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‘Then let’s move,’ she said decisively, heading across the main road and back into the streets of Shoreditch, relying on her memory to lead her to the Le Caché office: being new and being security conscious, there was no address for the collective online.
She found it.
‘This is it?’ said Alex dubiously, looking up at the old warehouse conversion Stella had visited with Lara.
‘Expecting something more grand?’
‘This is actually pretty fancy,’ he said and banged on the
door. Stella stepped back into the road, trying to see through the upper windows to the mezzanine level.
‘Lights are off,’ she called. ‘Don’t think anyone’s home.’
Alex put his hands on his hips and blew out his cheeks.
‘Dammit.’
‘I think Stefan lives around here,’ said Stella, remembering a conversation from the previous week when she’d been at the La Caché office. If she was right that Lara and Stefan were seeing each other romantically, it was possible, likely, that they’d met at the Le Caché office and then gone back to his place. Lara was a professional but she wasn’t a nun.
When Stella had brought bagels for the team, Stefan had mentioned that there was an excellent bakery on Redchurch Street, where he lived. Stella knew Redchurch Street, a narrow lane filled with boutique shops and art galleries that had somehow become the Carnaby Street of East London. He mentioned he lived above a café, but as they turned onto the street, she saw just how many food places there were – Turkish, Lebanese, Sushi, even a pastry shop specialising in cat-shaped cakes.
‘Okay,’ said Stella. ‘I’ll take this side, you take that side. Look for buzzers.’
Stella strode off, not looking back to see what Alex’s reaction was to being given instructions by a junior member of staff.
If she felt in a hurry, she was. She was as worried about Lara as he was. Stefan had been entirely smooth and plausible. If he had been lying to all of them, there was no telling what he was capable of.
The first door was next to a swish patisserie and had four buzzers: Khan, ‘Belinda B’, Williams and Gerard. No ‘Stefan’. Pass. As Stella moved down, she glanced back. Alex was talking to a woman standing in an open doorway. Presumably he had pressed all the buttons until he’d got a response. He wasn’t letting anything get in his way. Stella knew that Lara had had a lot of heartache in her life – the death of her parents and her best friend – but watching Alex, she couldn’t help but feel that Lara was one lucky lady, and that happiness was there if she was prepared to grasp it.
Alex waved at her, pointing meaningfully towards a door next to a pizzeria.
‘Green door, top floor,’ he said, running up. Stella saw the bell-push straight away. ‘S. Melberg’ – she jabbed at it and looked up towards the top window.
‘Nothing,’ she muttered. No crackling intercom, no door unlocking.
‘What about Eduardo Ortega. Do you have his number?’
‘He’s in the Congo.’
‘The Congo?’
‘Long story. But yes, I’ve got it.’
Stella glanced at her watch: almost five o’clock. She took out her own phone and, pressing her lips together, called Eduardo. She barely knew him, but this was an emergency and if he was back from the Congo, he might be able to locate Stefan.
‘This is Eduardo Ortega…’
Damn. Stella left a message and hung up. Alex looked as dejected as she felt.
‘Look, why don’t we go and wait in that coffee shop across the road? If they’ve been out, they’ll probably come back soon. If not, maybe we can try Misty again.’
Alex shrugged. ‘Fine.’
The café had a Scandinavian vibe, all cedar-cladded walls and chrome fittings. Stella could picture Stefan coming in here, sitting at a corner table with his laptop and avocado on rye. Yet, despite the area’s sheen of artiness, the East End was still fairly gritty, the brickwork caked in decades of grime and graffiti. Back towards Bethnal Green and down to Whitechapel, it was a long run of fried chicken outlets, phone shops and hairdressers specialising in ‘realistic’ extensions. For a certain demographic, it was cool, but it wasn’t Knightsbridge, that was for sure. Stella wondered how it made Stefan feel at the end of every working day watching his friend leave for his pile in Kensington. Was that why he’d gone over to the dark side?
‘What can I get you?’
The pretty barista with a sleeve of tattoos was smiling up at Alex. Stella supposed she would be smiling too if she had customers like Alex and Stefan. The best she’d had in Starclucks was the guy from the betting shop and he was fifty if he was a day. The cakes here were definitely better than the muck Uncle Jimmy stocked. The sticky cinnamon rolls and slabs of Victoria Sponge dripping in buttercream looked delicious.
