They had sacked him. Sacked him over that bloody blaze! As if he was to blame! As if he had not suffered when he witnessed the entire stock of Gazettes ready for distribution the next morning in flames. It was supposed to be his breakthrough! Oh the scandal he had conjectured uncovered! And it had gone up in flames with no prospect of reprinting it until the Gazette found a new temporary printer. That had been suffering enough, and when he had been called into the temporary offices the next day, he had expected to commiserate with his editors. Instead, he had been told the Gazette could no longer be seen to work with him.

Cowards! Backing down now only made things worse! What sort of self-respecting news agency cared more about placating the town bullies than about freedom of press!? But never mind! He didn’t need the money. He’d bide his time, work on an even bigger story and go to the Whitby Times instead. Maybe even the York Evening Standard. The Whitby Gazette folk would come to rue their pusillanimity.

Dressed in a simple black suit and bowler hat, Gareth strolled around in the market place, contemplating these things with a sullen expression. He had originally come to listen to the gossip around him. The police had not yet figured out who had set the Gazette offices on fire – the fact that it was arson was undisputed – and Gareth investigate the matter on his own. Ordinary folk often knew more than they were telling the police. But he couldn’t focus. He kept replaying the conversation with his editors over and over in his head and he kept imagining all the ways in which he would make them regret their decision. So absorbed in thought was he, that he did not notice the young man watching him.