The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf - Hobson & Choi Case One

FIVE - Bad Breakfast

Angelina wound her way past a man in a fancy dress pimp costume – surely no real pimp would wear that bright red velvet suit and enormous matching top hat? Taking her eyes off him, she looked around at the brown buildings, rubbish bags on the street and tiny indie supermarkets selling odd vegetables instead. She didn't normally come to this bit of South London, the part between her Kentish suburb and the centre, and it made her nervous.

She'd eased off the impressive clothes combinations for her second day, opting for a subdued black-and-blue ensemble to avoid drawing attention. Still got a few looks though.

Hoping someone would let her in quick, she knocked on the glass door to the Brightman Business Centre – an ambitious name for a two-storey crumbling maze of small rooms. Let's face facts, it was no Inspiration Gestation Station. Still, Peckham was taking off as a trendy area. There were cool-looking design firms in there, but also scary, shuffling guys who glared at her, wearing faded double-denim and exchanging suspicious parcels.

Through the door, she could see pretty receptionist Will, feet up on the desk and reading a magazine, hair just the right amount of askew even when he thought no-one was looking. Angelina assumed he'd be perusing some hip journal, but no, it was Cameras & Photography Magazine. Of course, she thought: Will was a real enthusiast, not some poser.

However, would be nice if he opened the door before the pimp caught up and tried to recruit her. Angelina didn't know what the small Asian girl fetish market was like in Peckham, but was in no hurry to find out. She banged on the glass harder, and Will finally looked up, nodded cheerily and swung upright.

He cruised across the reception area, didn't take long as it was a corridor with a small desk stuffed in, and pressed the button to let her in. His unironed dark shirt and thin red t-shirt clashed beautifully, topped off with a sweeping dyed-black fringe.

"Thanks," she smiled and mumbled.

"No problem," he said, squeezing back behind his desk, "but get Hobson to give you a card for the door. You don't wanna be stuck outside if you catch me on a toilet break."

"That's, um, good advice, thanks." She smiled, and thought with a sigh that this was one disadvantage of dressing down. She didn't feel good in herself wearing plain black trousers and a blouse, even if it was a blue one she liked. She had a hoodie over it for extra deflection.

There wasn't much corridor left before the stairs, so she took a few steps, before turning around, pretending she'd just remembered something. "Oh, by the way, you have the same name as the dead guy."

Will looked up from his camera magazine, still not seeming annoyed yet. "The one ripped apart by the dog?"

Angelina nodded, and he sighed. "I know, it was in all the papers. Always a shame to see a fellow William get shredded."

He paused, taking a moment's silence for his namesake, before looking back down. Angelina stung with disappointment – she'd thought of this conversation starter going to bed last night, and expected more from it.

Determined to try harder, she pushed through the doors and made for the stairs. The lack of a lift felt like a let-down, even though the building only had two floors.

*****

Angelina reached Hobson's door and raised her hand to knock, before taking a breath and telling herself: this is your office now, you have as much right to walk in as he does. Please please don't let him be touching himself or anything.

She pushed the door aside and entered, finding Hobson sitting at his desk tapping irritably at his computer keyboard. No untoward behaviour of any kind. As she stepped over the threshold, he looked up and nodded.