Broken Angel

Chapter Eight

John Newton stared at the three grim-faced police officers. "Why's no one asking questions? And what's with this terrorist thing?"

The interview room door opened, and an older man entered.

"Newton, I'm Commander Haliwell. My security team will take you from here to a safe house. Your solicitor is aware that you are now a terrorist suspect. Sergeant, please go and collect a one-piece coverall for our guest."

Wilson nodded and left.

"Don't give me that shit. You know I'm not a fucking terrorist. My name is John Newton, and that makes me somebody. I have rights."

"You should have studied law," said Haliwell. I can and will hold you for fourteen days. You have the information I need, and you will give it to me."

"What the fuck do I know of interest to you?"

"Get that addled brain of yours working, or you might find you're put away for a long time on a charge of murder."

Sergeant Wilson returned with a white coverall and flung it at Newton. "Strip and put that on. Silver placed his borrowed clothes into an evidence bag."

As he undressed, John gazed at the men. "I bet you lot get a hard-on watching this. You can give me a blow job or if you like to play with my balls."

"Shut it," said Wilson. "Hold your arms out."

"Why?"

"Do it."

John pushed out his arms and a set of handcuffs clamped onto his wrists.

When Silver pulled open the door. Four armed police officers stood, waiting.

"Hood," said Haliwell.

"My pleasure, sir," said Wilson as he covered Newton's head.

Two armed men ushered Newton out of the room and along a corridor to the lift. As he sensed the lift descending, he asked. "Where are we going?"

"You'll find out when we get there, but I can tell you it's a no smoking and a no drinking venue. You are going to become as dry as the Sahara."

"No problem Sherlock. I can do that in my sleep."

Haliwell laughed. "Who mentioned sleep?"

The buzzer operated, and the doors opened.

Still holding his arms, two men pushed him into the rear seat of a car with blacked-out windows. One fastened his seat belt.

Haliwell settled into the passenger seat while two of his team sat alongside Newton.

"You know where," said Haliwell to the driver.

"Yes, Sir."

***

John sat between the two silent men. His hands shook, and he needed a fix.

"You can't do this. Stop the fucking car. Let me out."

Everyone laughed.

With little traffic, the driver sped along the narrow country roads. Tall Pine trees on either side obscured the sun.

Fifty minutes later, the vehicle took a hard left, forcing John to lean on the man next to him. He jumped as stones struck and rattled the underside of the car.

The winding road led to a three-hundred-year-old building. The gruesome structure came into the driver's vision. On three sides, rows of silver birch swayed in the cold autumn wind shielding the grey stonewalls from prying eyes. The car passed a marble fountain, unused and dry. Dead leaves filled the once ornate fishpond. Those locals who ventured near understood the building was a private clinic.