by Nick Bryan
“Like I’m not sure dragging that kid around with you is helping anyone. She almost cried under interrogation just now. Let her go.”
“So you want me to fire Choi and back off the case?”
“Yes. We know what we’re doing, we can solve it fine without your help.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I hope so.”
“Anything else?”
“Been in any fights lately, John?”
“I’m staying out of trouble.”
“Good. Because if people involved in this case start turning up beaten without any claw marks on them, your record means you’re our first call.”
“I’ll be taking my sidekick and leaving, if that’s okay Ellie?”
“Of course. Lovely seeing you as ever.”
*****
After Angelina stared at the growing paparazzi for a while, the policeman watching her asked if she was okay. She reassured him everything was fine, then tried to look stronger and less troubled.
He didn’t look away, this wasn’t working. Thankfully, Hobson turned the corner a few minutes later. It felt like his statement was shorter, even though more had happened to him. Maybe he had more experience.
“Choi,” he declared as ever, “time to take a walk.”
Before sweeping her away, though, he turned to the policeman. “Sergeant, thanks for looking after us. I especially enjoyed the part earlier where you gently touched my inner thigh while searching me.”
The tall guy scowled at him and prowled off to rejoin Ellie. Once the police guy’s footsteps faded away, the two of them began winding around towards the police line. The media were building up numbers there.
“So, um, Hobson, are we keeping on the case?”
“Damn right. We’ve got a client, you’re in with Social Awesome, we’re well on the way.”
“But Matt’s dead, and the police told us to back off.”
“Don’t worry, Choi, I didn’t pay much attention to her when we were married, I’m sure as fuck not starting now. Not to mention,” he said with worrying cheer, “imagine her face when we solve the whole damn thing while she’s still pulling dog hairs out of Matt’s handstump.”
“Okay.” Angelina blinked a few times and felt an uncomfortable feeling rising in her stomach. They turned into a bank of flashing cameras and shouting journalists, which only made things worse.
“Choi, say nothing to anyone. Even no comment is too much comment, you get me?”
She nodded, faced front and shoved, because a proper young professional didn’t need to be told twice. They waded into the crowd, the road only five or six people away but seeming unreachable, messages smashing into her ears.
“—confirm details of a serial killer—”
“—Twitter detectives at crime scene—”
“—no comment from police at this time—”
“—truth to rumours of wild animal loose in the city—”
“—anything to say to families of victims—”
“—conveniently took this case for free before it escalated—”
“—connections to underground dog fighting—”
“—seedy sex parties gone wrong at Social Awesome—”
“—ex-husband of police detective now walking free from crime scene—”
“—cynical opportunists—”
“—traumatised receptionist was unable to comment—”
“—Edward Lyne and John Hobson, of course, both men with shady pasts—”
“—no interest in justice—”
Dizzy, blinded, Angelina felt a huge hand tug her loose. She still almost staggered over the kerb before Hobson pulled her back from that too.
She turned around to look back at the crowd, unable to process the pushing, shoving mass of hands and noise, long-lens cameras almost jabbing her in the face. In the end, Hobson had to pull her towards the station by the shoulder to get her moving again.
A few opportunistic media types gave chase down the street, but Hobson took a few heavy steps in their direction and they ran away. He didn’t even need to clench his fists — skinny journalists trembled at the sight of violence. It made Angelina laugh how utterly terrified some of them were.
Neither Hobson nor Angelina said anything out loud until they reached the train platform and sat down on a bench. Compared to everything else, this seemed like a sanctuary, a precious reserve of boring normality. Drunks meandered along the platform, twitching at passing trains. Sober passers-by, however, were giving them the eyeball. The recognition factor was getting worse.
Nonetheless, Angelina enjoyed being in this completely bland, generic grey station interior. Even the pastel shades of the IGS were too much in her current mood.
Hobson took a long sigh. “Alright, Choi, this is going to be harder than I’d thought, but I reckon we can crack it still.”
“You do?”
“Damn straight. We’ll be fine. Could you get in early tomorrow? We’ve got a lot of ground to cover if we’re gonna tear this case open.”
She just nodded, leaning back against the bench and closing her eyes.
“Good. Oh, and let’s try not to finish up the day in this trendy neighbourhood again, eh? It’s shit.”
*****
Angelina knocked on the door and waited for her mother to unhook the stupid metal bar. Must admit, she’d hoped to get home earlier than this.
