Charlie

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘But what will you say? Martin told him I’d left Haagman’s.’

  ‘The truth. That you’re away on a training course. I don’t have to say who for, or where. I’ll say we’ve talked, and that you will speak to him when you get back, but he isn’t to go jumping the gun and thinking he’s forgiven. Then I’ll tell him to be careful.’

  ‘Will you tell him about Daphne Dexter?’

  ‘I can’t, it’s too complicated and delicate, and besides I’d rather he didn’t know about my connections. I’ll just tell him not to be too trusting with people. That’s enough for now.’

  Charlie’s face brightened. ‘I’d better go and pack then,’ she said. ‘Do you think I’ll need my swimming costume?’

  Rita chuckled. Charlie’s habit of leaping from something serious to something absolutely trivial was very endearing. ‘In my day a girl’s travelling essentials were just a spare pair of knickers, a cardigan and her mascara,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine why you’d want a swimming costume in York, but you never know.’

  Andrew got to Lyons Corner House by Charing Cross Station soon after four. To while away twenty minutes or so, he went across to Trafalgar Square and sat watching tourists feeding the pigeons and taking photographs. Rita had phoned him this morning and he was feeling much happier. Two weeks seemed a long time to wait before he could speak to Charlie but with luck he might have some news about her father by then. He’d be moving into the house at Brent too. Maybe it was just as well she’d gone away, time was a great healer, or so his mother was fond of telling him. Perhaps they could start afresh when she got back.

  Right on the dot of half past four, the woman arrived to meet him at Lyons, but Andrew had to look twice before he realized it was her. She looked completely different from the day before. She was wearing a floral dress, the kind his own mother would wear, very little makeup, and her blonde hair had just been neatly set.

  ‘You look nice,’ he said with a smile.

  She tucked her hand through his arm. ‘I don’t advertise what I do for a living when I’m going somewhere posh.’

  Andrew had never thought of Lyons Corner House as posh, but he was touched that she thought so. ‘I’m Andrew,’ he said. ‘And I forgot to ask your name?’

  ‘It’s Angie,’ she said and laughed. ‘Well, me real name’s Freda, but I like Angie better. I didn’t think you’d turn up. If I ’ad a pound for every fella that’s stood me up, I’d be able to retire.’

  Andrew took her upstairs and over to a table by the window which overlooked Trafalgar Square. His parents had always brought him in here for a treat when they came up to London for a day, but he’d never seen it as empty as it was today. He thought it might be because it was so warm outside.

  He ordered Knickerbocker Glories for both of them, then looked hesitantly at Angie, wondering how to start her talking as she was clearly a little nervous away from her own territory.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to meet me to poke my nose into your business,’ he said gingerly. ‘I’m just interested in Soho in general, and anything you might like to tell me will be in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘Where d’you wanna start?’ she asked.

  ‘How about how long you’ve been working in Soho?’ he suggested.

  She sucked in her breath. ‘Mind if I have a fag?’ she asked.

  Andrew got his out and offered them to her. He wasn’t a real smoker himself, only the odd one now and then with a drink, but he’d bought a packet today guessing she was a heavy smoker.

  ‘I’ve been working up ’ere for over twenty years,’ she said after she’d taken her first drag. ‘I came in the first place as a machinist at Cohen’s, that was a ladies fashion ’ouse just off the Charing Cross Road. I was seventeen then, so that would make it 1952. It was a bloody awful job, us girls would start work at seven and we didn’t finish until six, sometimes even later when they had a rush job on. We got paid piece-work and I weren’t quick enough for the boss’s liking. Some of the other girls started leaving to get jobs in clubs, and I followed them.’

  Andrew listened as she gave him her views on Soho at that time. ‘See, after the war, London was full of ex-service blokes, and lots of them couldn’t really adjust to peacetime. They got jobs in insurance, banks and stuff, but they were bored silly. They used to escape after work to the little drinking clubs, meet up with mates they could talk to about the good old days and spin a few yarns.’ She paused and laughed. ‘Us girls used to hear some tales, every one of them was supposed to be a ’ero, but they was nice in the main, and it didn’t seem so bad to us girls to take the odd one home for a bit on the side.’

