by Nick Bryan
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.
“Those two?” He indicated the remaining Social Awesome employees: a suited woman with a blonde bob and a man in a hoodie, a mess all over. “The ones your boss told you to talk to?”
“Oh.” He was smiling at her again, wasn’t he? Was it because she’d cried in front of him? “I… yes, I guess?”
She saw Pete’s sister blasting her brother with the worst glare yet. Pretending not to notice, Angelina made her way across the open-plan mass of desks to that corner, near a huge window and a full whiteboard. There was a similar board in Hobson’s office, with writing left so long, it wouldn’t wipe off.
In front of it, at a workstation drowning in used notepaper, the guy in the hoodie wasn’t looking up at her. What was his name?
“Hi?” Angelina said, waving. “Matt?”
He remained motionless, as if hoping she meant someone else.
From behind her, the woman with the hair called out. “Hey, Matt!”
He twitched, but not quick enough. A biro arced over Angelina’s shoulder and clattered onto Matt’s spacebar, he jumped backwards with a yell. As his head whiplashed from the desk, tiny earphones dropped out from under his messy hair and fell away.
Once his chair rolled to a stop, he sat for a second, before looking past Angelina. “Emily?”
“Sorry,” came Emily’s voice, “I think the little detective wants to talk to you.”
“Hi, yes, thanks.” Angelina moved towards the window to get out of the crossfire. “Hi, I’m Angelina, looking into William’s murder. I was wondering if either of you knew who might’ve done it?”
Her two interviewees stared at her — maybe a real detective would’ve used a more subtle, insidious and probing question?
Emily cracked first: “Well, I went on a date with him a couple of weeks ago, it was awkward but not so awkward I’d kill h
im.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good. But why did you do that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” Angelina said, “no-one seems to like him, so why did you date him?”
“Because he was funny, because I only met him three months ago when I started here, he seemed interesting, and lastly, because it’s none of your business.”
“Well, like I said, we’re…”
“Looking into it, yes. Who hired you to do this, exactly? Are the police subcontracting?”
Angelina snapped. “Because it’s our job, and we want to. You don’t have to talk to us, but…”
“Alright, that’s all I needed, thank you.”
Emily turned back to her desk. Angelina looked to Matt, but he barely paused before putting his earphones back in. She should try and salvage the interview, shouldn’t she?
She’d taken one step towards his desk, hand raised to nudge his shoulder, when Hobson thundered out of his meeting with Edward Lyne. He grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her towards the exit. Thank God.
Making small attempts at waving to her new friends, she was soon pulled through the swing door, out to the corridor where they pressed the lift button. She almost opened her mouth, but Hobson shushed her with a single hiss. They stood like that until their exit arrived.
As the lift door closed, Hobson cut in before Angelina could say anything.
“I’ve no idea if Lyne did it. Okay?”
“Okay. I think Matt might’ve done it.”
“Any reason?”
“He’s pretty quiet.”
“Right.”
FOUR
Evening Plans
It was nearly eight as they weaved their way to the tube station in East London’s trendy Dalston area. Angelina tried small talk about the case, but Hobson was preoccupied with reaching the underground as fast as possible. Probably worried about catching Hipster if he breathed too much of their air.
She imagined Hobson, the middle-aged dull-suited giant, in skinny jeans and huge glasses, and stifled a giggle. Not that she needed to hide it; he was striding too far ahead to notice.
She staggered over a tiny bicycle chained to a lamppost, hooking her foot through the spokes and stumbling forward. As she tottered like a giraffe, the bike itself scraped and rattled around the pavement. She yelled out, not using any real obscenities, but Hobson still looked round.
“Choi. Watch where you’re going, you might damage that child’s bike.”
“It’s not…” Despite the soreness in her arches, she laughed again. “It’s not a child’s bike, it’s a BMX.”
“Ah, I see,” Hobson said. “I punched a cyclist once, he came clear off and hit the ground, but the bike kept going and took out the other guy I was chasing.”
Angelina kept smiling despite her pain. “That sounds amazing.”
“It was a better time, Choi. That shitty bike would never knock over a grown man.”
In the end, Hobson dropped his pace and walked alongside Angelina. Nearby men in cardigans stopped laughing at her, probably out of fear Hobson would knock them off their bikes too.
“So, Choi,” he said, “good news: Social Awesome are going to pay us to keep investigating this case.”
“Wow. That was what the Lyne guy wanted to talk about?”
“Yeah.”
She rolled the idea around her mind, as they approached the tube.
“Wow,” she murmured again. “Not sure how I feel about that.”
“Sadly, that was more or less my reaction.”
They stopped outside the underground and stood awkwardly, as if on an age-inappropriate first date.
“So, get on the train and go home.” He pointed into the station. “The bullshit continues at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow.”
“Okay then.” Angelina swung most of the way round on her ankle, before looking back at him. “Aren’t you getting the tube back to South London too?”
“If only.”
“You’re going to break into that other house where the dog came from, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come?”
“Definitely not.”
Angelina almost protested, but reined herself in. Other, shitter teenagers might have complained, but she was sensible enough to pick her battles.
