CW: Contains slight abuse references (no description)

'This is the BBC news at 5.30pm, with me, Paul Bournville. We return now to our top story. A government in chaos - Interpol name Tory peer and prominent Brexiter Henry Dixon as the prime suspect in one of the world's worst serial killing cases in recent decades. Dixon is wanted in connection with the murders of 10 people in 4 different countries - and police have warned that number might rise again as they continue to link unsolved deaths. Joining me in the studio is our crime correspondent Lucy Peters and our politics correspondent Genevieve Smith. Genevieve. What sort of impact will this story have on the Conservative Party?'

'Oh, it's hard to overstate the impact, Paul. We must remind listeners that of course, Lord Dixon is innocent until proven guilty. But already, 23 front benchers have resigned. Labour are calling for an immediate general election. The Spanish police say they have made grim discoveries at two properties linked to Dixon, and if found guilty, people will be asking questions as to who protected him over the years - and why?'

George Stenton sat alone at a table outside a large cafe. Shaking, he turned his news podcast off, trying to regain enough composure to pay the bill for his unfinished mineral water.

The police hadn't said they were looking for him. Had they? Henry had saved George's skin on countless occasions. George probably owed him his freedom, if not his life.

They both knew what happened to people like him in prison.

Henry never even had to tell him - refuse to carry out his instructions, and his patronage of countless children's charities, his honorary position as a governor at several local schools, would disappear immediately. Thus, Henry's requests were a price worth paying. George didn't have to clean up very often. Henry had other people for that. He just had to drive him around and help with the hunting when required - sometimes as little as once a year. It wasn't that bad, compared to what his life without Henry would be.

George hadn't left any of his things in Henry's villa, thank heavens. He always travelled light in case airport security wanted to inspect his devices, a risk he was not willing to take.

After paying, he walked out in search of his car. Henry wanted to meet him at Javier Castella's property. George didn't want his friend to think he'd left him in the lurch; he'd let him down of late rather too often for comfort. He pressed the button on his car key. It wouldn't unlock. Something was wrong with the door. It had been having trouble recently, so George walked over to the door and tried to pull. Nothing happened. He looked around for something to open it with.

'Qué crees que estás haciendo con mi coche?' a burly, thickset man in a white vest and tracksuit bottoms snarled, appearing from nowhere at the top of the road. A cigarette was hanging out of his mouth and he was walking a fierce looking Doberman, which growled at George.

'Estás tratando de robarlo, bastardo?' the man spat. George stepped away from the vehicle. As he did so, a young policeman, thin, with a light beard, walked past. George had never had any reason to fear the police. But now, the sight sent chills all over his body.

'I - I wasn't doing anything,' George gulped, stumbling as he walked away. But the man grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against the whitewashed wall. He smelt of very strong deodorant.

'Habla español, cabrón! Por qué estabas tratando de entrar en mi coche?' he spat.

'Es mi coche! Por que? Huh?' The policeman walked towards them as the angry driver pinned him against the wall. George couldn't understand Spanish, but the context was obvious. As the man restrained him, the glimpse of a courtroom flashed into his mind. All the ways Henry had rescued him from legal issues, and this rough looking Spaniard thought he was a car thief? Him?

'Policia! Este imbécil estaba tratando de entrar en mi vehículo!' the man snarled, finally letting go of his shirt. Mansouri looked unconvinced as George looked imploringly for help, but then stared at him curiously.

'I'm sure it's a misunderstanding. This gentleman -' but Mansouri cut him off.

'Passport, please,' he said in a cold tone. George put his hand in his pocket, shaking. What should he do? Ask for a lawyer? Would that look worse? This didn't happen to respectable people with his kind of background. It happened to other people. Refugees. Scroungers. He wasn't either of those.

It's only Henry they want, he thought, handing it over. Some young Spanish beat bobby would have no idea he'd paid for those websites. Mansouri leafed through it for several minutes, his expression inscrutable, and then looked back to him without handing the passport back.

'George Stenton,' he said.

'Yes?'

'George Stenton who lives in Richmond, in Great Britain?' His voice was stern and emotionless. George scrambled for something to say. The furious motorist watched in triumph.

'I'd like to speak to you regarding an ongoing murder investigation. You're not under arrest, but I'd like you to clear some things up. Is now a convenient time?' George's stomach plunged. Mansouri's tone didn't indicate he could say no.

