Game, Set & Murder

by Judy Murray

Genres: Friendship; International Crime & Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

'Full of twists and turns it kept me guessing right to the end. A real page-turner, the perfect holiday read!' SUE BARKER

'A fabulous summer read!' ANTON DU BEKE

Four close friends.
One big secret.

On a hot midsummer day in the Surrey countryside, close friends Kristin, Vee, Bibi and Hailey are celebrating their Ladies' Team victory at the exclusive Royal Oaks Tennis Club.

But when their oh-so-charming coach, Jeremy, collapses after tucking into a carefully decorated sponge cake, it seems the season isn't just ending with a championship trophy - but with a murder.

Off the court, it's clear that each of the four women has been keeping a dark secret, but surely no one would wish Jeremy dead? Or perhaps revenge truly is a cake best served cold...

A delicious new murder mystery from household name Judy Murray, perfect for fans of Richard Osman, Shirley Ballas and Reverend Richard Coles.

Praise for Judy Murray:

'Utterly thrilling and joyful. I couldn't put it down!' ANTON DU BEKE

'Enthralling and captivating. Absolutely loved it!' CAROL KIRKWOOD

'A stunning debut, this is the perfect summer read' SANTA MONTEFIORE

'A pacey page-turner' THE TIMES

'Full of twists and turns. We loved it!' HEAT

'Fizzing with excitement and high stakes' JO THOMAS

'Absolutely fantastic' CHRIS EVANS

'A brilliant read' BELLA

'A high-stakes novel set in the world she knows best' The i

Release date: July 3, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

The grass will turn soon, thought Eleanor as she walked from the pavilion to the clubhouse. Give it a week and the courts will be looking somewhat less than perfect.

The gentle pt-pt-pt of the sprinklers had been the soundtrack to the last couple of months at the Royal Oaks Tennis and Country Club. But summer was at its height and the grass had been used so heavily over the last few sun-dappled weeks that there was only so much that they could achieve without a decent downpour. Still, it was a good job they’d got the league matches played before the perfect green of the courts gave way to scruffy tinges of beige and brown.

As Eleanor tucked her long grey hair behind her ears, she felt a sense of immense satisfaction at the way the season had gone so far. It really had been splendid, and now a win for the ladies’ team to top it all off. She brimmed with pride as she approached the white-washed steps to the clubhouse, ready for another day of making sure that every single second at the Royal Oaks ran as smoothly as her members expected.

She heard a stranger’s voice.

‘’Scuse me, ma’am?’

A well-built young man was approaching her from his van, his hair in a neat, twisted bun at the back of his head. It was the sort she’d seen on some of the professional footballers who regularly frequented the club. His hands were upturned in front of him, and on them was balanced a large cardboard box.

‘Yes?’

‘A delivery for the club …’

‘May I ask who it’s addressed to?’ she said with a polite smile, glancing at his baggy grey tracksuit bottoms. Hopefully it was just a bulk order of protein powder or something similar she could redirect towards the gym block.

‘Doesn’t say, just got the club’s name on it.’

Eleanor leaned forward to peer at the label on the lid of the box. He was quite right.

‘And the invoice?’ she asked.

He balanced the box on one hand as he unfolded the invoice taped to the side.

‘Ah, order ref says, “Congratulations ladies, and enjoy the tea party.” ’

‘No name?’

‘No name.’

Still, it must be someone who knows about the event, and the club, Eleanor figured.

‘Follow me, I’ll sign for it at the desk myself,’ she told him, leading the way up the steps and into the clubhouse. ‘Let’s get it out of the sun, shall we?’

But the courier wasn’t listening, apparently immune to her brisk charm and efficiency. Instead, he was gazing at the club’s interior. It was undeniably impressive, from the depth of the carpets to the uniquely expensive smell of the dressing and steam rooms just a little further down the corridor.

Behind Eleanor was a wall almost entirely covered by annual team photos of the winners of various leagues and tournaments. Precise configurations of players, knees neatly together, smiling at the camera with their silverware lined up before them; row after row, until the lower rows turned to faded seventies Kodachrome, then eventually black-and-white images. Smile after smile looked out, grinning proudly. Decades’ worth of achievement by what Eleanor liked to call the Royal Oaks Family. And all on display for each and every visitor who passed reception to admire.

‘So, I presume it’s a cake?’ said Eleanor as she gently pulled the box across the front desk towards her, noticing as she did that the driver’s T-shirt had ‘Cake-issimo’ looping across it in gaudy pink italics.

‘Sometimes it’s buns.’ He shrugged. ‘I just deliver the boxes, ma’am, I don’t know what they’ve put inside.’

