The Warped Web

By Vivian Head

A simple case of finding a missing husband spiralled out of control, leading to a web of deceit and intrigue. The Black Widow temple held dark, satanic secrets and Rex was soon on its trail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995539853

Vivian Head

Vivian Head is a keen advocate of self-sufficiency, an ardent cook, gardener and author who lives in a country cottage in East Sussex. When she is not busy writing, she tends her allotment and kitchen herb garden, which is also home to her chickens and four beehives.

Book preview

The drip, drip, drip of the cold water tap was as loud and penetrating as a drumbeat inside Rex’s head. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead and he was trying his hardest to stop his stomach from heaving. He leant his head against the cool, white tiles of the men’s toilet situated on the second floor of the tenement building. The smell of the stale urine coming from the feculent urinal on the opposite wall was not improving the situation and he took a handkerchief out of his top pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. When would he ever learn that mixing his drinks always ended in misery and resulted in a morning staring at the inside of a toilet bowl. He splashed his face for the second time with cold water, took a deep breath and decided it was probably safe to return to his office. He fished around in his jacket for a packet of mints but the only one that proffered itself had escaped its original foil packet and was now lying in the fluff and detritus in the bottom of his pocket. He took it out, stared at it for a couple of seconds, then blew on it and popped it in his mouth. He desperately needed sugar and the mint was the closest thing he could find to rectify the situation.

He looked in the mirror, didn’t like what he saw, and did his best to tame his tousled hair. His face was almost as pale as the tiles, his eyes were tired and bloodshot, and the dark circles under his lower lids simply accentuated the bags caused by lack of sleep.

Take a look at yourself, man! You need to pull yourself together! he said to his reflection in the cracked mirror.

He turned, and was about to walk towards the door, when he noticed a drop of blood about the size of an old sixpence on the corner of the sink. He was certain it wasn’t there when he first came in. He studied himself carefully to see if his body had left this unsavoury mark on the white porcelain.

No, not me! he said, positive that it was not his own body fluid. He glanced at the floor and noticed several other red spots which were leading towards the door. He followed the trail but stopped dead when he saw a dark shadow through the frosted glass. As far as he knew, the other offices, of which there were two, had all closed at five which meant he should be the only person left in the building. He wasn’t sure whether it was the remains of the alcohol playing tricks on him but he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and he froze …

The young Rex Salomon had one dream and that was to follow in his fathers footsteps and join the police. He was the youngest of two boys and had inherited his fathers mop of thick, if not a little unruly, blond hair, which even in his mid-forties had not thinned or darkened. His passion for rugby kept him in good shape, although a once perfect nose was now a little bent out of shape due to an unfortunate incident with an elbow during a match between two rival police teams. The only other blemish was a scar on his left shoulder which had taken a bullet when he pushed his partner to the floor, saving him from an almost certain premature demise.

He had fulfilled his dream after leaving school and joined the Metropolitan Police, loving every single minute. He was a popular and willing recruit, devoting every waking moment to learning the intricacies of becoming the best policeman he possibly could.

After just eight years he had been promoted up the ranks when his seniors discovered his natural aptitude towards solving crimes, but leading a murder squad when suffering from necrophobia soon became a major problem. He had managed to conceal this fear from his colleagues for several years, but the last case he had worked on had quite literally tipped him over the edge. Just too many dead bodies; too many gory clues for him to analyse. His dream was gradually turning into a nightmare and his life was spiralling out of control.

Peter Fuller, his partner of some seven years, had found him standing on the edge of the car park situated on the roof of the police headquarters, swaying to and fro like a young sapling in the wind. He had acted quickly and grabbed the back of Rex’s jacket pulling him back from the brink. He stared at his friend’s ashen face and couldn’t find any words of comfort. Instead they stood on the roof in the chill evening air with their arms wrapped around each other while Rex sobbed like a baby into his shoulder. Peter had no idea what had caused his partner to wish to end his life but he knew him well enough that he would have to wait to hear the reason why.

