured towards Lyne’s corner office. “Okay, I’m all yours.”

*****

Inside Edward Lyne’s office, with the door shut, the darkness rushed forward to envelop them both. It wasn’t quite nighttime, but the evening had advanced a hell of a lot since Hobson and Choi entered the Inspiration Desperation Plantation. Hobson didn’t scare easily — after all, he was bigger than everyone — but seeing Lyne’s thin frame in silhouette put him in mind of a rearing skeletal scorpion.

“So, Mister Hobson, that really was one hell of a social media strategy.”

From the expectant grin on Lyne’s white face, Hobson suspected he was being buttered up. “Glad you liked it, Mister Lyne. Some people seem to find it distasteful.”

“Ah, you mean our office manager Miss Vole?” he said.

“For example.”

Lyne shrugged, the outline of his shoulders rising and falling clearly in the darkness. “She runs the office but she isn’t really part of what we do. The truth of the matter is: your methods might be unconventional, but we think it flagged you up as a company we could really do business with.”

“Because we have a Twitter account?”

“Everyone has a Twitter account, Mister Hobson.”

Hobson laughed out loud. “I don’t.”

“Even if you bring in some little Asian girl to type the updates, it’s
you
as far as the world is concerned.”

Hobson ignored the racism to keep things moving. “Okay. I gotta say, Lyne, you’re not what I expected as the owner of a company called ‘Social Awesome’.”

“You thought I’d wear bermuda shorts to work and own four smoothie makers?”

“Something like that.”

“Because the company brand speaks louder than what’s inside it, Mister Hobson. Just look at your Twitter account.”

“Touché,” Hobson growled.

The conversation rolled to a stop, blackness crept further down the wall.

“So, Mister Hobson, I thought I’d save you any future embarrassing conversations about your motives. I’m taking you on formally to investigate my dead employee, how does that sound?”

“Right.” Mustn’t seem too keen. “Why?”

“Because, as I say, I think you might be our kind of company.”

“If you’re talking about Twitter,” Hobson said, “you need to take that up with my intern.”

“Maybe I’ll have a chat with her later.” Lyne accompanied that with a smile and full flash of his gums. A surprise to discover there was
any
flesh in there.

“Maybe.” Not a chance in Hell.

“So you accept?”

“Yes, but obviously it’ll be expensive.”

Not to mention: damn sight easier to investigate with a legitimate reason to be involved.

“That’s fine. I’ll get Lettie to send over the paperwork, you fill in your rate and I’ll sign it off as long as you’re not taking advantage.”

“Suppose I’ll get to work, then.”

He stood up before Lyne could say anything, and reached across for the handshake. Seconds later, he cut it off, unsettled by how thin the other man’s skin felt.

*****

“So,” Pete said as soon as Hobson shut that door behind him, “want me to introduce you to Emily and Matt?”

“Who?” Angelina’s eyes darted about.