'I see you arrested Valero Cotillion again. Prison's the best place for that cutthroat,' Silvio said to Dominguez, who'd found somewhere permanent to rent and was dropping by to fetch his stuff.

'He grew up in this village, right?' Dominguez patted Pepelito over the fence and fed him a huge carrot. Pepelito didn't understand any of what they were on about. But they were relaxed, so, so was he. He craned his neck to eat the carrot; the pain was now a dull ache and only really bothered him when he was sad, stressed or hungry.

Swishing his tail, he looked over at the bottom of the field. The brown splodged cow he liked had wandered up to the fence. Out of all the cows in that field, she was his favourite. It was driving him crazy with frustration. He liked the way she interacted with him, the way she smelt.

He had to figure out his way in.

'That's one way to put it. He's a bad lot. His father was a brute without shame, and the son is worse,' Silvio said disdainfully.

'He's not gonna see the outside for a long time after what he's admitted to,' Dominguez said, as Pepelito gulped back the last of the carrot. For once, Maribel wanted to play with him. She nudged him with her nose, kicking Silvio's old tractor tyre towards him.

'I've put in some new alarms and I've had no more trouble, you'll be happy to know. Think Valero getting done has put the frighteners up our mutual acquaintance.' Silvio laughed.

'Just be careful, won't you. Don't underestimate Castella. Though I'm surprised he finds the time with all those women after him.'

'Women? What do they want with someone who stabs a poor bull whilst dressed up like an idiot?'

'You're asking the wrong guy.' Dominguez always brought nice vegetables. Pepelito grabbed the cucumber he was being offered.

Patting him, Dominguez went on, 'Hope Rita's gonna be OK. I'm kinda worried. Sanchez told her to have some time off, but yesterday she was still working. She won't want any time off but I think the bastard's right. She had some sort of panic attack right before we arrested Valero.'

'All you and Rita do is work these days. Much too hard. I'll be glad when you've caught this scoundrel.' Silvio's voice was disapproving.

'Me too,' Dominguez said through gritted teeth.

'What do you think, Pepelito? You agree.' At first, Pepelito had found it disconcerting when Silvio spoke to him like a human, but now he knew the old man was showing his love.

'This one knows about the value of work, don't you, amigo,' Dominguez laughed, stroking Pepelito under his neck. The bull turned away and went to join Maribel, pushing the tyre towards her with his snout. Near the fence, the splodged cow stood watching. 

This game reminded him of happy memories, playing with other young bulls on the farm he grew up on. While he'd been one of the lucky ones, kept back for the ring until he was 5, violence was never far away. But he'd had fun with his friends in their spacious field. He missed them.

When bad things came into Pepelito's mind he reminded himself where he was. He had food, and a lot of space and freedom. Maribel and his human protectors loved him, and he loved them back.

But Silvio was an old man, and the others were often stressed and sad. While they believed they were keeping him safe from cruel, evil people, Pepelito increasingly saw it the other way round. They weren't made for the violent world of humans, the world people like Castella and Valero had forced him to live in.

He was the one who had to protect them.  

*

That night, Pepelito and Maribel slept in the barn together as usual. Pepelito shifted around in the straw until he was comfortable. It was easy to keep cool here.

Maribel knew about Ladron now. She made it known that he couldn't have prevented what happened to the big brown bull whose calm demeanour soothed his nerves, who'd helped him feel less afraid of the others trapped alongside them.

He wasn't bad.

He'd done nothing wrong.

She blamed herself for things, too. Not looking after her calves well enough. Fighting with particular cows, who then disappeared. Being so irritable with Beatriz during her illness, not realising how sick her best friend was.

He snuggled up beside her. The pain was minimal now, but he often felt awkward and clumsy. Sometimes he scratched Maribel with his horns by mistake, and she'd kick him, not hard, but enough to let him know she was annoyed. It never happened before he'd come there, and it upset him. Would he ever get less ungainly?

The air was silent apart from an owl hooting somewhere, cars far in the distance. Through the barn walls, he didn't really notice the man creeping around just outside the range of the sensor, scattering seeds on the ground near where the geese slept.

****

Rita couldn't sleep that night.

She tiptoed out of bed, turned on the computer, logged onto Facebook and replied to some messages, many of which were weeks old. Most of these people, she rarely spoke to. She'd forgotten who some of them were. Her mum had shared a petition about banning bullfighting, which annoyed Rita. This new-found conviction was, she assumed, solely due to Castella's treatment of her sister. Meanwhile, Maria herself hadn't reached out at all.

Loads of people had shared that video of Pepelito. An ex from school had written to her the day it happened. 'Hey, Rita! Don't you live there these days? Did you see this?'

It wouldn't help her sleep, but she had to stop being a wimp.

She went onto YouTube, found a shortened version from the point he leapt into the stands, and pressed play. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched the bull run up the steps, bleeding, confused and in so much pain; reduced to licking melted ice cream from a step as the spectators unleashed their violence.

Spectators like Henry Dixon.

The aficionados tried forcing Pepelito back into the arena, their bloodlust unsatisfied. Their faces contorted with shock, rage and hatred. Castella strode up with a sword towards the wounded, panting bull, his mind on his 'unbroken record'.

'Dios mio,' she whispered as Pepelito dodged them, escaped down the stairs to safety, in obvious agony but finally, finally free. Out of sight, someone had opened the door that saved the bull's life. Rita wondered if she'd ever learn who this angel was, if she could ever thank them.

As Lucia suggested, she scrolled down to look at some comments; apart from a handful of taurinos they were all supportive.

'The best corrida ever – OLE! Enjoyed seeing this dim-witted, hapless beast outsmarted at every turn!'

