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HOT NIGHTS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Cathy Williams

CHAPTER ONE

‘WAIT HERE.’

Javier frowned and looked around at his surroundings, taking them in from the back seat of his chauffeur-driven black BMW.

On a freezing cold, bleak, December afternoon, uplifting wasn’t the description that sprang to mind.

Having driven through a rabbit run of narrow streets, dotted here and there with tiny, trendy shops that weaved between the austere, graffiti-covered concrete buildings, they had finally emerged in front of a warehouse. On either side of the warehouse there were coffee shops and further along some kind of festive market situation was in full swing.

The streets were busy. No one looked over the age of twenty-five although he could be mistaken. Perhaps that was just the impression he got because of the nature of the shops, the profusion of colourful murals painted on the fronts of the industrial buildings and the absence of anyone in a suit.

‘Are you sure you’ll be safe, sir? In this part of town?’

Javier caught his driver’s eye in the rearview mirror and grinned.

‘It’s the East End of London, Gerry,’ he said drily. ‘Not a war zone with an active military presence.’

‘Can I ask whether you’ve ever been to this part of London before, sir?’

‘Permission granted to ask.’ Javier’s grin broadened. ‘And in answer to your question, no comment.’

Gerry had been with him for nearly a decade and was very comfortable being gently sarcastic to the powerful billionaire who paid his salary.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I’ve had a word with this woman. Shouldn’t take long. All I need is an address. I’ll text you when I’m coming out. In the meantime, why don’t you find somewhere to park. You can explore the territory. The second you step foot out of this car, you’ll raise the average age here by about twenty years.’

‘Very amusing, sir.’

Javier was still smiling as he pushed open the door, stepping out of the warm, refined, plush leather and walnut sanctuary of his car into the bustle of people on the pavements. His smile soon dropped as he began making his way towards the warehouse.

All around him cyclists were trying to navigate their way through the pedestrians. The smell of strong coffee overlaid with some kind of exotic food was strong. Wherever you looked, giant, vibrant murals were splashed boldly across the old industrial facades.

For a couple of seconds, Javier stood in front of the warehouse, taking stock.

It was a three-storey Victorian brick building, probably originally used for storing furniture or textiles. The place vaguely resembled a prison. Weathered brick and tall, arched windows ran along each floor in parallel rows. The iron window frames were painted matte black. Above the double-fronted steel door, staring him in the face, was a hand-painted sign advertising the workshop.

There was no chance that he’d got the wrong place.

Inside this building he would find the woman who would know where his runaway brother was.

Carlos had mentioned her multiple times in his emails over the past couple of years, although never in any way that could be read as significant. Javier had refrained from sticking his nose in his brother’s affairs, as he always did, but reading between the lines hadn’t taken the work of a genius.

Hope Jamieson was his brother’s girlfriend.

He’d never heard Carlos talk about any other woman before, so there was no chance he was mistaken on that front.

He’d tracked her down after scouring his brother’s bank statements and finding her name there enough times to give him serious pause for thought.

And now…here he was.

He tried the door, pushed it open and stepped into a world that was so far removed from his own he could have arrived on a different planet.

It was humming. People were talking and laughing. There were three long tables with laptops with groups of people huddled around them, nodding and talking over one another.

The whitewashed walls were filled with photographic posters depicting everything from street scenes in black and white, to models in outlandish gear and oversized flowers in gaudy technicolour.