Portrait of Guilt

By Anthony Hulse

Two policeman, Robert Warnock and Damon Wolfe are ousted from the force when they urinate against an Indian temple. Experiencing hardship, they devise a plot to kidnap the elderly wife of George Pope, a recent lottery winner. The criminals find themselves up against Indian vigilantes, a persistent private investigator, and the son of George, gangster Frank Pope. A desperate, botched kidnap attempt makes for compulsive reading. Another scintillating read from the author of Forever and Ever!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291920307

Book preview

Portrait of Guilt

Portrait of Guilt

Anthony Hulse

Copyright

Copyright@Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-92030-7

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Chapter One

The taxi pulled away after abandoning the cheerless passenger on the snow-covered drive of his home in Shepherd’s Bush, London. Robert Warnock noticed the twitch of the curtains and dreaded the imminent confrontation.

The door opened and his petite wife, Tara stared in astonishment at his appearance. Either side of her stood their daughters, four year old Meg, and six year old Sonia.

Daddy, Daddy, they shouted in unison, and galloped through the snowstorm, oblivious of the freezing temperatures.

The unsmiling father ushered his daughters inside, kissed his wife, and welcomed the comforting warmth.

Tara cradled her teacup, narrowed her feline-like eyes, and watched her husband remove his overcoat. You weren’t due back from India for another six days. Why didn’t you call me?

The tall man warmed his hands by the fire and stared into the mirror at his reflection. After eight years of marriage, Warnock retained his youthful looks. However, with his muscle-bound frame and short, brown hair, cropped military style, he was often mistaken for a criminal, rather than a lawman.

Still gazing at the mirror, he saw Tara move towards him. Warnock turned and embraced his wife. He kissed her on the top of her head and inhaled her expensive perfume. Looking into her eyes, he felt shame. The busman’s holiday to India should have he thought allowed him much needed solitude in which to ponder over his future. His immediate decision concerning Tara and the children could wait.

So? whispered Tara. Why aren’t you in India?

The evening newspaper dropped through the letterbox and Meg gleefully handed it to her mother.

No! yelled Warnock, snatching the newspaper from his wife’s grasp.

Tara stepped back, her short, spiked red hair glowing in the reflection of the light. Whatever is the matter with you, Robert? You frightened your daughters.

Warnock crouched down, opened his arms, and welcomed the cuddles from his young daughters. He opened his suitcase and produced two dolls. Do you like them?

The girls gratefully accepted their gifts. Oh, Daddy, they’re sweet.

Warnock rummaged around in his suitcase and handed over a small box to Tara.

She smiled on seeing the diamond earrings. Darling, she said, kissing him on the lips, They’re wonderful. They must have cost you a packet?

Warnock ignored the question. There’s something I have to tell you.

Tara’s ocean blue eyes watered. For some time now, she suspected her husband had grown less affectionate towards her. The temporary job exchange in Goa, perhaps would be one sexual temptation too many for him. She dreaded his admission, and now she stood before him, expecting the worst. Girls, go and play in the bedroom, she ordered.

He waited until they departed before he attempted a half smile. In Goa I shamed myself.

Tara’s bottom lip quivered. Go on.

Warnock‘s sad eyed looked towards the ceiling. Damon and me, we... Well, we urinated against a temple.  

Tara unconsciously giggled. I’m sorry. You did what?

We pissed against a bloody temple.

Tara laughed uncontrollably.

You think that’s funny? growled Warnock, as he picked up the newspaper. He browsed through the tabloid and handed it to his wife. Read it, he demanded, pointing to the offending article. Will you still be laughing when your mates and your lah de dah, mother reads this?

The expression on Tara’s face changed. She read the article out aloud. London police officers deported after urinating on the wall of a sacred shrine. Police constables, Robert Warnock, thirty-two, and Damon Wolfe, thirty-four, whilst on a busman’s holiday to Goa, India, shamed the London Metropolitan police force after they urinated on the wall of the Shree Ramnathi Temple.

Bloody newshounds, mumbled Warnock. 

Tara continued. The two men were arrested, fined ten thousand rupees each, and after much deliberation by the local authorities, they decided to send them home immediately. A spokesman from the Goa police department stated that the two police officers were intoxicated, and were very fortunate that their punishment was not a custodial one. Nobody from the Metropolitan Police Department is willing to comment at this moment in time.

Funny, isn’t it? snarled Warnock.

Tara slumped into the armchair. What will happen, Robert?

