Hello, Book Lovers!

If you read the original edition of this story, back when it was called The Candidate, you’ll know it leaned a little too close to “political thriller” territory in title only. The story itself was always a murder mystery, just one wearing the wrong coat. Think: fur coat in the height of summer.

Why Create a Second Edition?

So, with the second edition, I took the opportunity to refine a few things, and in particular a title change to something that better represented the murder mystery and amateur sleuth genres—The Reporter at the Gate.

While preparing the update, I dug deeper into James’s world: more texture, more atmosphere seen and experienced through the characters whose viewpoints shape the investigation—James, Anwar, and David. While the bones of the story remain the same, but the experience is richer, clearer, and far more aligned with the series tone going forward.

Spoiler alert: book two, the Woman in the Lake is almost ready.

Chapter one is where you get to experiences James’s ordinary world before it is changed forever.

Without further ado, here’s a bit about the story..

One

Sixteen Hours Earlier

The early-morning sun shone through the third-floor windows of the Northampton Tribune newsroom as James Lalonde sat in his cubicle and sipped an espresso while he read the morning’s edition. The newsroom smelled like a concoction of ink, paper, old coffee, and mildew. The scent was nothing worth bottling, but Rhys Kelly, the chief editor, wore it like aftershave. And James could smell it permeating the room from Rhys’s open door. The six-foot, seventy-year-old Rhys slammed the phone back onto its cradle. He was fuming. Technically, it was a typical Monday morning occurrence, but James was still worried because Rhys’s anger felt different. It was almost personal.

From his cubicle, James had a perfect view of the newsroom in all its glory. Yesterday’s edition was scattered across the Flet-like walls in the rows of cubicles, flapping in the breeze of the air-conditioner. A thick layer of dust was draped over the filing cabinets that hadn’t been opened since the ’90s. On the pillar behind his desk was a clock on the far wall that hadn’t ticked since it ran out of batteries many years before he started his internship. To his right, a pile of overdue library books and past editions of the Tribune all begged for his attention. James ignored them as he listened to the hum of the photocopier outside the chief editor’s office.
It was another day at the grindstone, and James was doing everything but his dream job. By night—in his mind, at least— James chased leads, solved crimes, and helped put bad guys behind bars with his page-one exposés. The innocent dreams of youth.

During daylight hours, James worked as an editorial research assistant for the Northampton Tribune. It was a fancy term for an all-round dogsbody, or that was how it felt. He was a lackey.

As he sipped his espresso, James watched the real journalists drag their bodies across the newsroom floor to Rhys’s office. By chance, James’s workstation was outside that office. Every day, he got to watch the comings and goings, like a pauper begging for change outside the station during rush hour.

For six months, James had slaved away researching and editing other people’s work and helped Rhys manage his workload. But to James’s dismay, all of that hard work had gone unnoticed. He was still a gofer.

A mini shock wave shook his desk as Will Thatcher plopped his slender frame on the white laminate desktop. Deep-set wrinkles formed at the corners of Will’s eyes as he smiled at James. That smile was never good news. With a shrug, James put down his espresso then turned towards his screen and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up on the bridge of his nose. With a few brief clicks, a note-taking programme opened on his screen.

Swivelling his chair at a slight angle, James glanced over at Will.
‘Wow, you’re in a good mood,’ Will said with a hint of laughter in his voice.

James raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re always late for the morning meeting. And you know how Rhys loves that.’

Will frowned. ‘I’m also the only person in this building who’s interested in writing for the culture section.’

James rolled his blue-green eyes, then glanced at his screen.

‘Fine.’ Will shook his head. ‘I need you to research the history behind Delapre Abbey for my upcoming piece on the Mediaeval Festival. Some mediaeval society and the council are putting on an event, and it would be great if I knew the history.’ Will waved his hand dismissively.

Tilting his head, James looked at Will as he continued to type. ‘At least it sounds interesting. Maybe someone will accidentally get stabbed with a sword and make things exciting.’

Will leaned back as his eyes widened. ‘Things aren’t interesting for you unless someone is injured or loses a limb.’ Will chuckled.

‘What?’ James leaned back in his chair.

‘Have you ever seen blood?’ Will draped his arm on the top of the upholstered grey partition.

James smirked as he peered over Will’s shoulder. ‘Today might be the day.’
Will froze, then turned to find a tall man standing in the doorframe, his dark hair streaked with more than a dash of grey. His dark-brown eyes were fixed on Will.
‘I’m just—’ Will pointed over his shoulder at James.

Rhys groaned as he surveyed the newsroom. His daily ritual was to groan at Will for gossiping, then scan the newsroom for his next victim. Will’s green eyes pleaded with James. James shrugged. Don’t look at me. I’m just here to bury the bodies.

Hunched over, Will slid off the desk and walked the short distance to the office. Then he paused behind the editor, who was towering in the doorframe. Rhys surveyed the journalists in his office, like a beacon in a lighthouse perched on a rock searching the night seas. The editor was performing his usual headcount, and no one got away with missing the morning meeting—not on his watch.

Will stood on tiptoes, attempting to peer over Rhys’s shoulder. ‘My story needs to be in the next edition of the paper because the Mediaeval Festival will be held the following weekend on the tenth of July.’

James studied his screen, in desperate hope that something far more interesting would pop up begging for his attention, but it was useless. No one was emailing him for anything. With two quick clicks, he opened a browser window and waited for the prehistoric machine to load. He had completed four years of study just to be someone’s lackey.

Gavin, a wiry man with spiked grey hair, offered James a thoughtful expression as he sauntered past wearing his usual attire. James didn’t have to look up because Gavin wore a polo shirt in seven different colours. It was his personal uniform. Even on weekends, he always wore a polo shirt. A couple of times, James ran into Gavin at his local Pret A Manger and a newsagent, that’s when he realised Gavin had weekend polos. As James continued to wait, a pair of hands squeezed his shoulders.

‘It won’t be like this forever. One day, you, too, will have your own gofer,’ Gavin whispered, then he brushed his hand down his polo shirt and sauntered into Rhys’s office.

James combed his fingers through his thick, dark-blond hair and sighed.

Twenty minutes later, James clicked the print button on the screen then listened as the printer spat out pages. James picked up his espresso cup and took a sip. He groaned. It was empty. Hunched over, he dragged his lanky frame towards the copier. As James leaned over and grabbed the papers, he listened to Rhys barking orders in the editorial meeting. He moved slowly, pretending the copier was jamming while he strained to catch every word.

‘Maybe I’ll get Lalonde to do the interview and shove it somewhere in the back.’ Rhys stared at the tattered edges of the notepad in his hand and ran a red pen through his thick, greying hair. ‘If it gets too complicated, I’ll take it off him and give it to someone with more experience.’

James froze, papers halfway to his chest, hardly daring to breathe.

Rhys barely glanced up from the notebook in his hand and pointed towards the open door. The meeting was over.

James beamed as he walked towards his desk with a spring in his step. He opened the manila folder and placed the printouts on top of the pile. This lackey is now officially a journalist. He could barely contain his excitement.

Unfortunately, I’m no longer providing advanced reader copies at this time. But you can buy The Reporter at the Gate direct from me at the launch price of 99 pence (for a limited time only) by clicking the button below. 

Happy reading, everybody! 

Amelia xx