'So, Castella's second bull, of Don Gregorio Romero. Pepelito, if I remember correctly. What happened there? All the elements of a great afternoon, and we were deprived, just twenty minutes in.' Henry wore a suit and spoke English in an upper class accent. He put the piece of steak to his lips. He spoke coldly to the man seated next to him but loud enough so the 20 other people at the Taurine Club of Kensington's Anniversary Dinner could hear him.

'Yes, I can't remember the last time that happened. Not simply did it escape, it ran away and disappeared altogether! The Spanish police seem rather useless, don't they, Henry?' The man sitting next to him, George, rolled his eyes as he spoke. Behind Henry's seat was the Stubbs portrait of Lord Stedbury, a distant relation of his, seated on his horse. Hanging above the door, opposite the huge mahogany dining table, was the head of a stag.

'Yes, useless. I'm sceptical these supposed house to house enquiries exist,' Henry said.

'That bull is from one of the larger, more distinguished bloodlines,' said a third club member, Lord Owenstoft, who owned a grouse moor in Northumberland.

'Yes. It beggars belief that nobody has seen it. Although there is, of course, another possibility. The police might simply not want to retrieve the beast. It's often seemed to me that we at the Taurine Club love Spanish culture far more than the Spanish themselves.' Henry speared one of the carrots on his plate. The Cava on the table had cost 500 Euros. As in his Oxford days, Henry had insisted on paying for it in pound coins and having the cashier count them in front of him. Britannia ruled the waves after all.

'Well, one aspect of Spanish culture, anyway. I don't particularly care for the rest of it,' Lord Owenstoft said. They all laughed.

'I can't drink this rot, George, is this all you Winchester College boys could afford,' Henry said, taking a sip from a slightly less expensive bottle and pursing his lips in disgust.

'You'll have to get used to it, if Labour win the next election.' George laughed. He mentioned this unpleasant possibility far too often for Henry's liking.

The huge oak door creaked open. In strode Javier Castella himself. The Guest of Honour at this exclusive gathering of English aficionados. Often considered the best matador in Spain, Javier was used to being the centre of attention. A frequent guest at the Club’s meetings, Javier’s appearance had been scheduled for months. His cancelled corrida in Valladolid had given it an added urgency.

'My apologies for being late, ladies and gentlemen, my jet could not take off on time, because of the air traffic control strike in Madrid, I haven't managed to buy my way out of that yet,' he said. Everyone laughed and nodded in understanding.

‘My wife gives her apologies. She is enjoying a spa day at the Armitage Hotel.’ Javier smiled as the five-star establishment’s proprietor nodded approvingly, two seats down from Henry. Maria Silvera was a councillor for a right-wing party in a small town somewhere in Castile and Leon. Henry could never recall the town’s name. It was hardly important in any case.

'Any news about the bull, maestro?' George said. Heavens, he could be annoying, Henry thought. He should make allowances, poor fool was getting there but he still didn't have half the self confidence that his own, far superior education had instilled.

'Not yet,' Javier said, laughing. His face darkened as he looked round the room and clenched his fist around an imaginary sword.

On the table were several copies of the new edition of the club's magazine, La Salida. Its front page featured Javier, grinning, next to a dying brown bull. Henry picked it up and started flicking through it until he found his own article, 'The Perfect Corrida’. Not for the first time, he congratulated himself on his literary prowess. It was almost as good as his book, ‘The Perils of Regulation – How the Nanny State Holds Back Economic Growth.’

'You're remarkably calm, maestro,' George said to Javier in a sycophantic voice.

Javier nodded. 'Yes. Whoever has him should know - that's when I'm at my most dangerous.'

Henry’s great pleasure lay in picturing the bulls in La Salida’s full colour photographic spreads replaced by particularly worthless humans. Like that gobshite who ran the Rail, Maritime and Transport Union, constantly on strike like some toy town revolutionary. Or the chairman of the Surrey Conservative Association who’d told Henry not to stand back in 2015, so the Tories could change their image from 'posh' and 'nasty' to something cuddlier. That had set his career back decades, and the turncoat had only gone and joined the Lib Dems in the end.

Like his bitch of an ex wife.

Javier surveyed the room and stared at Henry meaningfully. As the president of the club, Henry tapped his glass with a spoon so Javier could make his speech. It wasn't nice to be someone's skivvy, yet, on these occasions, Henry tolerated it. He was in the presence of an artist.

'My friends, like fox hunting, a gentleman's pursuit being sadly lost from the English countryside, our common passion at the Taurine Club is often derided as cruel. We are told we should care about animals. If, Heaven forbid, there is a Labour government after the election, maybe we won't be able to eat meat again,' Henry sneered.

'Yet, it seems the animals could not give a stuff about us. Yesterday, Javier's second bull was crueller than anyone in this room could ever be, even in the antis' wildest imaginations.' He took a breath. The club's members stared at each other.

'Rather than accepting his fate bravely, the toro fled the scene of battle, and disappeared. What to do with such an unworthy opponent? Javier is here to tell us about it.'

As the group clapped, Javier stood up. 'Thank you, as ever, for that warm welcome. Yes, such a despicable act on the bull's part. Such a shame for me and my team. And most of all, the fans who had spent their hard earned money hoping for a great spectacle.'

Javier gripped his steak knife and held it out as if he was about to stab someone. There had once been a rumour - completely outrageous, naturally! – about Henry himself doing so to a particularly obnoxious Green Party councillor. Things could have got out of hand, but luckily, he had paid his man in the Met to make the problem go away.

'Finishing my performance is a matter of pride, and the dignity of my profession. It is an outrage that the bull hasn’t been returned. So although I don't wish to ask such a favour of you, I'm asking for your help,' Javier’s voice was icy. He wasn’t a freeloader on benefits, or trying to cross the channel in a dinghy, so the club’s members nodded agreeably; they gladly helped the deserving.

As Javier spoke, Henry knew he was right.

Whatever it took, the bull would be found.

AN: This scene probably seems unbelievable and over the top, but unfortunately, a group like this one does exist, and has high ranking Tories among its members. This character's worst quotations are based on things one of them actually said! I hope its meetings aren't as awful as I have portrayed here, but let's be honest, they are probably worse!!

Hope you're all enjoying the story.