The troubled man rubbed the deep cleft on his chin. Who knows? We’re to report to the station tomorrow morning. Chances are, we’ll lose our jobs.

No. You’ve been a copper for ten years now. They cannot just...

Eleven, corrected Warnock.

Tara lit up a cigarette. They cannot fire you. I mean, what will you do?

Exactly, moaned Warnock. What can I do? Being a copper is all I know. I suppose I could get a job as a security guard, picking up the minimum wage.

Tara coughed. Surely it won’t come to that?

Warnock scowled. I thought you’d given them up?

I have. Well, almost... Perhaps you’ll get off with just a bollocking?

We’ll see.

Tara ground out her cigarette and sat on her husband’s knee. I suppose Damon led you on, did he?

No. Actually, it was the other way around. It was my idea to sample the local firewater, and where were we supposed to take a leak? We weren’t to know it was a frigging temple.

They jumped in unison with the sound of shattering glass. A house brick landed inches from where they sat. Warnock raced for the door and watched as a motorcycle sped away. Bastard! he screamed. Bastard!

He returned indoors and his startled wife handed him a note. This was attached to the brick.

Warnock eyed the gaping hole in the windowpane and then read the note. DIE RACIST SCUM.

Tara melted into her husband’s arms. Shall we call the police?

I am the... Oh, forget it. You go to bed and I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll call the glazier first thing in the morning.

******

A mixture of emotions displayed on the faces of his colleagues when Warnock arrived at Charing Cross Police Station. The occasional good luck message and the anonymous, sarcastic remark of Pee Cee, he ignored. After meandering his way through the half dozen or so reporters outside, he was in no mood for pleasantries or joviality.  

You’re to go straight in, said a pretty WPC, attempting to keep a straight face.

Warnock rapped on the door and heard the bark of, Enter.

He avoided eye contact with Damon Wolfe, who sat at the desk; immaculately dressed in a customary smart suit, and not a blonde hair of his head out of place. Wolfe is one of those pathetic, irritating creatures that worship hygiene. He would ensure that every item on a table was in perfect symmetry, unlike his crooked teeth. Warnock often wondered how the wiry, bespectacled man had pulled his stunner of a wife. It certainly had nothing to do with what he had in the trouser department, judging from their encounters in the shower room.  

Sit down, PC Warnock, insisted Superintendent Fishpool.

Warnock focused on the man seated to the right of Fishpool, DCI Javid Singh. Any prospects he had of escaping with a rap on the knuckles were quickly diminished. Warnock classed himself as anti racist, as did Wolfe. Circumstances, owing to the vast consumption of feni, the local favourite, ordained their foolish actions. 

To say I’m astounded that you two chose to disgrace your department is an understatement, began Superintendent Fishpool. You were ambassadors for the entire London Met and failed miserably with your disgusting, infantile behaviour. I’ve read your statements, and that you were drunk by no way excuses you of your crimes.

They were hardly crimes, sir, moaned Warnock.

DCI Singh joined in. No? You dishonoured the Hindu population of India, and brought shame on this country by your shameful acts of racism.

Racism? queried Warnock. This had nothing to do..."

Look at the papers, man! yelled DCI Singh, who tossed the pile of newspapers onto the table. The press are now suggesting we’ve a racist problem within our force. Not only that, we’ve had numerous complaints from the Asian community; Muslims, Buddhists, and Sikhs. They’re all baying for your blood.  

Couldn’t we make a public apology, sir? suggested Wolfe, as he touched up a biro that had unceremoniously moved out of line.

Superintendent Fishpool shook his head. I’m afraid this incident is now too deeply imbedded in the minds of the public for them to accept an apology. They’re demanding your heads, and my hands are tied. I’ve little choice but to terminate your employment with the London Met.

Why isn’t our union representative here? quizzed Warnock. The officers ignored the question. Warnock detected a hint of a smile on the face of DCI Singh. Of course, we’ll appeal.

It’ll do you no good, gloated DCI Singh. There can be no other solution, you must understand.

Warnock fought back the temptation to slate the detective. He rose from his seat and left the room without saying another word.

Wolfe bounded along the corridor after his friend. We’ve been stitched up, Rob.

Your assumption is correct, Einstein. Thanks for the verbal back up.

It doesn’t matter what we said in there, groaned Wolfe. Our destiny was decided beforehand... Shit, what will I tell Gemma?

I presume you told her what happened out there?

Of course.

Then I’m sure she half expected this.

