Charlie (40 page)

Right from Charlie’s first day at Haagman’s when she’d spoken of her father, Rita had an odd sensation of involvement. It was entirely irrational; she might know a great deal about Soho and its clubs, but she didn’t know any Chinese men and she’d never heard of anyone called Jin Weish. But since the day Charlie had mentioned that her father’s mistress was called DeeDee, she hadn’t been able to get it out of her mind. The name reminded her of someone she would rather forget.

Common sense told her DeeDee was most likely a derivative of Diane or Diana, and she’d probably adopted it because strippers went in for cute stage names. The woman she knew, and had good reason to hate, had been called Daphne Dexter, and to Rita’s knowledge she had never been known by her initials ‘D. D.’ But still the thought persisted in her mind and as the similarities mounted up, so the conviction that they were one and the same person had grown.

Rita had worked out that they must be around the same age. Daphne, before she owned a string of clubs, was rumoured to have been a stripper. DeeDee was reported to have come from the East End of London with two brothers. Daphne had hid her roots very well, but she had a faint East London twang to her voice, and Rita suspected the two men who had helped ruin her life might well have been her brothers.

Rita got out of her chair to go into the kitchen. Thinking about the Dexters would only bring nightmares on again.

‘It was lucky you kept this flat on,’ she said to herself as she washed up some cups and plates. ‘You’d have been up shit creek without it.’

Back in 1961 when she found this unfurnished two-bedroom flat, Church Road and the surrounding area had been virtually a slum, with prostitutes, poor Irish and West Indian immigrants crammed into the many dilapidated houses. Time and again Rita had been tempted by more expensive flats in smarter areas, but because it was cheap and she’d spent so much money on making it nice, she always flunked out at the last moment. Now the dreadful old properties, many of them owned by the notorious Peter Rachman, had been renovated and their former tenants moved on elsewhere. Church Road was a decent address again, full of antique shops and smart boutiques, and she wouldn’t move if anyone paid her to.

Looking critically back into her living room, she was pleased with what she saw. Going to so many wealthy people’s homes in her youth had given her some taste, if nothing else. The green striped wallpaper looked classy, the plain green Wilton was as good now as it was when she had it fitted back in ’62. No one coming in here now and looking at the lovely water-colours in their gilt frames, the elegant lamps and velvet curtains would ever imagine she’d been anything other than totally respectable.

A chill went down her spine, just as it had that day Charlie spoke of DeeDee and her father’s club. Soho for all its international fame was just like a village, people who got sucked into it all knew one another, if not personally, by repute. The period they had been there made little difference, lives overlapped, and some people were so prominent they quickly became legends. Daphne Dexter was one of those.

‘If only you’d heeded her warning,’ she whispered. ‘He wasn’t worth a light as it turned out, and you might have known he wouldn’t marry a club girl anyway.’

She opened the door to the spare bedroom and looked at Charlie asleep in the small bed and her heart contracted painfully. She was such a lovely girl, both in looks and manner. The light from the open door shone on to her coal-black hair and golden cheeks. She was at rest now thanks to the pill Rita had given her, but tomorrow morning she’d wake to face it all again.

Turning back to her chair, Rita sighed deeply. If she could have just one wish right now, it would be to save Charlie any more pain. Surely she’d already had more than her fair share? But life wasn’t fair, as Rita knew only too well. And by getting involved with this kid, it might very well mean she would come face to face with her own past again too.

Closing her eyes, Rita let herself drift back to that warm summer night in 1964 when she first met Daphne. She hoped she might remember something which would convince her that her suspicions were ungrounded.

Rita had called herself Suzie then; she was twenty-five, cheeky, fearless and a real little sex-bomb with her big breasts and flowing red hair. She and some of the other girls who worked with her at the Astor Club in Mayfair were invited by Stephen Brooks, a Harley Street surgeon, to his country house weekend party in Sussex.

It was the most beautiful old house Rita had ever been to, half timbered, polished wooden floors, mullion windows and furnished with antiques. But what she remembered most of all was the garden. It was huge, the kind you could almost lose yourself in as you wandered through the formal rose gardens, across lush smooth lawns to the shrubbery and the woods beyond.