As she withdrew from the front door, her mobile began to ring, then immediately stopped. Before she could even check the missed call, the bar clanked off and door flew open, revealing her Mum standing there, hair askew and phone in one hand.
“Angelina,” she said with pretend calm, “I’ve just seen you on the ten o’clock news.”
Shit. She forgot her parents sometimes watched TV.
“You told me you were staying out of danger, Angelina. And yet I see you and that massive brute storming out of a building where someone has been ripped apart and what on Earth is he thinking?”
“Well, it’s not as if I wanted to be next to a dead body, I’ll try and stay away from that stuff in the future, I promise.”
“Not good enough. I’ll be calling Mister Hobson and your school tomorrow. You can finish your work experience somewhere safer.” She snorted to herself. “A prison, perhaps.”
“Mum, you can’t, it’s just getting interesting! You’re ruining it!”
“Angelina, I don’t want to hear another…”
The mobile in her mum’s hand started to ring, and she glanced at it mid-reprimand. It tilted enough for Angelina to read Number Withheld on the screen. Giving a clear glare to indicate the shouting would continue after this short break, she took the call. Angelina stomped inside, slamming the door and scowling, while her Mum stuck a finger in one ear to make out the telephone voice. “What was that, sorry?”
Her eyes widened, and she hung up, clamping one hand over the mobile even though it couldn’t hear her anymore.
“Angelina,” she said, in a flat monotone, “that was a gentleman from the newspapers, asking why I let my teenage daughter hang around bloody murders.”
“Oh fuck.”
“Pardon me, Angelina?”
“Oh… fiddlesticks.”
*****
Hobson slammed into his office and barged around to his desk, putting his feet up and sighing.
First, he pulled the main office phone cable out. Thank God the press hadn’t beaten him back here and set up one of their little refugee camps outside. Next: he tugged his boots off and crashed them together. A fine powder of dried blood drifted into the air, settling in and around the bin. Last of all, he turned on his computer and read online coverage, growing more annoyed with each piece.
This wouldn’t do. All the sundry bullshit was getting in the way. He pulled his mobile out — thankfully they didn’t yet have this number — and dialled the client.
“Mister Lyne? I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“I’m fine, Hobson. I ass
ume you’re calling about the incident earlier.”
“I am. You sad about Matt Michaelson dying?”
“Yes. Finding good programmers is very tedious.”
“Interesting answer.” He clicked his tongue. “Since your company won’t be in the office for a few days, I want you to email the phone numbers and home addresses of all your employees over to me. Include the murdered ones, if you’d be so kind.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I’d like your permission to torture them a little to find out who’s doing the killing.”
“You think it’s someone at Social Awesome?”
“At this point, yeah.”
“I suppose so, Mister Hobson. But I’ve seen some disturbing implications about you on the news, so I have to ask: what kind of torture did you have in mind?”
“Strictly hands off, Lyne; no worries. Email the stuff over as soon as you can, ta.”
The smiling detective hung up before Lyne could reply. Good to hear the undead-looking batfuck sounding afraid.
NINE
The Private Life Of Voles
Been a few years since Hobson last slept in his office — he tried to avoid too many tragic detective clichés.
But after his late night call with Lyne, he’d reclined his chair, leaned back, closed his eyes and let himself slide away. Storming up and down those stairs earlier took more out of him than he’d realised. Soon enough, it was morning, and the sun was tickling his eyelids through the shitty blinds.
His office building might be down to earth and real than the twee shared workspace bullshit of the Inspiration Gestation Station, but at least the IGS had window-coverings which might keep out the sun, he thought, prising himself upright in his chair.
The shirt and trousers sweated onto his body in a few awful crevices, legs stiff and the rumbling, chattering sound in his skull felt like the start of a headache. Once he pulled his head from the awful sticky leather, Hobson realised that wasn’t the case. It was coming from outside.
Shaking his head, Hobson turned to the computer, still humming away, jerked the mouse to wake the thing up and saw it was already eight.
Despite the creaking pain in his joints, he’d best get to work. Start by dialling the front desk.
“Morning Will. What’s that noise? Are the locals demonstrating outside Tesco again?”
“No, Mister Hobson, there’s a handful of press waiting at the door. A few of them rang the buzzer and asked to speak to you, but I said you weren’t in yet.”
“Shit. Could you keep that up please?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks Will. You’re a good doorman.”
He hung up and swore, collapsing his head into his hands.
*****
At seven, Angelina leapt out of bed with her alarm and clicked it off calmly. Her room was tidy, a tasteful shade of lilac with everything filed away into small plastic boxes. Her thoughts were calm. She would not punch her mother.