The pair, rather than confront their colleagues, barged through a fire exit. They jogged to the car park at the front of the building, and the sight that befell them halted their progress. A large crowd of angry banner-waving protestors had merged with the reporters. Judging by the tones of their chants, termination of employment would be inadequate punishment for their crime.

Warnock and Wolfe concealed themselves at the corner of the building. Holy mother, exclaimed Wolfe. They’ll lynch us before we reach our cars.

Warnock walked towards the open fire exit and entered the building. Seconds later, he reappeared, wearing a flat cap and pushing a wheelchair.

Wolfe appeared curious. Where did you get that?

You don’t want to know... Well, what are you waiting for? Jump in.

Wolfe hesitated, listening to the hostile chants. I don’t know.

Get in the fucking wheelchair, Wolfie.

The bespectacled man reluctantly obeyed, and covered his legs with a blanket. Warnock pulled down his cap, before they proceeded on their perilous journey. Slowly, he pushed the wheelchair towards the car park, ignoring the raging mob to his right. He could barely contain himself with the sight of Wolfe, his face contorted and his tongue hanging loosely from his mouth. His body twisted and his arms hung crookedly in front of him.

The crowd ignored the cripple and his companion and continued to vent their anger towards the police station. After reaching their cars, the pair checked to ensure they were still ignored, before they aborted their ruse.

I’ll see you tonight in the Crown and Sceptre, said Warnock.

They drove away and checked their mirrors to confirm they were safe, each of them contemplating what the future held for them. 

Chapter Two

Saturday evening in the Crofton Albion Social Club, South East London, and the domino school paused with George Pope’s untimely foray to the bar. The sixty-nine year old man with wispy hair as white as snow walked with the aid of a stout walking stick. His handlebar moustache and stiff upper lip attitude earned him the nickname of Colonel.

The usual, George? asked the barmaid.

Aye, lass, only a full measure this time, eh?

The barmaid pulled out her tongue and ignored the slanderous undertones of the pensioner. George rarely smiled, never had a kind word for anyone, his reputation for meanness intact. He counted out his coppers, a ritual that the tolerant bar staff were now accustomed to.   

One pound and ninety-two pence, he groaned, and pushed the pile of change towards the barmaid.

I suppose it’s all here? sighed the barmaid.

You know it is, Jean. Bloody extortion I say. Ought to be reductions for senior citizens.

Yeah, yeah, sang Jean. She had heard it all so many times.

George limped back towards his chums and they ignored him, their attention now devoted to the television. The group of men clutched their lottery tickets, waiting in anticipation for the draw.

George foraged in the inside pocket of his blazer for his solitary ticket and placed it on the table in front of him. He put on his spectacles, the frame delicately held together with a band of tape.

Pushed the boat out there, haven’t you, George? joked one of the party, teasingly fanning his bunch of tickets in his friend’s face.

It only takes one ticket to win, Albert, growled George.

The dominoes were forgotten for now as the draw commenced. One by one, the numbers appeared on the TV screen, and the room fell silent.

Twenty-seven… three… forty-eight.

Bollocks, moaned Albert, scratching his bald head.

George remained silent, his face flushed and his heartbeat accelerating.

Ten… thirty-two.

George remained speechless, and beads of perspiration covered his leathery forehead.

Eight, declared the television presenter.

Fuck me, muttered George. His hands trembled and his fingers greedily clutched his lottery ticket.

"And your bonus ball is number..."

Forty-one, forty-one, forty-one, recited George.

Forty-one, echoed the presenter.

All eyes were now on George. The mouths of the witnesses were agape, their stares tinged with jealousy.

I-I-I’ve won! I’ve bleeding well won!

Albert attempted to pry the ticket from his friend’s grasp. Stop pissing about, George; it’s not funny.

George manufactured a rare smile, his pristine dentures displayed proudly. He held up his ticket teasingly and laughed when his mates rechecked the numbers.  

He’s bloody done it, came the cry from one.

Lucky bugger, George, said another.

Couldn’t have happened to a nicer chap. 

Albert patted his friend on the back. You’re a bloody millionaire, George, 

George puffed nervously on his pipe. Let’s not be so rash. There could be hundreds of shares.

Albert grasped his friend’s knee. George, it’s a rollover. Lady luck has smiled on you this evening, so how about doing something you’ve never ever done before. Share a little of your windfall with your friends.

Within seconds, a crowd gathered around the fortunate man.

George frowned, unable to comprehend what his pal hinted at. Like flies around shit, he muttered.

