Tunnel Vision: A Rock Ghost Story. A 'DS Tamara Sullivan Short'. ('Sullivan and Broderick Murder Investigations Book 3) Read online

  Tunnel Vision

  Robert Daws

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  This paperback edition 2016

  Copyright © Robert Daws 2016

  Robert Daws has asserted his right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Author’s representative

  Paul Stevens at ITG

  40 Whitfield Street, London W1T 2RH

  Tunnel Vision

  ‘In a moment of rage with the world, she left it. Just as I, in a moment of despair, had almost done the same.’

  My name is Tamara Sullivan. I am a detective sergeant serving with the Royal Gibraltar Police Force. This is a personal testimony of events that took place on the 15th and 16th September 2016 in the British Overseas Territory of Gibraltar. This is an unofficial record, undertaken in the interests of it being important at some future date.

  ***

  On the evening of the 15th September at 10.30pm, I left the RGP Headquarters on New Mole Parade. I was heading to a colleague’s apartment on the east side of the Rock at Catalan Bay, having agreed to house-sit her dog for a week whilst she was away in Italy. Taking my motorbike, I headed up Centre Pavilion Rd. This route would lead up to Europa Rd, from which I would ride south to Europa Point. At the Point, the road turns northwards towards the Dudley Ward Tunnel and the eastern coast road to Catalan Bay. It was a clear night with next to no traffic on the roads. I had chosen this route to avoid the busier northern streets of Gibraltar Town and the approaches to the airport and the Spanish Border. It had been a long day and I was looking forward to getting to the apartment and cooking a little late supper. I mention this to point out that although tired, I was alert and able. Passing the Mosque of the Two Holy Custodians and the flashing lights of the Trinity Lighthouse, I proceeded along the Europa Advance Rd toward the tunnel that would take me beneath the Rock and bring me out on its eastern flank. The moon was almost full and the sky cloudless, allowing a perfect view of the sea and the many large container ships heading eastward and westward along the Straits. It was only the third time I had taken the route and I marveled at the clarity of the scene and the joy of a clear open road. If someone had told me a few months back that one day this would be my journey home from work and that I would be living a different life – as a police officer on secondment with a Mediterranean police force and living – for one week at least – in a beachside apartment with a balcony overlooking the sea – I’d have told them to get real. I still consider the rapid transfer of my life in London to that of Gibraltar to be an amazing feat. That I took to the change still catches me by surprise. I’m a person who has always disliked change. I have always valued order. I had so little of it when I was growing up. The need to be a part of something ordered, something constant, is one reason I became a police officer. I might as easily have become a nun, but not believing in God made that choice a non-starter. That lack of divine belief made me consider, at an early age, what it was I believed. My unexpected answer was…a belief in justice. Watching too many Cagney and Lacey repeats on TV led the way, but my ‘Road to Damascus’ moment came with Prime Suspect. Helen Mirren as DI Tennyson? I wanted to be her. End of. Instead, I was a teenager, with a mother as cold as ice and a wonderful father who lived in another country. I had no friends. I was clever but hated school and I hated life. So what was there not to like about becoming a police officer? From the age of fifteen, that’s all I would ever want to be. And I was right. From my first days in the London Met, I realized that I loved the job. In particular, I loved nailing the bad guys. ‘Nailing the fuckers’, as my fellow male officers used to say – with other colourful expletives – was what made them love their jobs. I am a police officer and I love my work. I believe it’s an important job.

  I can also tell you I believe that I am a sensible, rational human being. I believe that I have a logical and methodical approach to understanding the truth of what I see and what surrounds me. That an honest accumulation of facts can lead to a knowledge and understanding that answers most of the questions posed by life. Patience is required. Life is a puzzle not solved in haste. It needs careful consideration and the wisdom only experience can achieve. But what if you find your beliefs challenged? What if you are forced to consider a proposition that doesn’t sit with your cozy paradigm? A happening that so forces your thinking out of the box, it feels like madness? What if that proposition scares you half to death? This has happened to me.

  That is my belief.

