CW: Henry being even more of a cruel bastard 😭
'The bastards might have switched off the transponder but someone, quite a lot of people, must know where the fucking thing has landed, planes don't just get lost over the UK.' Dominguez nursed a cup of strong coffee in his hand. A chicken wrap lay in a bag under his chair, but he had no appetite for it. Heather and Mansouri sat on folding chairs just inside the forensic tent now on Henry's lawn, in stark contrast to the grandeur of the residence.
Heather had picked the two up from the airport and driven straight to the killer's Surrey mansion.
They were prepared for his arrival. It hadn't come.
Heather sighed, fanning herself in the afternoon heat. 'We're at a dead end. Trying to find individuals convicted for animal cruelty with their own private airstrips. This stuff doesn't even get reported. They're in a different world to the likes of us. These networks are very tight. They don't speak to coppers at all.'
'Unless it's to buy them off,' Dominguez mumbled. Mansouri looked uncomfortable. He was a good lad but he didn't want to believe police anywhere could do anything wrong. But Dominguez hated himself for the wrong he was doing, not being out now, searching for Rita. She'd sacrificed everything for that bull; she'd do the same for him in a heartbeat.
Henry had sent worse since the banderilla photo. Bloodstained walls. Crime scene photos, audio recordings from his murders. All burned into his head to keep popping up and make Dominguez flinch when he got a text.
He had one now. Laurentia. Thank God. 'Any update????'
Dominguez stared. His fingers wouldn't type. How could they not know where the plane landed? Why couldn't they disable that fucking app? Our time's running out, he thought, nauseous and wired from lack of sleep. At first he didn't register someone was calling him. As he stared at the screen with itching eyes, he saw the caller's British ID.
Acid rose in his throat.
'That's gotta be him, or someone in that club.' The phone continued ringing. Why couldn't he make himself answer?
'If she's still alive, we need to keep him talking as long as possible,' Subeera, one of the Met Police officers who'd found Robyn, said kindly. Dominguez hadn't noticed her enter. She was short, about 5"1, with a hijab and a stud in her nose.
'I'll take this, if you aren't up to it,' Heather said gently.
Dominguez handed her the phone. She put it on speaker. The caller didn't speak. The line kept breaking up; there were strange noises in the background. It disconnected within seconds. Heather shrugged.
Then it rung again. The team held their breath.
'Can you hear me, Jesus?' a woman's voice said in Spanish on the other end, crackly but clear enough. 'Jesus?'
'Who am I speaking to?' Heather said to the caller. Dominguez breathed through gritted teeth, bracing himself for the worst, thinking about what he'd do to Henry and his pet nonce. If he'd put her on for them to listen while he –
'It's me, Heather,' Rita said in English, her voice urgent.
The line went dead. Heather took a breath.
'No GPS disguiser on that call.'
Dominguez gulped more coffee, digesting the news, shaking with relief. He reached over and hugged Heather tightly, unable to speak.
'15 minutes mate, we'll have the location.'
****
'While he stays with us in France, I would like to introduce the boy to my passion for the bulls. There is no better place than the arena of Ceret for an introduction to the exquisite dance between man and beast.' With curiosity, Henry listened from behind the door. Whatever could Uncle Herbert be talking about?
'Herbert. Are you sure that is wise?' Henry's aunt sounded anxious. His mother often complained that her brother had married below his station. Until recently, Henry hadn't been sure what that meant. Now, the day before his 9th birthday, he was starting to understand.
'How could it not be, Constance! This is art, as I keep telling you!'
'Herbert, I'm not sure this is sensible at all.' What was Constance so afraid of, and why, wondered Henry as he hid outside?
'You've never appreciated good art. You'd rather go to church, wouldn't you! You'd rather hear Père Baudret droning on with his sentimental claptrap about love and kindness. But let me tell you something – the oldest Indo-European myths involve the sacrifice of a bull!' Sacrifice? Henry thought excitedly.
Like the Aztecs?
Henry's history textbook said the Aztecs did human sacrifices by cutting people's hearts out.
'Have you forgotten why he's been sent for summer with us, instead of staying with his parents?' Constance whispered. He didn't like her one little bit. She was such a goody-goody; making him pray before mealtimes and constantly dragging him to church. This last didn't interest Henry in the slightest, especially since the service was in French.