Albert shook his head. Get the round in, Colonel. Get the round in.

The jubilant pensioner struggled to his feet and swallowed a mouthful of bitter. He turned to the barmaid and bellowed, Jean, a drink for my friends... No, in fact… a drink for every person in this bar.

The revellers rose as one and applauded the fortunate man.

Yes Jean, half a pint for every person in here. 

******

When the quartet entered the smoky premises of the Crown and Sceptre public house, they immediately attracted the attention of the locals. Some of them waved and offered words of encouragement; others glared at them in a hostile manner.

The typical Victorian pub had since lost its identity, newly refurbished and now catering for the modern yuppies and hoodies alike. The evidence of the karaoke proved this.   

Warnock turned to Wolfe, Tara, and Gemma. You go and find some seats. I’ll get these in.

Warnock noticed that three Pakistani lads stared at him and whispered amongst themselves. He knew them as regulars, and often used to share banter with them. The one wearing the Queens Park Rangers football shirt walked directly towards him. Yo, Rob. How’s it going, man?   

Warnock reddened. It could be better. Listen, Mo, we’re not racist. What we did over there was...

Hilarious, man. We pissed ourselves when we read about it, if you’ll excuse the pun.... Listen, we know you and Wolfie over there are mint. I have to warn you though; a lot of our community is upset.

What are you drinking, Mo?

Another time maybe. We’re off to the flicks. Have a good one, eh?

Warnock waited impatiently at the bar and laughed out loud with the appearance of one of the bar staff, who faced him, his head covered with a Ku Klux Klan hood.

Very funny, Carl.

The barman removed the hood. How did you know it was me?

An educated guess... Two pints of London Pride and two halves of Carling, mate.

The redheaded barman assumed a more serious approach. You two have had some bad shit, eh?

Tell me about it. I don’t suppose you know of any jobs going?

Sorry, mate. Besides, I wouldn’t have thought bartending was your thing.

I’m desperate. Anyway, if you do hear of anything.

No problem. Carl moved on to the next customer and Warnock delivered the drinks to his table. The trio giggled like amused schoolchildren.

What? enquired Warnock.

Tara motioned with her eyes towards an elderly drunken Scotsman, who, accompanied by the awful, tuneless version of Come on Eileen, performed ‘Ronaldo’ step overs with a barstool. Warnock joined in the laughter when the man fell over his stool, collapsed onto a table laden with drinks, and soaked the protesting revellers.

Wolfe noticed the trembling hands of his wife as she lit a cigarette. Are you okay? asked the concerned husband.

The pretty, blonde woman still managed to radiate beauty, even in times of distress. Okay? Oh yes, I’m just fucking delirious.

Warnock looked towards Wolfe.

The bastards have painted slogans on our house.

You too? quizzed Tara. How did they find out where we lived?

A bearded man who proceeded to hand them the weekly quiz papers, interrupted them. Double prize this week, folks. Sixteen pints for the winners and fifty sovs if you answer the jackpot question.

Wolfe paid the four pounds entry fee and the quizmaster moved on to the next table.

We can’t live here anymore, moaned Gemma. 

Tara reached for her friend’s cigarette packet and helped herself. I agree. We have to think of the children, Robert.

The children? enquired Warnock. Is there something you want to tell me?

Tara took a long draw on her cigarette. I’m not sending them back to that nursery.

Come again?

Even their friends are taunting them.

Warnock took a liberal swallow of his beer. Oh, come on, don’t you think you’re exaggerating things a little? They’re too young to understand racism.

You’ll be surprised, added Wolfe.

Warnock glared at his friend. And what would you know about children?

Gemma left the bickering trio and headed towards the door.

What’s her problem? asked Warnock.

Tara shook her head and grimaced at her husband. As fucking subtle as usual, Robert.

What?

Wolfe removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Tara can’t have children.

Shit. Why didn’t someone tell me earlier? I’ll be back in a minute.

Warnock left the premises and joined Gemma, who appeared visibly distraught. He looked around before he kissed her on the lips.

Don’t, Rob. Just don’t.

Damon just told me you’re unable to have children. Is this true?

Gemma put up her hands and sobbed. No, it isn’t true; that’s just it.

Warnock looked bemused. I don’t follow.

This is such a fucking mess... I-I-I’m pregnant, Robert.

Pregnant? But, how? Warnock realised the absurdity of his question.

Gemma looked up at him, and her ice blue eyes sparkled like diamonds, even in her moment of distress. It’s yours, Rob. The baby’s yours.