  ‘So that’s how you got started?’ Andrew asked, blushing scarlet.

  Angie put one hand over his. ‘Don’t go bashful on me,’ she laughed. ‘Yeah, I became a tart, I’m not ashamed of it. I weren’t forced into it, I was picky too in them days. I’ad me looks and a good figure. It ain’t like that now, it’s a toilet out there. More weirdos to the square mile than normal blokes, and I can’t be choosy no longer. But I make a good living. I’ve got a few bob tucked away and a little council place. I ain’t complaining.’

  The Knickerbocker Glories arrived and their conversation was halted. Andrew watched the way she ate hers and wondered at her almost childlike glee, suddenly aware how privileged he was. He broached the subject of the Lotus Club tentatively.

  She stopped eating and looked at him in surprise. ‘Fancy you knowing about that place! I worked there for a bit.’

  ‘Did you?’ Andrew could hardly contain his excitement. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘A Chinese bloke owned it,’ she said without any hesitation. ‘It was one of the first clubs I worked in and it ’adn’t been open long. ’E were nice, always ’ad a laugh and a joke with us girls. I did me first strip there too.’

  ‘You were a stripper too?’ Andrew felt this woman must have been heaven sent.

  ‘Not really, only did a few turns. I weren’t any good at it. There was girls at that club who were the business, next to them I didn’t stand a chance. One of ’em – Sylvie ’er name was, she were the boss’s bit of crumpet – was the best I’ve ever seen. Even the young girls now, proper dancers and stuff, couldn’t hold a candle to ’er.’

  Andrew gulped. For one brief moment he considered telling Angie that he’d found that same woman dead and that he loved her daughter.

  ‘Don’t suppose you know what happened to her?’ he asked.

  Angie giggled. ‘She was the only girl I knew in those days who had her ’ead screwed on,’ she said. ‘Married the boss and turned respectable. That don’t ’appen too often. They usually turn up again, but she never did.’

  ‘What about her husband, your boss?’

  ‘Now that’s a funny story,’ Angie said, glancing around her as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ‘I ’adn’t thought of ’im in years. Jin, ’is name was. Us girls used to call him gin and tonic. But a couple of years ago, the police came up ’ erelookingfor’im. Seems ’e’d done a runner owing a lot of money. I never spoke to the fuzz, I wouldn’t piss on them if they was on fire. But I ’eard the talk. Anyway, a mate of mine, who knows what’s what, said they wouldn’t find him however ’ard they looked, not in England anyway, because ’e’d been murdered over in ’Olland.’

  Andrew felt a shiver go down his spine. Spud had mentioned Holland too, and Charlie had said that the last time she spoke to her father he was on his way to Rotterdam.

  ‘Did you hear anything about why he was killed? Was he a villain?’

  Angie gave him an odd pitying look. ‘Blokes that start out in Soho aren’t exactly straight,’ she said. ‘But Jin, ’e weren’t a real “face”, know what I mean? He’d been round the block a few times. Sharp as razors, but not a villain. He weren’t the sort to get up people’s noses either.’

  ‘What do you think happened then?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ she said, pushing aside her now empty glass and reac
hing for Andrew’s cigarettes. ‘I wonder ’ow his missis took it, she was mad about ’im and they ’ad a kid an’ all. I was in ’is club the night she were born, what a party that was!’

  Andrew almost held his breath as Angie spoke of Jin getting out bottle after bottle of champagne. ‘It was the good stuff too,’ she said, her blue eyes brightening as she remembered. ‘Some people got so drunk they conked out on the floor.’

  ‘Someone today mentioned a woman called DeeDee,’ Andrew said. ‘They thought she worked at the Lotus too.’

  Angie began coughing violently. ‘That bitch,’ she rasped.

  Andrew asked the waitress to bring a glass of water and ordered a pot of tea too. Angie’s coughing gradually subsided after a few sips, but her face was still very flushed.

