The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf

by Nick Bryan

  *****

  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

  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?”

  “What,” Pete laughed, “smashed through our lock with a doggy crowbar?”

  They all rewarded that with a chuckle except Angelina, who turned towards the one person who still hadn’t spoken. “Who do you think it was, Matt?”

  The final member of the party was staring hard at his sandwich from under his own fringe. He took a bite, before glancing up to acknowledge his name.

  “Dunno,” he said at last, “maybe Jacq’s right about the dog. Did you guys see this tweet about cows that’s going round?”

  The whole table turned towards their phones, even Angelina, but she kept one eye on Matt.

  *****

  Security at the Inspiration Gestation Station was a joke, Hobson thought. That’s the problem with these way-too-trendy places: too busy looking good, rather than locking out psychos. With regular receptionist Jacq off at lunch, some spotty under-eighteen was manning the desk.

  Hobson strolled past him with a firm nod. The kid was far too scared to stop a determined older man in enormous coat and black suit. By the time the front door to the building shut behind him, Hobson was in the flowery lift heading up to the Social Awesome offices.

  As the lift hummed, he caught the stink of lunches, and once again hungered for a sandwich. Maybe Edward Lyne would supply a snack — he was the one who requested a check in, after all.

  The lift doors slid open and Hobson exited into the strip lights and sparse, empty desks of Social Awesome’s offices. One wall of the room was entirely windows, and right now, clouds spread across, throwing the whole place into shade. Only Emily was at her desk on the other side of the room, Lyne’s side-office door closed.

  Well, they’d not spoken to her yet. Hobson strolled over to Emily’s corner. Her well-maintained blonde head looked up as he approached, placing a half-eaten sandwich back in her lunchbox. She kept it inside the cling film, apple pushed right up against one corner. Emily was well organised. Mind of a killer, Hobson thought, and then worried that was the kind of simplistic observation Choi would make.

  “Miss Allen?” he said.

  She held his eye for a moment, before looking back at her screen. “Afternoon, Mister Hobson.”

  “Everything alright?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Yeah,” Hobson sighed, “not bad.”

  From this close up, she was obviously beautiful — a well-kept, fragile prettiness he rarely encountered in his line of work, marred by her obvious annoyance. She took another glance, checking whether he’d gone yet.

  Since he refused to take the hint, she forced out some small talk: “So, how’s the investigation going?”

  “It’s fine, I think. Had to eat a pretty bad fry-up but that’s just the job.”

  “Sounds like hard work you do,” Emily said. He’d been making a joke, dammit. She gave him a withering look, then continued typing an email he couldn’t quite read. Probably a string of abuse.

  “So,” he began, knowing this wouldn’t end well, but since he was here, he might as well do his pitiful job. “Why didn’t you go to lunch with the others?”

  “What?�
�

  “Choi and I saw the rest of ‘em in Subway,” Hobson said, air of triumph settling. “Why’re you sitting at your desk instead of going along?”

  “I don’t really see how it’s your business, Mister Hobson, but if you must know, I find Matt awkward company, so I’m enjoying not having to sit near him for a while.” Emily straightened her spine into an insectoid defence position. His chances of getting a date pissed away with every word.

  “Uh-huh. I thought you were good friends with thingy.” He snapped his fingers. “Jacqueline from downstairs.”

  “Friends, yes, not her mum. She can look after herself.” And, after a stare from Hobson: “Fine, sometimes she can’t, but I see her plenty out of work.”

  “So Matt makes you uncomfortable because, what, he fancies you?”

  “Yes! He asked me out and I said no! Happy?”

  Hobson was grinning so wide, it was a hard charge to deny. Sex was definitely off the cards now, but he was so pleased to have won the conversation, he barely cared. “And this was before William died?”

  “Yes! After I went on the date with William! I mean, he was quiet about it, but it was still awkward.”

  “Right.”

  Hobson tapped his foot. Before he came up with anything else, though, the lift started to roar again. The rest of the gang were back, he could hear loud chatter drifting through the doors already. If he had to guess, Lettie Vole yelling at her brother.

  The shrill noise echoed a moment longer, before the doors whirled open and everything burst right into the office. The buzz of four people talking among themselves mowed down the awkward silence between Hobson and Emily.

  Well, most of them talking. Choi was over by reception chatting to the redhead siblings, Matt scuttled away from the group, heading back over towards that same corner to take his seat near Emily.

  Well, Hobson thought, since he was here: “Hi Matt.”