This sounded much more exciting.
'Oh, Constance. Control yourself, dear. It wasn't that bad.'
'Herbert! He gouged another child's eye out with a pencil!' What? Why did the grown ups still care about that? Cecil started the whole thing, stealing Henry's fountain pen!
Herbert scoffed. 'All the more reason to go! Let him learn to channel these tendencies of his in a more aesthetic direction!'
Fortunately, common sense had prevailed. The very next day, Henry's birthday, Herbert had overridden his wife's wishes and brought him along for the highlight of the Ceret feria. It couldn't have proved a more perfect introduction, with astonishing performances by the greatest matadors of the day and the triumphant win of 4 ears. So much had Henry enjoyed the experience, he had begged his uncle to attend another one.
Herbert was delighted.
'That boy of mine must have slunk off to the village pub after his birthday pheasant shoot,' Jolyon said, interrupting Henry's nostalgia. The small group stood in a lobby between the lifts and the stands, enjoying a cigar and a drink courtesy of the hotel's bar.
'I'd be delighted to take his place, if he's late. I can't imagine my part in the Saltillo's demise will be altogether taxing,' Lord Owenstoft smiled, glancing at the ancient, blindfolded horses by the fire exit, tethered behind portable metal barriers and swathed in dirty yellow coverings.
'Indeed not. Sending Chicero heavenwards should not be any bother.' Henry sipped a glass of champagne. He'd insisted Pepelito be the final bull, as both the triumph of the evening – his triumph – and to ensure the spectacle proceeded without incident.
'Chicero reminds me of that bull we saw – where was it now? Denia. Such an entertaining tradition they have there. Chasing them into the sea,' Lord Owenstoft said with a wistful expression.
'Oh, yes. What a marvellous few days. I remember that bull. Blasted thing was cowardly. Drowned itself rather than fight. Thankfully, nobody deigned to intervene for that ill-bred beast,' Henry scoffed.
The dark web ticket buyers were now trickling in. Jolyon's bullring could seat 800 people, and tonight it was a full house. And why not? Legality aside, there was something magical about an evening of bulls in the relaxing surrounds of the Home Counties. The Victorian-era lamps, shiny flooring and gold detail on the walls created an atmospheric, elegant ambiance, without any dinginess.
'I've always wanted to see this for real, not just watch it on YouTube,' one customer said joyfully, dressed in a t-shirt emblazoned with a swastika.
'Covid took a most dreadful toll on our earnings. Fewer corporate conferences, so we've shifted our focus to events which are more...under the counter. Although the crowds do tend to be somewhat vulgar,' Jolyon lowered his voice as the Nazi walked past; the others nodded in sympathy. Then, a young woman passed, dressed in tastefully chosen designer clothes worth several thousand.
Perhaps they weren't so vulgar after all.
Jolyon added quickly, 'Not that a man of my status has to worry overly about financial matters. Lest you think I'm poised to join the proletariat.'
Henry squirmed inside, increasingly self conscious about his own finances. Even his bank in the Cayman Islands now refused him access. He had succeeded in anonymously paying Jolyon for two months' stay with all meals included, but no further funds were available. He had almost placed his card in the hotel's ATM earlier, before Jolyon's blasted son had reminded him, in his mocking, supercilious way, of the foolishness of this idea.
Despite his high regard for his father, Henry disliked Edwin intensely.
'You have customers and staff, do you not, who have absolutely no idea.' A shiver of excitement passed through Henry as he changed the subject, picturing their horrified revulsion.
Like that Labour Party bitch who'd stolen his seat last election, and her hysterics on Radio 4. 'These people claim to be cultured, but they're just a pack of sickos...'
'Yes,' Jolyon grinned. 'My head receptionist. Worked here twenty years. Never shuts up about her grandchildren and some bloody dog. About as observant as a sack of potatoes. Looks like one, too.'
'Anyway, chaps, my son will be here soon, inebriated no doubt! He wouldn't miss a corrida for anything,' he continued jovially, puffing on one of Hemingway's favourite cigars.
'You've brought him up well,' Lord Owenstoft said.