She lived in a loft conversion at the top of their house — a built-on adjoining palace for the only child. Why take the top floor yourself when you could give it to your teenager? Since she had all this space, best try to keep it tidy. There was an entire bathroom devoted to her — huge amounts of products, all efficiently stored in yet more racks of pastel-coloured boxes.
Calmly, she cleansed herself, rubbing the grease off her face, washing her hair and putting on the bare minimum of make-up. Hobson didn’t seem like he had much time for heavy cosmetics. She’d been wearing some eyeshadow on her first day, but even that seemed a lot now she’d met him.
Once ready, she made her way downstairs, swinging around the landing to the bottom floor. Her Mum was already at the dining room table. As Angelina leapt off the final few stairs, thumping into the ground, her Mum marched right out to meet her in the hall. Everything was still, white and cold. The family portrait glared at them.
“Angelina. It’s seven thirty, why are you up?”
“Mister Hobson asked me to be in early. Lots to do today,” she said, brushing past to get to the cereal.
“You’re not going back there, Angelina. Some greasy photographer is hanging around outside. Honestly don’t know where these people come from, but you’re not going to that office.”
“But Mum…”
“Sorry, dear. No.”
Angelina clattered her bowl down, trying to stay calm and mannered. “Mum, the police are on the case now, we’re just asking some questions, I promise it’ll be fine, just let me go back to work.”
“Angelina, I’m glad you’ve found something you’re passionate about, but there will be other chances.”
Staring down her Mum, she could feel the job slipping away. But she had an idea. “Mum. There’s a reporter outside, I could go and talk to him.”
“Talk to him how?”
“Like about how you and Dad adopted an Asian kid even though you’re white so you could… racially abuse me or something.”
“You obviously haven’t been abused. Don’t be silly.”
But her eyes widened nonetheless, and Angelina knew she could win. Her Mum liked a quiet life.
“Still, you know what the papers do to suspicious parents in these kind of cases.” She stepped away from her breakfast. “You’d be everywhere.”
“Angelina, what’s gotten into you? Did your detective suggest this?”
“No, he didn’t. Let me go back to work with Hobson, please.”
“We’re your parents, young lady. Don’t threaten us.”
“You’re not my real parents. Can I go back or not?”
Her Mum just glared at her, eyes beginning to redden, before storming from the room without replying. Angelina pulled her coat on, ready to go to work. Only one journalist, according to her mum’s report. Stamping straight past him should be easy enough.
*****
“You did what?” Hobson sighed. “Choi, I’m not sure whether I’m proud or furious.”
There wasn’t much he could do about it, though, so he moved the conversation on, flicking through the email Lyne sent him. As promised, full details for every Social Awesome employee. Hobson took a few scrolls up and down before settling on their first stop.
Just as he made the decision, Choi’s breathless voice on the phone finally stopped moaning about how difficult this morning had been.
“Okay Choi, that’s sad, now, I think I’ve worked out where we’re going. Meet me at Hammersmith station, around 8:45? We’re door stepping some suspects.”
Once she’d agreed to that, he hung up and started lifting himself out of the damn chair. Time to deal with his own siege situation. Awfully embarrassing if Choi threatened her family to make this meet, but the boss missed it due to a handful of hacks.
Hobson peeked out of the piss-poor blinds to confirm they were still there. He was a detective, not a crime tour guide — might sound like a shit joke, but that was why they were here. Idiot reporters couldn’t follow the police around nagging them, but Hobson? Sadly, yes, he was fair game.
Reaching for his coat with one hand, he scrolled down his mobile with the other, until he found the number headed The Pimp.
As ever, the call picked up before its first ring even finished.
“Hey hey.”
“Yeah, hi. It’s John Hobson, I need a favour.”
“Man, you finally ready to move on from your ex?”
“Not that kind. Could you have a word with Bible-Amp Benny from outside Peckham Rye and get him over to my building?”
“Benny with the Bible readings and the loudspeaker? Why the fuck? You converting?”
“No, mate. I need him to scare away some idiots from outside.”
“No prob, Johnny. And remember, I’m always here if…”
“Thanks. I’m fine.”
Hobson hung up, sighed, and locked the office door behind him. Best be ready to make a run for it.
*****
As she emerged from Hammersmith tube,
Hobson watched Choi. She peered right back at him, and the pair sized each other up. Neither one cracked and said anything, so he pointed the way and off they went.
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.
