It had been set down and forgotten by Peter Holmes. He was sitting with his back to the desk, looking out of a huge triangular window in his penthouse suite perched above the main entrance to Seymour Wharf, his small round eyes were staring fixedly on an unseen point in space. His round, ruddy face was dotted with beads of perspiration, some joining with others to form rivulets, like misplaced tears, that ran down his cheeks and neck to soak into his shirt collar. His lips were tightly pursed, almost white, he was breathing heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring with each exhalation, his hands clasped in his lap. It was a struggle to control his temper, but a struggle he was winning, one thing he could not control was the black and dangerous look etched on his face. Between thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he was unconsciously rolling a 9mm bullet. His mind was sifting through two telephone calls he had received within the last half hour. The first was from one of his managers informing him that the police had taken over one of his buildings.