The drawing room had French windows opening on to a terrace, from where steps led down to an ornamental pool and fountain. She remembered standing on that terrace around eight in the evening, a warm breeze fluttering her chiffon dress, the perfume of roses filling her nostrils, and wishing she could stay in such a place for ever.

Behind her the party was already in full swing. Many of the male guests were American doctors, here in England for a medical conference, and as usual when married men were on the loose, without their wives, and found an abundance of young pretty women more than ready to entertain them, they were in high spirits.

Rita had taken great care with her appearance that night. She knew she wasn’t a real beauty compared with some of the other girls, without makeup she was pale, and her features insignificant. But she was pretty enough, she had a fabulous body, lovely hair, and her provocative style made sure she was never overlooked. She was wearing a short pale green floaty chiffon dress with a neckline which exposed both her back and her ample cleavage. She’d had her hair set that morning in curls on the top of her head, and a few ringlets left loose around the nape of her neck. She knew that by anyone’s reckoning she looked sensational.

At that period in her life Rita had several wealthy lovers on a string. Granted, they were married men, but two at least of them would gladly have set her up in a little flat somewhere on the understanding she was theirs exclusively. But being a mere mistress wasn’t her goal, she had her heart set on an extremely rich husband, a grand house and servants.

She had been to many similar parties, where the girls were paid a small fee to look pretty and make the party go with a swing. There was no obligation to have sex with any of the guests, though it often did occur, but daring acts, like swimming in the pool naked, or an impromptu strip-tease, were appreciated as it lifted the host’s standing among his friends.

Around ten that same evening Rita was dancing with one of the American doctors in the drawing room, when she became aware she was being watched closely by a man standing out on the terrace. She was trying to show her partner how to do ‘the Shake’. She was an expert at this latest dance, undulating her hips like a belly-dancer and making her breasts swing from side to side. But the doctor was hopeless, waving his arms and hips without any co-ordination.

Rita knew the man watching her wasn’t one of the American doctors as she’d been introduced to all of them earlier. So she surmised he’d arrived quite recently and that he had a partner somewhere, because Stephen Brooks always made a point of bringing the available men to the girls’ notice.

Rita wasn’t often impressed by the men she met at this sort of party – usually they were overweight, balding and not very attractive. But this man was some six feet tall, slim, with rugged features and thick white, beautifully groomed hair. She thought he might be as old as sixty, but in his case, age was no barrier. He wore his dinner jacket with the kind of nonchalant style that showed events such as this were commonplace in his life. She made up her mind then and there that she was going to have him.

When the record finished she made the excuse to her partner that she wanted some fresh air, left him and went out on to the terrace. It was growing dark now, but there were lights in the fountain and still more in the trees.

‘Isn’t it a wonderful night?’ she said breathlessly, and moving away from the French windows, she went over to the stone balustrade and she leaned over it as though admiring the garden below. ‘Can you smell the roses?’

‘I can indeed,’ the man replied in a deep, resonant voice. ‘It’s a smell which always takes me back to my childhood. I used to gather up rose petals with my mother. She used to make pot pourri with them.’

Rita had no idea what pot pourri was, but just the way he said the word sent tingles down her spine. He reminded her a little of James Stewart, even if he did have white hair and a terribly upper-crust English accent.

‘It’s such a beautiful garden,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘How about coming with me to explore it?’

‘My dear, that would be a pleasure,’ he said with a languid but very attractive smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a party person. I don’t like to stand around in smoky rooms making small-talk to people I have nothing in common with. Strolling around a garden in the moonlight is much more to my liking.’

They were gone for almost an hour. She discovered his name was Ralph Peterson and that he’d been widowed two years earlier. She didn’t have to pump him for information to discover if he was rich; wealth seeped out of his very pores like a heady perfume.

Rita was very accomplished at pretending to be interested in everything men said to her – she’d learned to be in five years of working as a hostess in night-clubs – but for once she had found one who really was fascinating. He told her that his passion as a young man had been climbing, and as he spoke of mountains and faraway places he made her see them too.

‘I haven’t ever been outside England,’ she said wistfully. ‘In fact all I know is London.’