So she nodded at him and entered the station to zip back south. It wasn’t all bad news: with her flappy purple outfit and without the bloke cosplaying a gravedigger, she fitted right in on the escalator down to this particular tube stop.
*****
Markham Road at night, only a few hours since Hobson was last here, felt quiet. The paparazzi were missing, evidently this double murder wasn’t juicy enough. After all, the victims were a single guy in a studenty house share and some loser next door who kept himself to himself.
No, to get the presses printing, they’d need a dead kid, or at least a mutilated pretty woman. All that police tape around the two doorsteps was dropping off and sliding away.
For a moment, Hobson considered smashing his way into the other victim’s home. But that would be stupid at the best of times, and he was meant to be avoiding senseless violence. He bought this uncharacteristically expensive black suit to encourage himself not to get covered in dust and blood.
The target house was mid-terrace, joined to others on both sides, and the garden backed on to other people’s property. He could only think of one solution: turning back to the next residence, Hobson pounded on the door.
Ric McCabe answered quickly but with less obnoxious glee than before. He’d also dyed his hair from bright fire engine red to black. Did he think mournful hair would remove him from suspicion?
“Hello, um, Mister Hobson.” McCabe waved. “How can I help you this time?”
“Evening, McCabe.” He pointed over McCabe’s shoulder. “Won’t take up much of your time, just need to use the garden.”
“What for?” McCabe said, laughing in advance of his own joke. “Are you going to do a reconstruction? Did you bring a puppy and a whip?”
“Just routine stuff.” Hobson stared. “Nothing to worry about.”
Standard trick: make him feel like he’s the one being difficult. McCabe was a weakling, so Hobson got through to the garden in minutes. The guy tried to linger, but another look put an end to that.
For the second time that day, he peered at the dog track in front of him, fading as time passed. It was dark now, so he pulled out his torch to check his path through the tall grass to where the dog had entered. Once he reached the end, Hobson wrenched the fence slats aside and shoved his way through the jagged hole to the next garden over. It took effort to get his entire frame past the gap, Hobson being several times larger than a big wolfy dog, but in the end, he made it. The space only doubled in size, no-one would notice.
Whereas Pete and Ric’s garden was a mess through neglect, the dog-owner’s house hit the other end of the spectrum: beaten to death with over-use. Wheelbarrows full of rotten vegetables, metal pieces of engine, the stench of rust and a back door, hanging open.
Damn police, Hobson thought, they never clean up after themselves. Any moron could dash in there to destroy evidence, stash something, steal this bloke’s stuff, whatever they wanted. And hadn’t McCabe said there’d been no way for the dog to get out of the house?
He glanced again at the rubbish on the dead ground, including a pile of plastic sheeting knocked over, probably when the dog bolted. The fence looked even more rotten and brittle on this side, it wasn’t hard to see how the hound made it through. He inspected it with the torch beam for a few seconds, and then turned to go inside.
The back door opened into the kitchen. All these terraced places used the same blueprint. But the sheer level of mess was off the scale — Hobson thought McCabe’s unwashed dishes were bad, but this was rotting, disgusting, like everything had died. No wonder that dog had gone nuts — he was close to savaging someone himself.
There might’ve be
en a scattering of blood around too, but nothing was visible beneath the scum. Hobson would’ve held his nose, but he needed a hand free to open the next closed door, and the other one was busy with the torch. Knowing his luck, the police had missed a few bits of victim, and he was standing in chunks of brains.
Worst of all: he heard footsteps. Hobson froze and glanced back at the door to the garden. The noise was coming from inside the house, padding down the stairs and towards the living room — he assumed it was a living room behind this door, based on the layout of Pete and Ric’s place.
Glancing behind him, he put down the torch and grabbed the most sturdy looking frying pan in sight, ignoring the mess of brown goo slopping out of it onto the floor. At least it missed his suit and polished boots.
Armed and ready, Hobson seized the living room door handle, pushed and threw it open. The light was already on inside; his fellow intruder was standing in front of the sofa, among a mess of takeaway cartons and empty dog food tins. To his utter relief and extreme disappointment, it was somebody he already knew.
*****
Angelina slipped the key into the lock, twisting gently in the hope of not being noticed, or at least getting credit for trying not to make a noise. Unfortunately, when she pressed inwards on the massive wooden slab, it moved only a fraction before jarring.
The door latched into place with a stupid metal bar. She slapped it, hoping for a miracle, but no such luck. Not only did it barely move, but the noise got the attention of her mother. Well, adoptive mother.
“Angelina,” she hurried towards the door, “it’s a bit late isn’t it? After ten?”
“Yes.”
Her Mum pushed the door back into her face to disengage the bar. Once it moved back open, Angelina gazed into the bleak cushioning of home. Everything was beige and well-positioned — she’d almost rather live in the student houseshare hell of Ric and Pete.
“So,” her Mum said before Angelina even put her bag down, “how was your first day? Did you catch any criminals?”
“Well, actually,” Angelina said, “we’re investigating a murder.”
Her Mum’s smile was small and patronising before, and now it ebbed away to nothing. “Which murder? Not the one on TV with the dogs?”