Publisher Description

PLAY TO THE END is another classic Robert Goddard mystery, intricate, fascinating and deeply satisfying to the last pageFor actor Toby Flood, Brighton is the final week of a long tour. One night he is visited at the theatre by his estranged wife, Jenny, who, visibly scared, thinks she is being stalked. She asks Toby, for old times' sake, to find out what is going on.Alarmingly he discovers a sinister connection with Jenny's new partner. Spurred on by a desire to win Jenny back, Toby begins to ask some difficult questions. Before he fully understands the risks he is running, he finds himself caught up in a mysterious - and dangerous - tangle of family rivalries and murderous intent. Suddenly the prospects for his survival start to look very far from good...

Notes

PLAY TO THE END is another classic Robert Goddard mystery, intricate, fascinating and deeply satisfying to the last page

Back Cover

For actor Toby Flood, Brighton is the final week of a long tour. One night he is visited at the theatre by his estranged wife, Jenny, who, visibly scared, thinks she is being stalked. She asks Toby, for old times' sake, to find out what is going on. Alarmingly he discovers a sinister connection with Jenny's new partner. Spurred on by a desire to win Jenny back, Toby begins to ask some difficult questions. Before he fully understands the risks he is running, he finds himself caught up in a mysterious - and dangerous - tangle of family rivalries and murderous intent. Suddenly the prospects for his survival start to look very far from good...

Author Biography

Robert Goddard's first novel, Past Caring, was an instant bestseller. Since then, his books have captivated readers worldwide with their edge-of-the-seat pace and their labyrinthine plotting. He has won awards in the UK, the US and acrossEurope and his books have been translated into over thirty languages. In 2019, he won the Crime Writers' Association's highest accolade, the Diamond Dagger, for a lifetime achievement in Crime Writing.

Review

The novel is an absorbing display of craftsmanship, with the transition from the initial theatrical milieu to the Hitchcockian finale accomplished with typical deftness * Sunday Times *
An exquisitely crafted tale of dirty dealings among nice English provincial families, this time revolving around a dangerous chemical factory. Goddard is the most idiosyncratic writer around, a wholly English institution with an unmistakable flavour, like cyanide cucumber sandwiches * The Times *
Pages seldom turn more quickly then when you are reading Goddard's latest * Yorkshire Evening Post *
Twists in the plot come thick and fast * Guardian *
Gripping * Publishers Weekly *

Promotional

PLAY TO THE END is another classic Robert Goddard mystery, intricate, fascinating and deeply satisfying to the last page

Review Text

The novel is an absorbing display of craftsmanship, with the transition from the initial theatrical milieu to the Hitchcockian finale accomplished with typical deftness

Review Quote

"Gripping." -Publishers Weekly

Promotional "Headline"

PLAY TO THE END is another classic Robert Goddard mystery, intricate, fascinating and deeply satisfying to the last page

Excerpt from Book

What I felt as I got off the train this afternoon wasn't what I'd expected to feel. The journey had been as grim and tardy as I suppose it was bound to be on a December Sunday. Most of the others have chosen to go via London and they won't be coming down here until tomorrow. I could have joined them. Instead I volunteered for the slow South Central shuffle along the coast. I had plenty of opportunity to analyse my state of mind as a seamless succession of drab back gardens drifted past the grimy train window. I knew why I hadn't gone up to London, of course. I knew exactly why bright lights and brash company weren't what the doctor had ordered. The truth is that if I had fled to the big city, I might never have made it to Brighton at all. I might have opted out of the last week of this ever more desperate tour and let Gauntlett sue me if he could be bothered to. So, I came the only way I could be sure would get me here. Which it did. Late, cold and depressed. But here . And then, as I stepped out onto the platform . . . That feeling is why I'm talking into this machine. I can't quite describe it. Not foreboding, exactly. Not excitement. Not even anticipation. Something slipping between all three, I suppose. A thrill; a shiver; a prickling of the hairs on the back of the neck; a ghost tiptoeing across my grave. There wasn't supposed to be anything but a protraction of a big disappointment waiting for me in Brighton. But already, before I'd even cleared the ticket barrier, I sensed strongly enough for certainty that there was more than that preparing a welcome for me. More that might be better or worse, but, either way, was preferable. I didn't trust the sensation, of course. Why would I? I do now, though. Because it's already started to happen. Maybe I should have realized sooner that the tour was a journey. And this is journey's end. The tapes were my agent's idea. Well, a diary was what she actually suggested, back in those bright summer days when this donkey of a play looked like a stallion that could run and run and the mere prospect merited a lunch at the River Caf

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