She watched as his eyes were drawn to the members’ noticeboard, with its tapestry of announcements of social events: book club (an iconic cricket player’s biography), a history talk (the evolution of the marathon), an upcoming theatre trip to the West End (Dear England). Eleanor was pleased; she’d re­arranged the noticeboard just last week – at least someone had noticed.

‘Will there be a note inside saying who it’s from?’ she asked.

‘No idea,’ he replied, a hint of irritation in his voice now.

A young woman walked past in navy leggings and a boxy puffer jacket, holding hands with two tiny children in immaculate tennis whites. How young do these people start?

‘Everyone’s bringing one, you see – a cake – for the celebratory tea this afternoon. I don’t want them to get muddled,’ Eleanor continued. She lifted the cardboard lid from the box until she could see inside, then let out a gasp of delight.

‘Oh, it’s for our championship team!’ she exclaimed. The man looked blankly back at her. ‘Our Ladies Team won the Southeast District League last week. We’re so proud of them.’

Eleanor beamed as she looked down at the cake, then pushed it towards the surly man so he could peer down at it too. Inside was a neat sponge rectangle covered in green fondant icing, with immaculately piped white lines denoting a tennis court. On one side of the tiny latticed-sugar net stood four marzipan players, a couple of whom had their hands raised in victory, while the middle two held tiny tennis rackets.

There they all were: Kristin and Vanessa, the Chappell sisters, at either end of the group; then Hailey and Beatriz (or Bibi, as she was often called) between them. Younger sister Kristin was identifiable by the brown plait of neatly folded marzipan down her back, while her older sister Vanessa’s shoulder length black locks had probably been an easier task for the cake’s creator. Hailey’s mini-me figurine was perhaps the most recognisable, complete with a mass of blonde curls and her trademark sweatband; then Bibi, whose marzipan hair was in a high ponytail, and at her ears were two tiny dots of yellow icing. Such attention to detail, Eleanor thought – Bibi always wore those familiar gold earrings, even when playing.

‘Cute,’ said the delivery driver. ‘Right, well, if you’re happy to accept the package, I just need a signature, ma’am.’ He held out a plastic device for Eleanor to sign.

‘Oh, and there’s their trophy!’ Eleanor continued, spotting a small marzipan trophy, delicately balanced on the ‘grass’ in front of the figurines. The champions.

‘A signature, please, ma’am,’ the man huffed.

‘Oh, right, yes, of course,’ she said, scribbling a signature onto the screen of the device and handing it back to him. ‘Well, what a lovely touch. I’m sure we’ll find out who ordered the cake in due course. Thank you for dropping it off.’

‘Enjoy your party,’ the man replied, his smile not reaching his eyes, before he headed back through the door and into his delivery van. Eleanor winced as he accelerated out of the drive of the Royal Oaks, the wheels of his van screeching.

Five hours later, Eleanor hurried back to the front lawn outside the clubhouse to stare up at the moody-looking sky. The day had been a whirlwind of preparations for the celebrations that afternoon and now the weather was threating to ruin everything.

A whoop went up in the distance and Eleanor saw that the victorious ladies team were having their commemorative photographs taken. As was tradition, four chairs had been lined up in front of the one-hundred-year-old clock tower that stood between the original grass show courts.

A future classic for the ladies’ dressing room, thought Eleanor with a smile as she watched Vanessa, Kristin, Hailey and Bibi toss their tennis caps into the air in jubilation. She was so proud of those women: the way they carried themselves with such good-natured confidence, the way they wore their victory so lightly, the way they all had so much on their plates and yet never hesitated to give so much back to the club.

She watched the four women as they made their way back towards the clubhouse past the ornamental lake, waving at her as they did. Vanessa slung her arm around her sister Kristin, giving her back a congratulatory rub as they walked. Eleanor smiled to herself as she watched them: they really did look just like their tiny cake caricatures.

Kristin’s plait was neat, chestnut brown hair scraped back off her face, while Vanessa was the spitting image of a young Posh Spice. Even Hailey’s sweatband was the same colour as its tiny marzipan replica. Someone had taken a great deal of care over that cake, she thought.

Kristin’s son, seven-year-old Freddie, scampered towards his mum for a hug, grabbing her leg as she stooped a little to run a hand through his unruly hair. Hailey stepped slightly away from the group to walk up the ramp alongside her husband’s wheelchair as he reached the steps. He seemed brighter than last time Eleanor had seen him, but still very frail. And finally, Bibi, turning heads as she passed, despite the best efforts of the grounds staff. The men, especially the younger ones, were so indiscreet with their gawping. Eleanor had had a word once but to no avail. Bibi didn’t seem to mind, and the men didn’t seem to be able to help themselves, they were all besotted by her. How glorious it must be to exude such effortless glamour, thought Eleanor as she turned to the terrace to make sure everything was ready for their arrival.