'Yes. I'm so relieved he shares our passion for a proper art form, rather than, I don't know. Grand Theft Auto or whatever it's called.'
'Fuerza, torero!' one happy customer yelled at Henry. He smiled at the word 'torero' with its connotations of sex appeal, bravery and machismo. By the look she gave, she recognised him, as did the people behind her.
'Shit! Is that – is that him? If it is, I want his autograph,' said one.
'I love serial killers,' said another.
'Do you think I could...you know, risk it,' he muttered to Lord Owenstoft, imagining his most tantalising fantasy come alive before 800 people, a fantasy which had remained just that until now.
'Rita?' Lord Owenstoft whispered. Henry nodded.
'Hmm. Looking at this audience? Yes. I think so.'
Only a few seats now remained in the arena. Henry was glad for Lord Owenstoft's forthcoming assistance; the inevitable confrontation with Rita unsettled him. Her mocking words rung painfully in his ears. Dreading telling Jolyon the truth, he hoped Lord Owenstoft's judgement was correct.
How dare Rita laugh at him?
Who did she think she was?
And at the back of his mind lurked Pepelito. How he despised the very thought of that loathsome bull, sickened by the animal's hateful stare. The way he'd not only ignored the goading of Castella's attendants, but stepped in to halt their baiting of Chicero. The way he now carried his head high, not just unafraid, but, in Henry's perception, contemptuous of the corrida and its devotees – disdainful even of him. Worst of all, the way he'd vacated the arena of his own accord – alive.
The sand bothered him, too; dense, heavy, the odd stone – ideal for Pepelito's feet, not his.
Still, in the ring, that bull was a cowardly opponent.
Wasn't he?
'We have half an hour. Rupert, I fear you must take charge of Bull No. 3,' Henry said. Jolyon rolled his eyes in despair. Edwin wasn't back from the pub. What a disrespectful, lazy young man. Alas, as his host's son, Henry had to tolerate him.
'With pleasure,' Lord Owenstoft smiled.
'Chatting up some girl, no doubt. Sexual harassment, these days, if you're woke about it,' Jolyon laughed.
'We must hurry, so the opening procession can start on time. Come on, Rupert,' Henry said. The two men left the group for the changing rooms, where Juan Belmonte's costume awaited him.
*
Half an hour later, Henry waited by the gate, impatient, holding the stiff pink and yellow cape with which they'd play with the bull while it was still fresh. He didn't have great hopes for Chicero. Even after the door slid open, the Saltillo remained behind it, a quivering wreck.
Utterly unacceptable.
'Get out,' someone spat, sitting over the hatch and trying to kick him. Chicero looked up, unmoving, as Henry waved the pink cape around in front of him. The bull hadn't always been this bad. Had Pepelito or Rita exerted some dread influence? What had that ludicrous woman said on the plane? His anger rising, Henry threw his cape on the ground with a flourish as Chicero looked around miserably.
What a shitty bull,' someone said.
'Useless.'
His anger at a boiling point, Henry left the ring and walked up the steps, snatching up a metal pole standing near the gate. Stuck on the end of the pole was a divisa rosette in the green and black colours of Chicero's breeder. In his current position, the bull's thick neck muscles were unreachable; even worse, the hatch door was jammed.
'Allow me,' he said. On the flight, Chicero's phobia of poles had provided welcome amusement. The bull would bolt senselessly at the mere sight. No compassion entered Henry's mind when he considered the likely reason. He dangled the pole in front of the bull's face. The effect was immediate. As Chicero scrambled to escape the cell, Henry plunged the sharp end into his neck until the colourful rosette was firmly in place.
Planting it took skill - and practice. This was art, as his uncle had said. The crowd agreed; as Chicero fled into the ring, cheers and applause echoed throughout the room.
A pack of sickos, they said. If that was so, Henry was proud to lead this pack.
Now, at last, the show could begin.
AN: Poor Chicero 💔
The drowning bull story is unfortunately true. 😭 I was asked to mention Henry enjoying such 'traditions' by CAS International, the charity I hope to donate money to from sales of this book - which I very much hope some of you will buy.
CAS International campaign to ban cruel events with bulls around the world, plus hunting with dogs. They also rescue cows and bulls from the bullfighting industry and from cruel festivals.
https://stieren.net/en-gb