  As I rode into the Dudley Ward Tunnel that night, all was well. The road continued to be free of traffic and the light from the neon strip suspended from the ceiling lit the half kilometre stretch of the subterranean passageway. Ignoring the 25 km speed restriction, I allowed my Kawasaki a little extra speed. A sign announcing the possibility of ‘Falling Rocks’ does not encourage travelers to dally. Unlike many other tunnels, there is little man-made finish to the walls and ceiling of the Dudley Ward. The rugged limestone rock engulfs you as you travel through, its rough natural elegance standing defiantly in the face of human manipulation. There is no attempt to make it look anything other than it is; bare rocks and a highway enjoying borrowed time from nature.

  Within seconds of entering the tunnel, I saw her. A young woman, standing in the middle of the right-hand lane, two hundred metres ahead of me. She was not moving, just standing and staring at my fast approach. What was she doing there? I estimated that she was at the mid-point of the tunnel. There was no car or other forms of transport near her. Had she walked into the tunnel? What was she thinking? A police officer’s reactions are attuned to the possibilities of danger and an instinctive appraisal of a situation takes seconds. I knew what I needed to do. Assess the girl’s state of mind and remove her from imminent danger. I switched on my motorbike’s flashing emergency lights, to warn any possible approaching vehicles, squeezed the brakes and drew to a halt three metres in front of her.

  She was, I estimated, in her late teens. Tall, with light brown hair and an open, pretty face. She wore a light knee length summer dress and sandals but appeared to have no jacket or bag with her. She was in some distress. Frozen to the spot as if in shock, her wide eyes staring past me towards the road beyond. She was oblivious to my presence, her troubled mind focused elsewhere. She had been crying and her obvious vulnerability touched me. My first thoughts were that she was on drugs and that I should approach her with care. I dismounted from my bike and removed my crash helmet – she would need to see my face and know I wasn’t a threat. As I lifted the helmet off my head, I lost sight of her for a moment. Two seconds, no more. When I looked back to where she was standing, she had gone.

  I must record I have never experienced, ever, the emotions I felt following this event. I am an experienced police officer. I have seen murder scenes, dead, sometimes mutilated bodies discovered in horrific circumstances. I have been in terrible, life-threatening situations and seconds from death. I have known and seen fear. Understood the shocking effects it can have on the human mind and body. But I have never felt as terrified as I did that night.

  My first reaction was to fight and not take flight. With my heart pounding through my chest, I attempted to breathe deeply. The sickly fear in my stomach would
take a time to dissolve. I ignored it. My mind racing, I crossed the pot-hole filled tarmac that had separated me from the girl. The neon lights above provided a clear view of the tunnel and its surrounding walls. Several metres away I could see an old iron door embedded in the limestone rock. There was no way that the girl could have vanished through that exit. It was too far away. Examining both sides of the tunnel in the immediate vicinity, it was clear they offered no hiding place, no escape from view. It was just rock and occasional sections of surface breeze-block. There were no gaps, no further exits, no hideaways. Returning to the spot where I had last seen the girl, the fear grabbed me. It was a sensation that began in my legs and then worked up my entire body. A cold shiver, like a current of electricity passing over my skin, making my breath irregular and causing my cheeks to flush. I was scared. Frightened on a level I had never experienced. I knew I had to keep my head. Without rush, I reached into my pocket for my mobile phone. The police officer in me knew I had to report what had just occurred. Besides which, I needed help. As I punched in the number for Police HQ, I worried how I might explain what had just happened. What could I say? That I had seen a girl who vanished before my eyes? That I came across a young woman in need of help one minute and then gone the next? What would the desk sergeant have to say about that? What could anyone say about it? My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sergeant Alderino answering my call. His voice calm and reassuring. For that, I was grateful beyond words.

  And then it happened. My phone flew from my hand. Traveling at tremendous speed, it hurtled through the air and smashed against the nearside wall of the tunnel. Hitting the rock, it fell, splintered and useless to the ground.

