CHAPTER 32
The telephone rang in Doug Templeton’s office. He picked it up.
“You’ve what!” he screamed. “You had better be f*****g joking.” The veins in his head erupted to the surface like swollen rivers of blood. “How the hell did he get away? He’s an advertising executive, not f*****g Houdini. I’m going to have someone’s bollocks for this.” He slammed the phone down and stared at the desk. If his eyes had been lasers they would have sliced it in two. He was still fuming when there was a knock on the door. A pretty auburn haired WPC walked in carrying a message.
“What?” he snapped.
“It’s from the hospital, sir. They say Alan Mattherson died twenty minutes ago without regaining consciousness.”