  ‘Too many cigarettes?’ Andrew said in sympathy.

  ‘No, I reckon it was you bringing up that bitch’s name,’ she said. ‘She got me the sack. But it’s funny someone told you about ’er, no one ever mentions her name around ’ere.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s real bad news.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Keep on asking about ’er and you’ll find out,’ Angie said with a grimace. ‘She’s like a bleedin’ octopus, with a tentacle in everything. But she don’t call ’erself DeeDee no longer. ‘Asn’t called herself that since the days she stripped with Sylvie, and she’s come a long way since that. Miss Dexter is what she gets called, and God ’elp anyone that forgets the Miss. But let’s get off ’er, I’m not ’appy talking about that.’

  Andrew felt as if his party balloon had just been pricked. He was certain Angie knew a great deal about this woman, possibly even where she lived and where she operated from, but he instinctively knew that if he persisted in asking questions she’d get up and leave.

  Over the tea, he asked her about other aspects of Soho, and once again heard similar stories to ones he’d already been told.

  It was nearly six when Angie said she had to go. Andrew thanked her for her help, and gave her one of his handouts. ‘If you think of something more could you drop me a line there?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said folding it and putting it in her handbag.

  Andrew didn’t think she would write. ‘Is there anywhere I could contact you again if I need something more?’ he asked impulsively. ‘I daren’t go walking up and down that street to look for you.’

  She looked apprehensive for a moment. ‘Okay, I’ll give you my home address,’ she said. ‘But I’m not on the phone, so drop me a line before you come, and best make it around two in the afternoon. Before the kids get home from school.’ She scribbled down an address in Mornington Crescent.

  ‘You’ve got kids?’ He was surprised she hadn’t mentioned them before.

  ‘Three, two boys and a girl,’ she said with a smile. ‘That’s another story for you. But they think I work in a pub, so if you should bump into them at my place, you mind your p’s and q’s.’

  ‘Shall I walk back with you?’ he asked. He assumed she was going to work.

  ‘Not on your nelly,’ she laughed. ‘If any of the girls saw me they’d be pestering me all night to know what was going on.’

  As Andrew rode back to Hampstead on his scooter, his mind was whirling with everything he’d been told today. He wished he could share it with Charlie and discuss where they should go from here. Maybe the police didn’t know that DeeDee the mistress was now known as Miss Dexter, but it would be pointless for him to go and try to talk to someone about it. Charlie was the only person that could do that.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Spud staggered into his room in Berwick Street just after midnight. He was much drunker than usual for a Monday night, and he blamed that on the young lad who’d asked so many questions today.

  Drink was the only way Spud had of blanking out how hopeless his future was. He might have been a courageous boxer once, and still remembered in boxing circles, but he’d only ever won minor championships, and was finished by an eye injury before he even got a stab at a big one. Two marriages down the pan. Both wives had run off when they discovered he was a loser. Even the jobs he once got as a doorman at clubs were closed to him now. Club owners didn’t just want beef these days, they wanted handsome faces too.

  Spud looked around his room dejectedly. He didn’t really see the dirt, the filthy sheet on the unmade bed or the black mould on the walls; he’d grown used to that long ago. All he saw was the absence of comforts – no television, no soft armchair, not even a pair of curtains at the grimy window.

  He got his dole money each week, and supplemented that with odd jobs, stacking crates in pub cellars, toting vegetables down the market, and on good days he told himself he still had his health and plenty of friends.

  But talking to that kid today had brought back the good times, when he’d had flashy suits, a gold watch, money in his pocket and a girl on his arm. The lad had been fresh-faced, bright and eager, soaking up Spud’s stories like a sponge. He’d got his whole life ahead of him and he’d probably make a fortune from writing a book about the characters of Soho. Spud was one of them, but what would he get? Nothing!

  He fumbled in his pocket for the leaflet the lad had given him. The print was too small to read without glasses, and he’d lost those some time ago. But he could read the Hampstead address at the top, and that to his mind said it all.