For two months Rex remained silent and withdrawn, but eventually opened up to the police psychiatrist that his phobia had got the better of him. He was advised to take six months sabbatical and was sent on a course of cognitive therapy.

Lying on his back on the therapist’s bench, he was asked to close his eyes and try to paint the inside of his head with a colour.

Allow the colour to spread over the entire surface like a thin layer of paint, the therapist said in his calming manner. Paint it little by little using the paintbrush of your mind.

Stupid bastard, what good does he think this will do? Rex thought to himself but attempted to do as advised. For some bizarre reason he chose the colour red, which turned out to be the wrong choice for someone suffering from his particular phobia. As he imagined himself painting his brain red all he could picture was blood and he broke out into a cold sweat. He sat bolt upright and held his head in his hands.

This is ridiculous, how on earth can this cure me!

Let’s consider another method, the therapist said, trying to alleviate his client’s obvious distress. When you feel a panic attack coming on, I would like you to take the first two fingers of your right hand and tap the inside of your left wrist in a rhythmic pattern. Choose a song in your head with a strong beat and tap it out.

He showed Rex exactly what he meant by tapping on his own wrist. Again Rex was not convinced this would pacify his inner turmoil, but said he would give it a try. He skipped his next few sessions and moped around at home hardly venturing outside the front door for weeks. Nothing seemed to soothe his troubled mind, and even a course of antidepressants from his GP couldn’t bring him out from his dark, sombre place. He wrote a letter to his superior resigning from the force, packed a bag and left for Malta without telling anyone. Even Peter, his closest friend, was left out in the cold without a word of explanation. How on earth could he explain to anyone that he was scared – no petrified was a more appropriate description – of dead bodies?

Michelle, believing that he was obviously having an affair, immediately put divorce proceedings in place and informed their two sons, Dexter and Simon, they were to have nothing further to do with their father.

Three months of sunshine, numerous glasses of ice cold Cisk and nothing to do or think about except, eat, swim, read and sleep, and Rex felt he was ready to return and face his family. Big mistake, did he really believe everything would just go back to normal?

When he arrived home at four o’clock on that Monday afternoon, he found the locks had been changed. He had to resort to ringing the doorbell – a disharmonious version of God Save the Queen – something that had always annoyed him intensely. He clenched his fists as he heard the old familiar chime. He saw the curtains move in the lounge window and the face of his wife peering through the crack. She shouted something at him through the double glazing, but the words were lost on him and he looked at her and shrugged his shoulders in frustration.

The window opened and she said, You are not welcome here, Rex.

Rex felt devoid of any emotion and couldn’t be bothered to argue with her. He had never been able to open up to her personally and he gathered from her attitude that his disappearance had scuppered his chances of returning to a normal family existence – if indeed he had ever had a ‘normal family existence’!

Can I come in and get some stuff? he asked, preparing himself for the tirade which he felt certain was about to erupt from his wife’s mouth. He was right. The obscenities, which were loud enough for the whole street to hear, were not worth hanging around for, so he turned and walked back down the front path.

So after nineteen years of marriage all he possessed was a small suitcase of personal belongings and a minimal amount in a personal savings account. He was in no doubt that she had taken control of the property and their savings, being a lawyer she was just too astute to be outsmarted.

He took a packet of Gauloises out of his top pocket, leaned against a convenient lamppost and tapped the familiar blue packet until a cigarette presented itself. He flicked the lighter, puffed on the cigarette until the end was glowing and breathed in deeply, savouring the comfort it afforded him. He decided now was not the time to wallow in his own sorrows, so he thought logically about what he should do next.

He could phone one of his friends and ask for a bed for the night. His friends, however, were mostly their friends and he felt sure Michelle had already poisoned them against him. He could phone Peter his ex-partner in the police, but because he had left without giving him an explanation he felt awkward. He decided to walk into town and take a hotel room for the night until he could decide what he really wanted to do with the rest of his life.

