‘Something tells me that you’re going to relish the next development, then?’

‘The missing delegate?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Wait, you know who it is, don’t you?’

‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Well? Don’t keep it to yourself.’

‘Put it this way, sir, when did you last see your father?’

‘Are you having your own private meeting?’ barked his mother on the screen. Ross had taken his astounded gaze from Kennedy back to the meeting, knowing that his PA was correct.

As if on cue the face appeared. The face of a man in his early seventies.

He was pasty. His dark, curly hair was unkempt. His eyes wore the same darting, nervy look they wore when seated at boardroom meetings of Norton Gaming.

His name was Clifford Levine. He was father to Ross and Simon. Ex-husband of Montana who had, albeit briefly, taken his name during the marriage but then reverted to Norton shortly after the split, while Ross and Simon had also adopted the Norton name. Sir Charles had given him a place on the board as a wedding present despite always professing to hate him.

Simon gave a sheepish lopsided grin. ‘Hi, Dad.’ Ross looked at Kennedy, who smirked, and then back at the screen. Juliet maintained her poise.

Montana, however, reacted as though administered an electric shock. ‘Mr Coombs, what is he doing here?’

‘He is here on the express wishes of your late father, ma’am,’ replied Mr Coombs.

‘He’s not blood.’

‘Indeed, ma’am, I can only reiterate . . .’

This was it, they all knew. If even in some distant recesses of their minds they had wondered whether things might proceed along vaguely conventional lines, now they knew better. Sir Charles Norton, a man who had built his fortune by pitting his wits against those of the consumer, a man for whom life was a game and games a way of life planned to play with them from beyond the grave.

They would play, every single one of them. The stakes were too high to do anything otherwise.

And now it came time to read the will.

The family sat poised. Every single one of them, apart from Simon was already wealthy beyond the wild dreams of most, but even so, this – this was different. An entirely new stratosphere of wealth. And they were all hungry for it.

‘I shall begin,’ said Jeffrey Coombs. ‘To my wife, Juliet, I leave my share in our house and its contents, as well as our homes abroad, our cars and our private jet. She has access to all of our personal bank accounts so that she may continue to live in the manner to which she has become accustomed.’

Juliet’s shoulders straightened. It was what she had been expecting. Anything less would have been a considerable blow, an undermining of what had been a happy and successful marriage.

‘To my son, I leave the Clement Attlee.’