  ‘A big ’ouse, good schools, plenty of dosh,’ he mumbled. ‘You should’a got more than a dinner out’a ’im. You’re a mug, Spud, you let people take advantage.’

  He lay down on his bed and kicked off his boots. The room was like an oven and he wanted a piss, but it was too far down the stairs, and the lights had gone because someone had nicked the light bulbs. He could bet that kid didn’t have to worry about his stairs being lit up, his folks probably had servants that put them on and off.

  Spud reached under the bed for his emergency bucket. It was nearly full already and it slopped on the floor as he pulled it out. He flopped himself over the edge, relieved himself, then lay back on the bed.

  ‘Strange he was so interested in the Lotus Club,’ he said aloud. ‘What did ’e want to know about that for?’

  Spud fell asleep before he could think of any good reason why anyone would want to know about one small cellar club owned by a Chinese.

  It was early morning when Spud woke again. The market men were setting up below, clanking the poles from their stalls and shouting at each other, just as they did every day. The bucket stank, and he wished he’d had the presence of mind to chuck it out the window last night, as he usually did.

  His head was surprisingly clear. And as he lay there wondering whether to get up and go and see if anyone wanted his help, Miss Dexter suddenly sprang into his mind.

  She’d always been good for a few bob in the past when he had some information to pass on. She was after all Jin Weish’s bird at one time, and she might very well be interested that someone was asking questions about him.

  Spud smiled. It had to be worth a tenner. Besides, she might have some other jobs for him. The sun was shining outside, he’d go and see if anyone wanted any help, then nip down the baths and get spruced up to see her.

  The man who marched briskly into the Mayfair offices of Eagle Incorporated at noon looked a great deal better than he’d looked at seven the same morning. In a dark suit, clean shirt and with his shoes cleaned Spud was almost smart. But the suit was threadbare with a pervading smell of mould, and his shoes had holes in the soles.

  ‘Could I see Miss Dexter?’ he asked the receptionist. ‘She’s expecting me. It’s Mr O’Neill.’

  ‘Would you like to take a seat while I call her,’ the receptionist replied, trying hard not to stare at the strange-looking man, or wrinkle her nose at the smell of carbolic soap mingled with mould wafting from him. She’d only been working at Eagle Inc for two weeks so she knew nothing more about the company other than that they dealt in property, but she couldn’t help thinking that for s
uch a smart office, they had some very peculiar callers.

  Spud sat and waited, his hands clasped between his outstretched knees. This office in Brook Street always intimidated him, it was too grand for his taste with its thick carpets, chrome and glass. Even the young receptionist looked as if she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

  ‘Miss Dexter will see you now, Mr O’Neill,’ the girl said after a few minutes. ‘Up the stairs and it’s the room in front of you.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, anxious to make the girl see he was someone important. ‘I’ve been here before, many times.’

  Many times was stretching it, around three times including now, but then Spud always exaggerated.

  ‘Good morning, John Joe,’ Miss Dexter said as he opened her office door. ‘Come in and sit down.’

  Spud might not like her much, but he approved of her calling him by his proper name. Her office was just like her – cold, efficient and tasteful. A huge black desk, white walls and pale grey carpet, with black and white framed ‘art’ photographs on the walls. Her hair was black, fixed up in a tight bun, she wore a black suit and white blouse. The only scrap of colour in the room was her red lipstick.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind me belling you,’ he said. ‘But like I said, I ’ad something I thought might be of interest to you.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ she said raising one thin pencilled eyebrow.

  Spud explained as quickly as possible; he knew she thought her time too precious to waste on chit-chat. ‘He might be kosher,’ he said. ‘Well-spoken, bright lad. But it struck me funny that he was so interested in the Lotus Club. He also asked if I knew a DeeDee.’

  Spud knew that would worry her, few people knew she once went by that name.

  ‘Did he now?’ She put her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her two clenched hands. ‘And what pray did you tell him?’

  ‘I said I’d never met anyone called that.’