Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 42 - Descent into Hell

Henry reclined in his leather seat, a glass of port in his hand, watching the screen embedded in the seat in front of him, on which was a live feed only he had permission to access. He wasn't remotely surprised Rita had broken from her restraints.

He'd expected that.

The club's private jet was mostly empty. On it, along with some of Castella's assistants and the young, fresh faced and almost entirely British hired cabin crew, were the handful of trusted souls who hadn't been arrested, gone home early, flaked out, or fled. Where was George, anyway? He'd told Henry he'd be late, then never arrived. Probably got lost wandering past a school.

What fine entertainment this live feed was. The marvels of technology! From Henry's vantage point in the corner of the ceiling, he watched, both amused and sickened as Chicero stood shaking.

The bull hailed from one of the oldest, most prestigious encastes, yet lacked the bravery and nobility worthy of the lineage. Before their final glorious drama played out on the sands, these beasts lived like kings. Henry expected better than this undignified comportment.

What other animal got to do that? Better than being a battery chicken!

A member of the cabin crew walked past and Henry quickly turned the screen off, checked WhatsApp on Rita's phone, and then his own. The Spanish police had read his messages, and he smiled, enjoying this hitherto undiscovered thrill. But he'd been unceremoniously kicked from many Tory group chats, though several had renamed themselves and quietly added him back.

The comments in the WhatsApp groups he could still access incensed him. 'This Henry Dixon saga keeps getting worse. Serious damage control needed I think. I'm getting so many letters from angry constituents asking me if I knew he was a serial killer.'

'Yeah, it's pretty much nailed on I've lost my seat with the latest polls.' Two MPs reacted to this with crying emojis.

Someone posted a Mirror article saying, 'KILLER TORY LATEST: Missing journo found ALIVE in demented Dixon's house of horrors - along with heads of stolen cats, horses and dogs.'

The first text underneath read, 'Jesus. We are fucked.'

So they'd found his cellar.

Everything he'd done, all the hard work he'd put into it, gone in an instant. The police would be poring over his exhibits with their grubby hands. Considering the thousands, if not millions of pounds spent on the project, the hours whiled away, gave him a lump in his throat.

For the first time in his life, Henry felt like one of the homeless people who blighted his view of London, the ones he stepped over on the way to the Houses of Parliament, who were always being kicked out of the doorways of the sumptuous hotels where the aficionados had their lunches and dinners. Just where was he supposed to go?

This didn't happen to people like him.

He'd been added to a secret Telegram chat, called 'Henry Dixon is innocent' run by a group of Tory MPs. While he detested the idea of his achievements going unrecognised, he would have to take the help. A smile came over his face as he scrolled through his messages.

The panic was over.

In that Telegram group, already ready with an offer of help, was the proprietor of his favourite five-star Cotswolds hotel, Sir Jolyon Richmond. There, he could figure out his next step – and the location was wonderful for deer stalking and pheasant shooting.