• • •

The Mirabel guest house close to Brighton seafront was a little seedy, requiring major refurbishment and, if the waft of stale air that met him was any indication, also in need of a good airing. The stained board standing on the reception desk informed him that a single room would set him back £38.50 and boasted ‘tea-making facilities and en suite’ in all rooms. Rex decided he could probably tolerate the place for a couple of nights and rang the little silver bell on the end of the desk. No one rushed out to welcome him and he stood for several minutes trying to determine whether he could hear people talking or whether it was just the sound of a television in the room behind reception. He rang the bell for a second time, giving it several sharp jabs with the palm of his hand. This still didn’t produce a response and so Rex resorted to knocking loudly on the door from behind which he could hear voices. He stepped back as he heard the sound of a chair scraping on floorboards and imagined the occupant levering themselves to his or her feet.

The woman that appeared from behind the door could have stepped straight out of the Addams family. She was heavily made up, or rather make-up had been caked on a rather leathery-looking skin. Her blood red lipstick had bled into the wrinkles that encompassed her mouth giving her a rather macabre appearance. Her dyed black hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with a large comb which had not managed to tame a few wisps which hung down either side of her face. She must have been at least seventy, if not older, but the make-up made it hard to determine her exact age. She had a cigarette hanging from one side of her mouth, and as she spoke Rex could see the tissue-like paper had adhered itself to her lower lip. He desperately wanted to reach out and catch the long cylinder of ash that was about to drop to the floor.

Yeah? was the welcome he received.

Do you have a single room for the next two nights? he asked.

The woman said nothing, but turned the pages of a book lying on the desktop.

Yeah, she said again and reached behind her for one of the keys hanging on a set of brass hooks inside a small wooden cupboard. Room twenty-three, love. Money in advance.

He guessed she hadn’t been to a finishing school as her conversational skills were nil and he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small wad of notes. He counted out £75 and then fumbled around inside his jacket pocket for the other two. While he was doing this, the vision behind the desk was coughing her lungs up and showering cigarette ash all over the threadbare carpet.

Ta, she said. Breakfast is between eight and nine.

Without saying anything further, she turned her back on him and returned to her inner sanctum, no doubt to resume watching some seedy afternoon soap.

Rex picked up his case and started to climb the stairs. The carpet had seen better days and was so highly patterned you couldn’t really tell exactly how many years of dirt had collected in its now flattened pile. He found room twenty-three on the second floor and turned the key in the lock. He hadn’t really known what to expect, but the level of disrepair and overuse was apparent as he pulled back the dark red, rather dusty curtains. Thankfully, the bed appeared to be freshly made and looked clean, but the outer bedspread had a couple of burn holes and smelt distinctly of stale smoke. He peered into the en suite with caution. As he turned on the light, a fan sprung into life and, although there was mould in the corners where the tiles didn’t quite meet, the toilet was relatively clean and there was a bath and sink which would serve their purpose.

He put the plug in the bath and turned on the hot tap. To his surprise, after a couple of spurts, it offered him extremely hot water – if a little discoloured – which was sufficient to fill the bath three quarters full. He removed his clothes and climbed into the steamy water, cursing as it stung his skin. He hadn’t been too careful on his last day in Malta and had burnt his ankles while sitting outside a bar enjoying his last hours of relaxation. He rolled up the hand towel and put it behind his head and lay back. He allowed the water to relax him and wash away the memories of a day which had resulted in him learning that he was now single and ‘back on the market’. Still, at forty-four, he wasn’t exactly over the hill and he was still in good shape. His hair might have a few flecks of grey now but it was still thick, although definitely in need of a good cut. He put that at the top of his agenda of ‘jobs to do’.

As he lay in the comfort of the warm water, Rex thought about the boys and wondered what they were feeling about losing their father and he suddenly felt extremely hollow inside. He felt a mild chagrin at tearing the family apart, but that was all it was, a fleeting thought as he was well aware that his wife had done nothing to try and keep them together. He knew she would have seen his phobia as a weakness as she abhorred what she referred to as ‘wet’ men, which is why he had never admitted to her that he had a major problem.

