Joan remembered the reference to an interview with the flatmate in Darbishire’s report. It didn’t contain any useful information, other than confirming what Beryl had already told them and adding a little bit about Gina’s background. But it also mentioned that Rita had been arrested twice when the club where she worked was raided, which made Joan wonder how cooperative she would have been.
‘Where would I find her?’ she asked.
Beryl looked at her watch.
‘She’ll be onstage at The Cat’s Pyjamas in a couple of hours. In Soho. She’s a dancer. Rita Gollanz. The best legs in the West End. Say I said hello.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And . . . Bed of Roses,’ Beryl said firmly, peering at Joan again.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re wearing the wrong lipstick. Bed of Roses by Helena Rubinstein. It’s more subtle, less orange. It’ll suit your hair better. And get someone to show you how to do your eyebrows. If you’re ever this way again, I can.’
Joan grinned. ‘Thanks. I will.’
The Cat’s Pyjamas in Brewer Street was a doorway between a Soho pub and an ice-cream shop, leading down to a dim-lit room where bored-looking girls with beautiful bodies gyrated for tired-looking men nursing their drinks at little tables. The music, provided by a trio consisting of piano, double bass and drums, was surprisingly good. Joan knew she looked out of place as she sat alone at a corner table in her evening dress, drinking bitter lemon. She had half expected to be accosted, but she didn’t even attract a second glance. Given recent experience, she felt safer here than at the Ritz.
‘Rita the Cheetah’ came on as the third act, and did indeed have impressively shapely legs. She danced with rhythm and a sly smile that made her much more popular with the punters than the other girls. Over the course of the number she shed a scarf, a pair of animal-print shorts and a little top, ending up in fishnets and robust black satin underwear.
Outside, Joan waited at the performers’ entrance for her to appear. Under the harsher street lights, Rita’s bright red lipstick and kohl-dark eyes made her look unwell. She was also painfully thin under her cotton jacket. She eyed Joan suspiciously.
‘I saw you inside. What do you want?’
‘Beryl sent me,’ Joan said. ‘I’ve got some questions about Gina if you—’
‘Well, you can sod right off,’ Rita retorted, clacking rapidly down the street in high heels.
Joan chased after her. ‘I’m not from the papers.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘I’m . . . I work for one of her gentlemen,’ Joan said. She had been coy about it with Beryl, but ‘Elaine’ was getting more confident.
‘And Beryl sent you?’
‘She said to say hello.’
Rita paused. ‘Look, I’ve got twenty minutes. D’you want to grab a drink? There’s a jazz club that’ll let us in. I know the doorman.’
The club was perfect: busy and loud, making it hard for other customers to hear their conversation. Joan paid for gin-and-it cocktails for them both and they settled into a red velvet banquette together.
Rita narrowed her eyes. ‘Swear you’re not just writing more tosh about those bloody diamonds?’
‘Guide’s honour,’ Joan said, holding up her hand in the salute, with thumb and little finger touching. ‘I promise I’m not wasting your time. My “friend” is somebody influential. A private detective, you might say.’
‘Like Hercule Poirot?’
Joan grinned. ‘If you like.’
‘And he wants justice for Ginette? Ha! That never happens.’
‘It’s worth a try though, isn’t it?’ Joan frowned. ‘Ginette, did you say?’
Rita nodded. ‘Nobody called her that, though, except me. Ginette Fleury, she was, really.’
‘I thought she was Italian.’
‘Most people did,’ Rita said with a shrug, ‘so she went along with it. She was from Normandy, really. But one of her boyfriends called her Gina years ago and she thought it sounded nice. Like Gina Lollobrigida. So, it became her stage name, while she danced. She made out she was from Napoli.’
‘What about the accent?’ Joan asked. ‘Wasn’t it all wrong?’
Rita laughed. ‘You think anyone noticed? In our line of work? She could’ve been Portuguese. It was French, really, very saucy, but she spaghetti’d it up, you might say. You are-a so incred-i-bee-lay. Tee ar-mow. Ginette used to listen to Italian songs and watch their movies. And if she had an Italian gentleman, she’d just say she grew up in France. They didn’t care. As long as she jiggled.’
Joan pictured the sticky, dim-lit stage where Rita had just performed. ‘How did she end up dancing?’
Rita cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘She started dancing. Don’t look at me like that. And don’t pretend you weren’t. How’d you get into it?’
Joan looked as ‘Elaine’ as she could. A hint of Marlene Dietrich. ‘Long story.’
‘Well. Ginette was a very good dancer. She worked hard, and she knew what she wanted.’
‘Which was?’ Joan asked.
‘A leg up. Via whatever means worked.’ Rita gave Joan a knowing look and took a sip of her cocktail. ‘When Raffles said they’d take her, she was made up. It was the next step for her. Meeting classy gentlemen.’
‘Mmm,’ Joan agreed. ‘The money’s better.’
Rita looked unimpressed. ‘It wasn’t the money. She wanted to meet people. Important people. The agency had the best, and she gave them what they wanted.’ She looked down at the table. ‘They were lucky to have her,’ she muttered.
Joan reached across and placed her hand over Rita’s. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ They sat like that, for a while. ‘And yet, she asked for Perez,’ Joan prompted gently. ‘I wouldn’t have said he was classy.’
‘No.’ Rita shook her head. ‘Not from what they said in the papers afterwards. Ginette just said she’d seen this man at the agency when she was popping in to sort out some cash. And she was going to see him again and she needed to dye her hair. I helped her do it.’ Rita looked stricken. ‘If I hadn’t . . .’
‘There’s nothing you could have done,’ Joan soothed. ‘Gina sounds like a very determined lady. Ginette,’ she corrected herself.
‘Short for Genevieve,’ Rita explained. ‘Her sister called her Ginette.’
‘Oh? She had a sister? Is she in London too?’
‘No. She’s dead. Marianne, she was called. She was a Resistance fighter in Paris in the war. She was caught and tortured by the Gestapo. She died in a camp somewhere – I don’t remember the name. One of those . . . you know. People didn’t come back. Ginette was fifteen at the time.’
‘Oh my God. Were they close?’
‘Marianne was like a mother to Ginette. She said there was nothing in Paris for her after that. She came to England as soon as she could find a way.’
‘How?’ Joan asked.
Rita shrugged. ‘I don’t know how, exactly. She didn’t talk about it.’ She gave Joan a sideways look. ‘I should imagine gentlemen were involved, knowing Ginette. She was a grown-up girl. She knew how to look after herself.’
And yet, she hadn’t.
Which brought Joan back to that night in the mews house.
‘Beryl said Gina . . . Ginette . . . asked to swap with her. Do you know why?’
‘No. She seemed excited. Like something really good was going to happen, you know?’
‘How did it show?
‘It was just her mood. When we were dyeing her hair. Sort of feverish, if you know what I mean.’
Joan thought she did. She was reminded of fellow Wrens from her wartime digs again. Sometimes, going to meet a new man, they’d had a certain look about them. It was a heady mixture of anticipation, uncertainty and bravado. They were about to do something they would never get away with in peacetime. Fun, with a hint of danger. But those wartime girls had been going to meet lovers. And Rita had been clear, Rodriguez wasn’t that.