****

The traffic on the motorway was almost stationary. She'd never been there but Rita knew exactly where Castella lived. She turned the van's engine off. This was crazy. She was crazy. Someone was calling her work phone and she answered because it felt normal, despite knowing she so badly needed a break.

'It's Laurentia,' said the young officer, sounding out of breath and dazed. 'Rita, you aren't gonna believe this. Abdul told me to leave it till you were back, but Jesus said, given everything that's happened with Castella, he said you should know...'

'What?'

'So, like, I'm on my way home from work. We got a call about an hour ago. They don't want me at the big crime scene yet, so they sent me with that new woman from Madrid, Catalina. Some British woman walked in an ice cream shop, absolutely covered in blood from head to toe. We got there, and straight away she said to me, 'I've killed Javier Castella, and it was the best thing I've ever done,' with a great big smile on her face.' Rita's breath caught in her throat. Had she heard right?

'Killed him?' she gasped, feeling dizzy.

'She's friends with Henry Dixon – they met because Henry introduced them! Look, I know Castella's a horrible, horrible guy, but I got so much blood on me when I put the cuffs on her. I'm actually a bit traumatised...' Laurentia was laughing in a distressed, frantic way. Rita sat stunned in the middle of the tailback. The sky was darkening; dusk was starting to fall.

'Killed? Castella's dead?'

'Well, I seriously doubt he's alive. She was soaked.' The traffic cleared. Rita turned towards the road to the private bullring as if on autopilot, then pulled over on the side of the road to continue the call. Rather than dissipating her anger towards him, the news of Castella's murder intensified it. All the lives he'd destroyed, his terrible cruelty, the costs his actions exacted on her – all for nothing.

Rita wanted to ask about Castella's gang – had any of them been picked up – was anyone at the house? Instead, she stumbled for words, tearing up as her thoughts went to the animal. 'What about Pepelito?'

'Oh, is that the bull?'

'Yeah. Castella had Silvio murdered so he could steal him. If something happens, I don't know...' Rita's lip trembled, remembering how he'd become relaxed around her, playful even, as he learnt some humans could be trusted.

Approaching Castella's mansion filled her with foreboding.

Was Pepelito still there? What if she found him hurt, or worse?

'Maybe you think that's stupid, but I love that bull,' Rita said, tearing up.

'No, of course not. You know how I am with my dog. He's my baby.' Laurentia took a deep breath. The young woman was the baby of the team, just 21, and in that moment sounded even younger.

'Are you OK after that shock? Take some time for yourself.' Should she go in the house and make sure he was really dead?

'Yeah. I just need to – I don't know what. Have a long bath. Forensics are sending a team to the house now. I don't know about your bull. We had a call about another bull being stolen – I'll see what's going on with that...and I'll – I'll let Abdul know he's got to make sure someone finds them both.' Rita wished she knew for a fact that would happen. She trusted her colleagues, especially given the history with Castella. But some law enforcement officers saw themselves as defending Spain's traditions. They'd be proud to say they'd been the ones to kill the bull.

If anyone looked for him at all.

'Thanks, Laurentia.' She should tell her where she was, she thought. On ending the call she drove past the immaculately tarmacked track to the main entrance, with its gold statues, ostentatious fountains and Lamborghinis in the drive. Instead, Rita drove onto a track far more bumpy, full of potholes, leading directly to Castella's private ring – the track where Pepelito would have been taken.

She drove closer, over a row of thick high speed bumps, past long dry grass and thickets of trees. Rita's stomach tightened at the stress Pepelito would have felt. As she looked out of the window she noticed the skeleton of an animal, probably a deer. Eventually, she reached a set of farm style gates that swung open when she drove the car forward. They were unlocked, but she couldn't see anyone, making her nervous.

The gates opened onto an untidy area obscured by trees. Rita could see the pool and perpetually watered lawn beyond. This area suffered constant droughts. How could her sister have been OK with any of this – or her mother? What was Maria going to do, now Castella was dead? She'd long given up wanting any sort of relationship with her, but wondered for a second whether to call her and try to salvage something.