‘Well, perhaps I could take you to Paris as a starting point?’ he said. ‘I have to go there on business next week. I’ve been dreading going, it was my wife’s favourite city. But maybe with someone young like you I could see it all again through new eyes.’

Rita was astounded. As all her lovers were married men, even having dinner with them in public was difficult. She could hardly believe her luck, and she hadn’t even tried any of her seduction tricks yet. ‘I’d love that,’ she said.

‘Then we’ll go,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘I’m afraid I’m actually with a lady tonight otherwise I’d be tempted to try and whisk you away somewhere right now. May I have your telephone number? I could ring you tomorrow evening to make some arrangements.’

He wrote it down in a diary, then they made their way slowly back to the house.

‘Oh dear,’ he said as they approached the stairs back to the terrace. A statuesque dark-haired woman in a long white dress was standing at the top, looking down at them. ‘She looks cross.’

Rita wasn’t often thrown by another woman, but she was by this one. Although she was old by her standards, perhaps in her mid-thirties, she was a stunning, classical beauty, rather like Elizabeth Taylor with glowing olive skin, vivid blue eyes and her dark hair in a sleek chignon. Her gorgeous white gown, diamond necklace and drop earrings all smacked of someone who came out of the top drawer.

‘Where on earth have you been, Ralph?’ she called out, giving Rita a cold, suspicious stare. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘I’m sorry, my dear, we’ve been looking at the garden.’ He looked at Rita, then back at the other woman. ‘Do you two know one another at all?’

‘No,’ Rita said, and quickly held out her hand. ‘I’m Suzie, a friend of Stephen’s.’

‘Daphne Dexter,’ the woman said curtly, ignoring Rita’s hand. ‘Come along, Ralph. You wanted to meet Frank Southerby, and he’s waiting for you in the library.’

It was around an hour later when Rita was upstairs in one of the bedrooms powdering her nose that Daphne spoke to her again. Rita guessed the meeting wasn’t a chance one – the woman glanced in and when she saw Rita was alone she came right in, shutting the door behind her.

‘Hullo,’ Rita said. She was quite tiddly after innumerable glasses of champagne and prepared to be nice to anyone. ‘It’s a good party, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t much care for this kind of party,’ the woman said, looking pointedly at Rita’s cleavage. ‘There’s always too many common little club girls on the hunt.’

Rita laughed. When another woman felt compelled to say such a thing, it meant they felt threatened. Clearly she wasn’t entirely sure of her man. But another thing pleased Rita still more – she could hear a very faint twang of the East End in the woman’s accent. As she came from a little village in Essex herself, that made them equals ‘Yes, there’s a lot of us about,’ Rita said. ‘Young ones, old ones and some plain cranky. Country house parties aren’t what they used to be.’

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. She took a step nearer Rita as if wanting to slap her. ‘Don’t even think of trying to hunt on my territory,’ she hissed. ‘Or you’ll be very sorry.’ And with that she walked away.

Chapter Thirteen

As Rita came out of Haagman’s at half past five on Friday evening, a tall, dark-haired young man was waiting at the bottom of the steps. He looked quizzically at her, and when he moved to speak to her, she guessed who it was. Andrew had telephoned the laboratory several times in the past two weeks, asking for Charlie. Yesterday Martin had lied and told him she had given up her job so that he wouldn’t call again. But clearly he didn’t intend to give up that easily.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘would you be Rita?’

‘Yes, I am,’ she admitted. Charlie had almost certainly described her to him at some time, so it was rather pointless denying it. ‘And who would you be?’

‘Andrew Blake, Charlie’s old boyfriend,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to waylay you like this, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so worried about her, and as I know you were friends I thought you might be able to tell me where she’s living.’

Rita had no intention of telling the lad anything. Charlie was adamant that she didn’t want to see or speak to him ever again. Rita had supported this decision, but now as she looked at him, her heart softened a little. She had expected an arrogant, plummy-voiced chap, but this lad was polite, softly spoken, and he looked so young and anxious. He had dark shadows beneath his lovely blue eyes, yet he was clean-shaven, his hair was neatly brushed, even his jeans and short-sleeved shirt were spotless. For someone to make such an effort with their appearance when they were clearly utterly miserable was evidence to her that he was a decent sort.