But, Wolfie told me that...

I cannot have children? I thought so too, but obviously the problem lies with him.

And Damon doesn’t know?

No, of course not.

Warnock looked to the darkening sky, his icy breath visible. Are you sure it’s mine?

Gemma eyed her lover in disgust. Of course I’m bloody sure.

The troubled man’s concern was not only for Gemma, but also for Tara, and his betrayed friend, Damon. The affair began two years ago, and they both battled arduously with their consciences, knowing that to reveal their secret would destroy two people who they loved greatly.

What a mess is an understatement. How far are you?

Three months.

Her slender figure did not betray her maternal condition. So, now what?

Warnock kissed her on the head. Now is not the time to tell them. In time, we...

Are you two coming in? It’s bloody freezing out here and the quiz is about to start, interrupted Wolfe.

Gemma approached her husband and embraced him. Let’s go. I just needed the fresh air.

The drinks flowed generously, and the girls seemed more affected by the alcohol than their spouses did. The quiz ended, and once more, the table of teachers proved victorious.

A barmaid stepped onto a stool and adjusted the volume to the television.

George Pope, a sixty-nine year old man from Lewisham in South London, this morning woke up a multi millionaire. He is the sole winner of the national lottery, and is now 6.5 million pounds richer.     

Jammy old bastard, mumbled Wolfe.

Shhh!

The cameras focused on the lucky winner and his wife outside their modest home. 

"George, a retired railway worker won his fortune by purchasing just one ticket. When asked about their plans for the future, his wife Doris suggested that a nice holiday in Blackpool would be nice... Good luck to them... And today’s other headlines..."

Some people have all the luck, moaned Warnock.

Tara frowned. Surely, you don‘t begrudge them winning?

Six and a half million. What are those two old codgers going to do with that?

Carl the barman approached their table, his usual jovial expression absent. Rob, you’d better go home. Your babysitter has just phoned to say your windows have been put in.

Bollocks, spluttered Warnock. When will this nightmare end?

Little did he know that their troubles were just beginning. 

Chapter Three

Sitting up in bed, George Pope peered over his newspaper at his wife, Doris, who carried a tray laden with foodstuff. She placed it on the bedside table and kissed her husband on the cheek.

And what is this? growled George.

"It’s called breakfast in bed, dear. The very best kippers from Tesco. Just how you like them, luv."

George eyed his wife suspiciously, and with his index finger, he prodded a kipper. You haven’t prepared me kippers for years.

The grinning old woman with the smiling eyes snuggled up to him in the bed, her curlers removed and her ill-fitting dentures in place. Her petite turned up nose and the bone structure of her aging face had attracted many a lustful Romeo in her time. Well, this is a special occasion, George. It‘s okay. I haven’t poisoned them.

Have you asked young Jonesy for a lift?

"George, you tightwad. I’ve ordered a limousine to take us to Claridges for the presentation."

George clutched at his chest, his face ruby red. What! You did what?

Relax, luv, I’m jesting. Camelot are supplying the bleeding limousine free of charge. Harry and Thelma will be here sometime this afternoon, and I thought we’d put them up in the spare room.

George sampled a mouthful of his kipper and frowned. What do they want? Let me guess. I don’t see my brother and sister for five years, and now all of the sudden I’m Mr popular. Nothing to do with my good fortune of course.

Please, begged Doris. They’re your flesh and blood.

And I suppose their kids will be coming, will they?

"They’re hardly bleeding kids, George. David is thirty-seven and June is forty this year. Anyway, I’ve booked them a room in Claridges and told them you were paying."

You what?

Oh, you old skinflint. Six and a half million pounds, George. Hasn’t it sunk in yet…? Betty will also be staying in the hotel.

Ah! Now why would your sister want to travel to London? That woman inherited a fortune and I didn’t recall her offering to line our pockets.

It was hardly a fortune. You be nice to Betty, just for a change.

The miserly man gazed at his wife through bloodshot eyes. Why couldn’t we have just remained anonymous? You had to boast about our win, didn’t you?

George pointed to the mound of letters lying at the foot of his bed. Bloody scroungers. I haven’t received a penny yet, and the vultures are begging for money. Well, they’ve wasted the cost of a postage stamp.

Doris sipped a mouthful of tea and reached for one of the letters on her dressing table. "This young man. His wife has ran off with the bleeding butcher, and he’s left to bring up his five-year old disabled daughter on his dole money. He’s