The End of the Game

THE END OF THE GAME BY THE SAME AUTHOR To the Lions The Dead Line The Hunt and the Kill To Jago Contents Cover Half-title Page By the Same Author Dedication Page Title Page Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 Acknowledgements A Note on the Author Copyright Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 Acknowledgements A Note on the Author i ii v iii 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 1 Red lights flickered. A list of runners. Torn Silk. Kittiwake. Stunning Miller. Active Risk. King Lawrence. Gentleman’s Darling. Dotted Daisies. Milaara. A jumble of worlds, a babel. And their odds, of course: all that glistening elegance boiled down to numbers twinkling chummily. Twenty to one, and four to one, and five to four the favourite. The crowd bustled around the bookmakers’ boards. Cash handed over. A wink, a nod, a betting slip printed. She could hear snatches of conversation. Well beaten at Newmarket. Sweating up a bit. Stunning Miller wouldn’t win if it started yesterday. ‘Stunning’ slightly slurred. Casey looked across the racecourse. It was a beautiful day, the swathe of emerald grass unfurling under a bright blue sky. ‘Enjoying it?’ a man’s light voice enquired. ‘Of course.’ The hats were extraordinary. Coral petals and lavender feathers and a rainbow whirl of ribbons. The men wore morning suits. Waistcoats, duck-egg blue. Jackets, sloping to tails. Top hats the punchline. Casey had read her instructions for the day – obediently – the giggles rising in her throat. ‘You’ve been before, though.’ ‘Once.’ A microphone hidden in scarlet silk roses; a tiny camera in apricot pleats. He read her smile. ‘You were working then.’ ‘I’m working now.’ ‘I forgot.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Now come and meet an old friend …’ Casey had known Nash Bexley since her first days working at the Post. Back when she was starting out as a very junior news reporter, he was the newspaper’s political editor. Within a couple of years, he had ditched journalism to become a partner at Greville Polignac, one of the most successful public affairs companies in London. ‘Nash knows what he’s bloody doing.’ The Post’s home affairs editor had stared crossly into his pint at the leaving do. ‘Rats and sinking ships and all that. He’ll be making a sodding fortune at Greville Polignac.’ ‘We’re not sinking yet,’ Miranda said firmly. By then, Miranda was the head of the Post’s investigations team and Casey Benedict was working alongside her, chasing stories all over the world. ‘It’s only a matter of time,’ the home affairs editor insisted. For the past few weeks, however, Casey had been seconded to the politics team. The Post had a small office in Parliament, Nash Bexley’s former hunting ground. Away from the main office. Away from investigations. ‘Just for a bit,’ Dash, the head of news, had insisted. ‘We’ve got a new deputy politics editor coming over from the Argus, but the gits are making him work his notice. Plus it’s going to be interesting, the run-in to the next election. You might enjoy it. And you could do with a bit of time off from investigations anyway. After … after last time.’ Within a few hours of starting with the politics team, Casey had received an email from Nash. Congrats