Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 45 - Pack of Sickos

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?