The Candidate: Rookie Reporter Amateur Sleuth Mystery, #1

PROLOGUE

JUNE 28, 2010, 11:57 P.M.

Gasping for air, Albert opened his eyes. As the crystal chandelier on the high ceiling came into view, he groaned. With a deep breath, he gripped the bodkin arrow wedged into his chest and pulled. Gritting his teeth, Albert rolled onto his side.

The room spun as crimson flowed from the wound in his chest. Discarding the mediaeval arrow, Albert reached for his walking cane. The blasted thing had finally come in handy for the first time since his ice-skating accident.

Albert scrambled to his feet and made his way to his antique desk and sat. Perched on the edge of the desk, he tugged on his tie until it slipped into his hands. Taking another deep breath, Albert straightened his tie and secured it around his chest, over the arrow wound.

With a sigh, Albert glanced at the ceiling. Don’t wake her, you fool. She’s thirty-two weeks pregnant. You’ll just stress her out. That’s the last thing she needs. He needed to get to a hospital without waking his wife.

Albert surveyed the tabletop and his study. Then he remembered. My phone. Earlier in the evening, his phone went flat after he’d binged his favourite unsolved mysteries podcast. He placed it on the charging dock on his bedside table. There was no way he could ascend the stairs in his condition. Pulling out the arrow was a mistake. Why did you do that, you old fool?

Thanks to his stupidity, he would bleed to death in less than ten minutes. The room spun. Even if Albert had his phone, calling emergency services would be useless. The nearest hospital was nineteen minutes away. As Emma’s pregnancy progressed, Albert had learned the route and calculated the distance between his house and the hospital. He had measured the quickest route while driving over the speed limit. What am I going to do?

Leaning back, Albert stared at the ceiling. Calling emergency services was crossed off his list, so he had only one option left. Who am I kidding? I’m not going to survive this, not at sixty-one. Maybe if I were twenty years younger.

Albert grimaced as a wave of pain swept through his body. Then he realised something. His destination was only a ten-minute drive away. There would be no traffic at that time of night. He sighed in relief. His reckless decision would ruin no innocent lives.

As the clock on the mantel chimed midnight, Albert grabbed his keys off the desk. Another wave of pain swept through his body. He grimaced as he thrust his frame off the tabletop then staggered across the thick carpet towards the door, which was ajar. Albert smirked as he heard his cane hit the floor.

Frightened that he was going to wake his wife, Albert gritted his teeth. He clutched the doorframe for support as the room spun. Curious, Albert glanced over his shoulder at the carnage he was leaving. I’ve lost at least half a litre of blood.

Leaning against the wall for support, Albert staggered down the hall and towards the foyer. He soon regretted the foyer renovations and those shiny white tiles that his wife, Emma, loved so much. As he reached the end of the hallway, Albert wheezed. Only twenty feet left.

Albert shuffled across the tiles and sighed as he unlatched the locks on the front door. He grabbed the handle and turned it. A tear trickled down Albert’s cheek as he realised he would never get to take his daughter home from the hospital or kiss his wife again.

After closing the door behind him, Albert stumbled towards his silver Mercedes. He pressed the button on his key fob. Reaching out, he grabbed the handle of the car door. Peering over his shoulder, Albert grimaced. He was glad that he had been too lazy to close the driveway gates when he came home earlier that evening. He slumped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, then reversed out of the driveway. All I have to do is not pass out behind the wheel.

CHAPTER 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. 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.

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. Glancing across the walkway, James spotted the six-foot, seventy-year-old Rhys slamming the phone back onto its cradle.

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 was open 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 that standing in the doorframe was a tall man whose dark hair had 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 the 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 rolled his eyes then studied his screen and opened a browser window. Four years of study to be someone’s lackey.

A wiry man with spiked grey hair offered James a thoughtful expression as he sauntered past. The polo shirt Gavin wore was his personal uniform. Even on weekends, he always wore a polo shirt. As James waited for the browser to load, a pair of hands squeezed his shoulder.

‘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