Rex had always lived in Hove and, even after he married Michelle, they only moved three roads away from his parents into a respectable three-bedroomed, semi-detached, mock Tudor house close to the park. They had talked many times about moving away from the suburban estate, but somehow they had never got round to it. Once the children had started school, their careers took over and in their busy schedules they had forgotten about each other and how to communicate. The closest they got to any form of emotional interchange was a quick peck on the cheek at the breakfast table as one or other left to go to their respective place of work. Neither of them worked regular hours and the boys had virtually been raised by their grandparents; ships that passed in the night was an apt aphorism for the Salomans.

The water was getting cold and Rex pulled himself out of his reminiscing, reached for the white – or rather greying – towel hanging on the chrome towel rail and stepped out onto the black and white tiled floor. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the growling emitting from his stomach reminded him that it might be a good idea to go and find himself some sustenance. He put on a pair of jeans, a pale blue shirt and wrapped a darker blue sweatshirt around his shoulders and tied it loosely in front. He took a quick look in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. Not bad, old man, you brush up quite well, he said to his reflection. He tucked his room key in his trouser pocket and then headed back downstairs to find a restaurant.

He had eaten many times at the Tandoori Knight on Holland Street and the waiter greeted him warmly.

Welcome back, Mr Saloman, he said in his rhythmic Indian drawl.

Hello, Raj, long time no see, eh, Rex replied giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

Raj led him to his usual seat by the window, opened the menu in front of Rex and immediately went off to fetch him a beer.

Your usual, Mr Saloman? Raj said, placing the beer in front of him several minutes later.

Yes, why not, I haven’t had a curry for months.

Rex was used to eating on his own and always had the sense to bring a book with him so that he didn’t find himself staring at couples who were obviously more adept at keeping a relationship alive. Three pages into his new murder mystery and Raj returned with a sizzling Chicken Madras, pilau rice and a pashwari naan. Without being asked, he had brought Rex a second beer and smiled revealing a large gap in his front teeth.

Enjoy your curry, sir, he said politely and walked away to give his full attention to a couple of young women who had just walked in.

Raj directed the women to the table next to Rex. He lifted his eyes briefly as Raj went through the formalities of pulling out a chair for each woman before laying a crisp, white table napkin in their laps. The woman sitting opposite gave Rex a transitory smile, to which he simply nodded his head and resumed his reading. Using one hand to eat the curry, American style, he occupied the other with turning the pages of the book. He became totally oblivious to his immediate surroundings as the magnetic power of the words absorbed him.

He was just using the last piece of pashwari naan to mop up the remaining sauce on his plate when he couldn’t help but notice one of the women on the adjacent table was crying. Her friend was trying her hardest to assuage her grief, but it seemed the more she sympathised the louder the sobbing became. Rex endeavoured to ignore them, but curiosity was getting the better of him and he found he was straining his ears to hear what was being said.

I just know it … I just know it, she sobbed.

But how do you know? It could all be a figment of your imagination. Why don’t you confront him?

He’ll only lie, just like he always does.

At this juncture Rex lost all interest in the conversation, suddenly aware that it was another case of a relationship going up the swanny. He stopped earwigging and returned to his book, which was far more inviting and didn’t involve dysfunctional families.

Another five minutes passed uneventfully and Rex was just about to order a double espresso when the woman’s friend, the one with her back to him, stood up and walked over to his table. Without showing the slightest embarrassment, she pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. Rex suddenly became aware that his mouth was slightly open, revealing that this sort of thing didn’t happen to him on a regular basis, and he closed it abruptly in case she deemed him to be some kind of imbecile.

I’m sorry to bother you, but as you have probably noticed my friend is in a bit of a predicament, she said.

Rex feigned disinterest and hoped she would just return to her own table.

Please, I just need to pick your brains.

I don’t see how I can be of any help to you, he replied casually.

"I was just wondering if you know the name of any credible private detectives who aren’t just out to screw