She glanced up at the sky. Surely the rain would hold off for a few more hours?

All afternoon, she had kept a careful eye on preparations for the celebration, making sure that everything was in just the right spot on the terrace to catch the late-afternoon sun going down over the ornamental lake. All the cakes were laid out with labels on a large trestle table, each one written in Eleanor’s neat cursive. She’d placed the mystery tennis-court cake right in the very centre of the table. It was quite the showstopper. Eleanor hoped that either its owner made themselves known or, even better, people simply assumed she’d organised it for the women herself.

She frowned as Jeremy Hale, Kristin’s husband and the ladies’ team coach, emerged from the French windows of the clubhouse and sauntered over to the goodies on the tea tables. He was well-known for his sweet tooth and she watched as he ran a sly finger along the edge of an immaculately iced red velvet cupcake. Eleanor knew they were Vanessa’s offering for the event: she had pretended to bake them, but they were clearly from the fancy patisserie in Sunningdale. His tongue flicked out towards his finger, reptilian, as he licked the glistening ganache. He popped his finger in his mouth, smacking his lips, oblivious to whether anyone had seen him.

Ugh. The man thought he owned the place, she thought as he swigged from his ever-present club-branded water bottle.

Eleanor made a note to discreetly remove the tampered-with cupcake before someone else had to eat it. Before she could get close enough to make her presence known, Jeremy was nudging the corner off one of Hailey’s special brownies, a fat crumb falling onto his chin, almost obscured by his dark stubble. She felt as if she could hear the spit as he pressed his lips together before opening them in a wide grin. There was chocolate between his bottom teeth despite him now running that tongue across them all. For heaven’s sake, she’d have to check all the tables again at this rate.

Eleanor strode back across the lawn and up the steps of the clubhouse onto the terrace in the hope that nothing else would end up with clumsy fingerprints on it. She heard clapping from inside, which meant that the women had entered the restaurant, and was relieved to see that Jeremy was finally stepping away from the tables to join the start of the celebrations.

For a moment, she let herself imagine being part of that close-knit group. What it would be like to have the champagne corks pop for her, rather than being the person who laid the bottles out in their ice buckets. But she’d never been any good at tennis, she reminded herself. Being a part of the Royal Oaks Club, its success and its wonderful atmosphere would have to be enough. And despite the administrative nature of her title, she was no small part.

The sun suddenly disappeared behind a cloud and Eleanor’s mood curdled. The heavy stillness of the day had been replaced by a brisk, ominous breeze. She shivered in her light summer dress, and watched the skin on her arm prickle as the hair rose against the breeze. The starched tablecloths were flapping wildly, napkins whipped up off the tables and into the air, name cards for the cakes pirouetting alongside them, up and across the lawn.

The best laid plans, she thought.

Then she snapped into action, snatching up the showstopper cake as the first fat raindrops fell from the sky. She called out to Jessie, her most reliable summer worker, who looked up from where she was pouring the champagne into slim flutes and darted straight out onto the terrace.

‘Quick,’ she said, ‘We need to bring the cakes in before the tea is ruined!’

A few more waiting staff ran out after Jessie, their white starched aprons fluttering, and began wrestling all the carefully arranged platters of sandwiches and scones inside.

A flash of lightning, followed by an immediate crack of thunder, made Eleanor jump. A few of the women shrieked and more of the guests ran out to help. Eleanor noticed that Kristin was one of the first, her sister Vanessa with her, piling up plates and even gathering up the tablecloths beneath them.

Her husband, Jeremy, poked his head outside the French windows, a slim green bottle of beer in his hand. He took a swig, grinning at the kerfuffle, then wiped his mouth crudely with the back of his hand and headed back inside.

‘Oh, Eleanor, all your hard work!’ Kristin said, as she rushed past, five champagne flutes clutched precariously in one hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea what goes where,’ she confessed with a smile as she plonked the glasses onto a hastily rearranged table. ‘I couldn’t leave it to you to sort out, could I?’

‘Don’t worry, ladies,’ said Eleanor with a smile. She had hoped that by this stage of the party she might have been invited to have a glass herself, or even be offered one of the cakes. Those moments when she stepped away from the rest of the staff and felt almost like one of the family were always ones she treasured. ‘You go and enjoy the fun!’

And so they did, while Eleanor kept an eye on proceedings. The room filled with cheerful chattering, everyone tucked into the platters of teatime treats, and the French windows misted up with condensation.

A clinking of glasses broke through the noise and the room quickly hushed itself into silence. Eleanor paused with the other members to watch as Vanessa, Kristin, Hailey and Bibi were ushered up to the front to be presented with their freshly polished silver trophy.