'Bravery, charisma and talent – what else needs to be said? Hope the artist is enjoying a well-deserved rest in his meadow 😊'

She read further down the list until she found the oldest comments, posted shortly after the video was uploaded.

'30.56: The guy pulling the bull's tail is a British politician – Henry Dixon.' This was in Spanish, but almost all its hundreds of replies were in English.

'Shame it couldn't of gored him :(' someone called angel2004 had written, along with several further humorous replies.

'Anyone checked his hard drive? Prob got 100TB of snuff movies lol.'

'@ vivalostorosespana wtf u srsly callin me racist cos I dissed ur 'sport'??🤣🤣 hahaha fuck off, hope u get a horn in ur arse lmao'

Rita clicked onto the profile – then stopped dead, her stomach plunging as she stared at Aidan Donnelly's channel. His very last video upload showed him walking his mum's dog around his run-down housing estate, thanking his latest subscribers and giving various updates. Clicking around other videos, she was filled with nausea and skin crawling horror.

But also – relief.

They had a prime suspect.

Rita went back onto Facebook and searched for Caroline McKenzie and the group she was in, Animal Defenders United. Her social media presence had been very active, publicly and privately. Alongside posts about how to be a great manager and get the best out of your staff, Caroline's Facebook was full of angry political rants.

'Look at the state of this absolute sicko! How would he like to be chased through the countryside by hungry dogs and ripped to death!?' Caroline had written on a post about fox hunting, showing a photo of Henry sat on a horse, wearing a red coat.

'Perfect!!! Perfect would be him taking the bull's place, which he'd never do, because he's a coward!' she'd replied to Henry's article about what made 'the perfect corrida'.

'Dixon again 'in defence of grouse shooting'! The last time I said what should happen to this demented animal torturer, Facebook censored my post!' Caroline had written hundreds of such posts about Henry and other politicians. You hated her for that, didn't you, Rita thought. You can't stand to be questioned. You can't stand to be criticised. And you can't stand to be attacked for the things you do.

No way was she getting back to any sleep now.

Her heart pounding, she did a search for the most recently connected victim.

Sure enough, 30-year-old Green Party member Samantha Berger gave an interview to the local paper about her protest, three weeks before she was killed in 2022. 'Henry Dixon has shares in an arms company that supplies weapons to dictatorial regimes, Russian-linked mercenaries, and terrorists. His frequent private jet usage shows total disregard for the environment. Last year, he flew on it 72 times while the pandemic was still raging, including flying to Ecuador for just two nights.'

Of course you did, Rita thought, her breath catching. This guy would have the best lawyers. He was a well-connected politician who possessed unimaginable wealth. He'd walk if she and Heather didn't get this right.

Maybe even if they did.

Then there was Tegan.

Heather's latest email revealed Tegan had been sexually assaulted by a group of fellow students at a party; 'posh boys' whose names and faces she had blanked out or couldn't remember – but she had attended the same Oxford college as Henry, at the same time. After dropping out she'd got married and pregnant at nineteen, then met Graham two years later. Her trauma had blighted the two tumultuous relationships.

Graham Ferry had given an interview to a local newspaper about a new road he was campaigning against. 'While the government should be investing in green infrastructure, greedy individuals in the Tory Party like Henry Dixon with millions invested into fossil fuels are continuing to give permission for wasteful, damaging projects like this road.'

Three weeks later, he was dead. The 24/7 witness protection programme poor Tegan was under would just be another kind of prison.

Shuddering, Rita searched for articles about the Taurine Club of Kensington, and found one by Robyn Casey. The Club's members were drawn from the rarefied milieu of the privileged British upper classes. Some had government roles and aristocratic titles, and even used taxes to pay for flights round the world, hotels – and bullfighting tickets.

The girl at the kiosk.

She'd seen 'an English guy in posh clothes', arguing with a woman who looked like Caroline. Could that be him? Or one of his accomplices?

The second part of the two-part series hadn't been released. Instead, when she searched for Robyn's name, Rita saw another type of article. Bile rose in her throat. It was like she'd been punched; scrabbling at her desk as all the air was knocked out of her.

'Fears grow for missing Robyn, 25.'

'Police are said to be extremely concerned about the whereabouts of Robyn Casey, a journalist living in Shoreditch, who was last seen last Friday...'

When Rita rang Heather, she didn't pick up. It was 3am; she was obviously asleep with her wife like a normal person.

'Henry Dixon is our killer. He has Robyn Casey, it might not be too late to save them if you act now,' Rita began her email, frantically adding information pointing to his guilt.

She was shaking all over. She'd had almost no sleep and barely noticed Alfonso walking in the study.

'Rita? You OK?'

'I've found the sick fuck who murdered your friend. Henry Dixon. He's the serial killer,' she gasped. Alfonso switched on the light. He wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly and stroked her hair. The Madrid cops had emailed her with more possible victims. So had someone in the South of France. A detective had even emailed her from Ghana about a suspicious death near a hunting lodge for rich tourists.

'This guy must have killed 10 people at least and someone else is missing. And you – I haven't asked how you were doing after what happened to Caroline. How are you feeling?' She gabbled the words before she even thought, her heart pounding with anxiety, her mind spinning.

'You have asked me. I'm holding up OK. Come get some rest, Rita.' Alfonso held her tight and kissed her, his touch light. She felt calmer.

While he embraced her, she did another search for the Taurine Club of Kensington on her phone, unable to help herself. When she saw the results, she felt like she was going to throw up. Her throat seized up and she couldn't speak. 'Disgraced anti-vaxxer MP takes bull by horns with cruel corrida holiday – with YOUR money!'

Rita dialled the station number, feeling sick and dizzy.

Pick up, pick up, pick up, she thought.

'Dios mio,' she kept saying to herself. 'He's here.'

AN: As you can tell some fairly dramatic events are coming up...