Rita stopped the van. She could hear sirens, becoming louder as the first police cars approached Castella's mansion. They would not know she was here; the long, winding path to the ring led to the side and was hidden by trees. She texted Alfonso, Laurentia and Mansouri her location, before stopping the car on the grass by the bullring. Castella used it to entertain wealthy guests and host tientas – where young cows got harassed by men with capes, then speared by men on horseback. If they charged, they were 'brave' enough to breed.

Nobody was there.

And the pen was empty.

Seeing it empty filled her with dread and worry for her four legged friend. Had the thugs made off with Pepelito and sold him on? She clutched her gun inside her pocket, nausea rising inside her throat. A gate stood at the end of the pen with a narrower path, a series of stiles and a metal door at the end, leading into Castella's ring.

She walked along the side of the fence, taking a sip from a bottle of water and feeling the gun in her pocket. As she approached the wall, an anguished rumble sounded from the direction of the ring. Was that Pepelito? Or another poor animal Castella'd had stolen to order?

Mansouri had replied. She ignored the notification.

Helping the bull was more important.

On the other side of the fence was a metal bar with a hook at the end. She picked it up and followed the fence until she could see the door the bulls were driven through. A tree overhung the path, its branches low. Its shadow lengthened. Once they were inside, the real nightmare would begin. He'd be so frightened.

The bull bellowed again. It was a gut wrenching sound. How long had he been trapped there? Would Castella's thugs come back? A narrow metal staircase snaked from the fence, to the ledge from where they opened and closed the different compartments in the passages leading to the ring. Rita put the crowbar down the back of her shirt and clambered up.

She followed the ledge round; the platform, though not as convoluted as some of the others she'd seen, passed under a row of seats and out by the stands, overlooking one of the gates. As her feet clanked on the metal she could hear increasing sounds of distress. Was that Pepelito? Then a second bull bellowed somewhere else.

'It's me, pobrecito,' she whispered, as something heavy bashed against the metal. She looked down at a steel hatch below her feet, sparsely dotted with tiny holes. 'Don't be scared. Please. You know I'm not like him.'

She slipped the hook into the hatch and slid it open. A bull looked up at her. Not Pepelito, the grey one they had rescued from Valero. Her heart was filled with pity at his short lived respite.

What was wrong with Castella, Rita thought? His pathological obsession had meant he couldn't let any of 'his' bulls live in peace – even ones he'd rejected as 'opponents'. Chicero stared at her about a metre below her with terrified eyes, flinching at the light after being kept in total darkness.

'I'll never hurt you, I promise,' she whispered. The bull tried to shrink away, but was too big for the tiny compartment. She took out one of her bottles of water from her bag; she was too far up, the gap between his nose and the door too narrow to let him drink from her bottle. She crouched down and poured the water in front of him, getting much of it on the wall. The sun was slipping from the sky but the heat remained. Somewhere, she could smell smoke.

She wrote a text to Alfonso. 'I think he's here. I found another one. ❤️'

'It's so cruel to keep you here, Dios mio,' Rita whispered as the bull lapped up the liquid. She would use the crowbar to open the door to the ring, and keep it open so Chicero could turn around and go back out into the ring. Once Alfonso got cleared to leave, she'd call him and they'd sort out picking them up.

As Rita carried the implement above his head the bull shook with terror; whatever had led to this response made her sick. She crouched down, attempting to drag the door open from above; it would not budge. As she struggled to force it open she heard a noise from the opposite side of the ring; something bashing against metal, then a miserable grunt.

'Hold on, Pepelito, I'm coming for you too,' she said under her breath, yanking at the sliding door once more. This time it came up. Chicero pelted into the ring; she collapsed onto her back, exhausted from the effort. The door slammed down with a thud. She scrambled up, tried to pull it open again so Chicero could get out of the arena. It didn't move. Her phone was vibrating; she put the pole down for a second to answer.

'Rita! Why the fuck are you at Castella's? Don't be fucking stupid, get the fuck out of there,' Dominguez yelled, with real panic in his voice. As she opened her mouth, a shadow fell across her, too big and in the wrong place.

'Henry Dixon's there, Rita! Get the fuck out now! Now!' As she spun around, trying to stand up, she felt Henry's hands around her waist, grabbing her from behind. Her phone clattered onto the metal platform.

'So nice to meet you at last, Rita. I knew you'd help a bull in need,' he said softly, forcing the damp cloth over her mouth until she was out cold.

AN: Sorry it was a long one - and I hope it's believable!