Together, they raised it aloft and the crowd broke out into cheers. Eleanor gave a small whoop, before snatching a glance around her, immediately blushing at her own exuberance.

‘Of course, we couldn’t have done it without our superstar coach!’ said Hailey, glass aloft and looking out into the faces in front of her.

‘Jeremy, where are you? Come and accept some praise!’ followed Beatriz, one side of her deep-red mouth curled in a smile.

Eleanor watched Kristin’s eyes scan the room looking for her husband. Everyone was twisting round, searching for Jeremy’s familiar brown hair. It wasn’t like him to miss out on a moment of glory, Eleanor thought.

The sudden grim scrape of a chair being dragged across the room’s expensive parquet floor pierced the momentary quiet. A second later came a strangely sinister thud. A shriek rang out, and the murmuring in the room dropped to a deadly silence as the crowd broke away from the back tables.

Eleanor clutched her chest as she saw Jeremy writhing on the floor, his eyes bulging, gasping for air. He’d clearly dropped a large slice of sponge cake as he’d fallen, and she watched as he rolled into it, the crumbs crushed into his otherwise immaculate suit. She gasped. It was the cake that had been delivered earlier; she could see the green icing even though she was standing several metres away. A horrible gurgling sound came from his throat as his pristine white trainers kicked out beneath him. His head rolled back and, in a flash, his entire body went suddenly from struggling to limp. A spine-chilling scream cut through the air and Eleanor realised it was Kristin, who had collapsed to her knees at the sight of her husband’s lifeless body.

‘Oh my God,’ Eleanor heard someone whisper at the back. ‘He’s dead.’

Kristin walked into the en-suite bathroom, stumbling slightly as her arms stretched behind her, struggling to reach the tiny zip on her expensive dress.

‘Darling, could you give me a hand with this?’

Jeremy didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on his own image in the bathroom mirror. Even as his wife appeared behind him in the reflection, her silk bias-cut dress shimmering as it caught the overhead lights, he kept his focus on the bow tie he was tightening.

He was an undeniably good-looking man. Chocolate-brown eyes, full, almost petulant lips, and a tan that looked expensive – one that suggested destination holidays or outdoor sports, not building sites or farmers’ yards. A flicker of a smile crossed his face. Yes, he looked good tonight.

Satisfied, he looked beyond his reflection.

‘Wow,’ he said, as he noticed his wife’s outfit. ‘Someone’s put in the effort this evening.’

It was true. Kristin had put in the effort. She’d made sure her hair, usually scraped back in a plait while she was working, playing tennis or parenting, had had a bouncy blow dry. At her sister Vanessa’s insistence, she’d had her nails done at the club nail bar – a proper gel manicure that not even grating cheese over her son, Freddie’s, pesto pasta would ruin. She’d also had a spray tan, covering up so many of the freckles that sprinkled her chest and arms, rendering her skin a consistent bronze, glowing beneath her golden gown.

Kristin smiled back warmly, pleased at what sounded un-­usually like a compliment, though she couldn’t help but notice that it was the effort Jeremy had mentioned, rather than her. He never seemed to praise her when she put effort into anything else, she thought. The way she ensured that their home was always spotless, his shirts crisp and ironed. How she carefully checked every ingredient list when shopping for the family, ensuring that their home was seed- and nut-free. A rule that she’d put into place at the Royal Oaks Club, too, ever since Jeremy joined. The vats of homemade soups, pasta sauce and bone broth she kept in the freezer. It all seemed to be filed under standard rather than praiseworthy.

She caught herself as soon as she’d made contact with this speck of a grumble. Why be picky? He had noticed tonight, hadn’t he? Noticed that she looked great? He was probably just a bit clumsy at expressing it.

Jeremy turned and took her face in his warm hands. She could smell the toothpaste on his breath and feel the callus where the base of his thumb had long ago blistered from holding a tennis racket day in, day out. As he held her face and leaned in to kiss her, she was sure to do what she always did in these moments, and buckled her knees a little so as to ensure their faces were equal height. He did get very sensitive when she was in heels, after all. Let’s keep everything sweet, she reminded herself, it’s so early on such a special night.

‘You look like a winner,’ he said softly, even stepping back to admire her a second time. ‘The codgers downstairs aren’t going to know what to do with themselves. Some of that lot are probably as old as the club itself. They might not all make it to the toasts with you looking like that.’

As he said it, he let go of her face and walked back into the bedroom, giving her bottom a gentle pat as he passed.

The zip she had asked for help with remained open.

Kristin opened her mouth to repeat her request, but Jeremy was already heading out of the. . .