Brodie was taken to a police station in Mojácar, his pockets emptied, his belt and watch taken, then he was dumped unceremoniously into a cell, his handcuffs removed and the door slammed shut. He looked around the cell. It was a Tom Jones room, four grey walls now surrounded him. There was a narrow bed against one wall and a small stainless steel toilet and basin in one corner. No windows just one locked door. The main overhead light was switched off and a solitary weak bulb shone from above the door, shedding only enough light into the room to allow someone from outside to see if a prisoner was up to no good.
“Oh great!” Brodie sighed. It was obvious to him that he was there for the night, so he accepted the inevitable and laid down on the thin mattress, which barely covered the bed. He