  I stood frozen to the spot. This was different. Anything capable of exerting that amount of force was more than capable of causing me physical harm. I was in danger, but I had to keep calm. Gathering myself, I made a decision. I had to get out of the tunnel. Forcing my legs to move, I walked towards my broken phone lying at the side of the road. Reaching down, I picked it up and placed it in my pocket. Turning back to the road, I moved at a steady pace towards my motorbike, my eyes focused ahead. My crash helmet was on the seat of the bike and so I picked it up and replaced it on my head. As I did so, I noticed that my hands were shaking. It felt as though the temperature had dropped to zero although I knew my shaking hands had nothing to do with the cold. Climbing onto my bike, I reached for the ignition and turned the key. The engine leaped into life, its growl echoing off the walls of the tunnel. At last, I allowed myself to look at the road ahead. It was clear. I moved off to the left and onto the opposite lane, avoiding the spot where the girl had stood. It seems strange to think I did this, but I did. Pressing my foot on the gas, I pulled away.

  Although freezing, I could feel the perspiration rolling down my face beneath the crash helmet. Moving faster, I fixed my eyes on the dark at the end of the lighted tunnel. I was getting away, escaping the happenings of the last few minutes. My only thought was to get out of the tunnel and get to Catalan Bay. Once there, I would take stock and decide my next course of action. Within seconds I was at the southern exit of the Dudley Ward, my speed breaking the limit by more than double. Thrusting from the entrance and into the warm night air, my headlight’s beam flashed across the rising face of the Rock. Steering my bike to follow the slight bend in the road, my lights focused once again on the highway ahead. A frenzy of fear, questions, and a growing anger filled my thoughts. What the hell had just happened?

  Then I felt the hands around my waist.

  The shock made me swerve, almost crashing into the barrier that separated the road from the sea. Somehow, I regained control of the bike and sped onwards. For a moment I thought it was just a delayed reaction to shock. Then it encompassed me once again. Hugging me. Squeezing the breath from under my ribs. Looking into my side mirror I could see that nothing was behind me. But something was. I could feel its arms tightening around me. Cold breath on my neck.I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I rode on, speeding up to the point of danger. Could I shake it? Wipe it out? On my right, the whitewashed beachside residences of Sandy Bay passed in a blur. I had to keep going. I knew if I stopped out there on the open road, something would happen. What that might be, I didn’t know, but instinct and recent experience told me it wouldn’t be good. Minutes later I rode into Catalan Bay. Almost at once the pressure around my waist vanished. Had it gone? Taking nothing for granted, I came off the main road and continued down a side street and into the residential centre of the Bay. I decided not to go to the apartment, instead, I continued until the Catholic Church of Our Lady of Sorrows came into view and braking hard, I came to a halt beside it.

  The priest was younger than I had expected. My age. Maybe younger. It was late and the church was closed, so I’d gone to a side door and knocked several times before he’d answered. I told him I needed help. He asked no questions, just gestured for me to enter and follow him. Moments later we entered a small chapel. There were candles, a cross, a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary and coloured glass. It was beautiful. It felt safe. I sat and the priest offered me a glass of water, which I drank in seconds. His name, he told me, was Father Lagomarsino. I gave him my name and then told him why I had come. He listened in silence as I explained what had happened in the tunnel and out along the coast road. When I had finished, he nodded and asked me to pray with him. The young man had taken it for granted that I was a Catholic and I was happy for him to believe I was. My upbringing had been Catholic – my Irish-born father insisting – but my faith, for what it was, had not survived adolescence. Yet something must have remained with me. I had, after all, chosen to seek refuge in a church and not a police station. After the prayer, I apologized to the priest. He said there was no need, it was part of his job. I informed him I was a police officer and not given to running to churches for comfort. He replied that this sort of thing happened to many people, from all walks of life and more often than one might imagine. I felt better hearing that, thanked him and said I was ready to return to the apartment nearby. He stood and told me he would escort me home. I said it would not be necessary, but he took no notice and I didn’t discourage him further. I took no pride in this. I hated my reaction and my obvious need for support. It crossed my mind that if my fellow officers ever heard about the incident and my feeble response to it, they would have a field day. And I wouldn’t blame them.

  The apartment was a five-minute walk from the church, so I left my motorcycle parked where it was. Without conversation, Father Lagomarsino accompanied me to the door of the three-storey apartment building in which I was staying. Once there, he offered me a small silver chain with a cross on it.

  ‘You do not seem to possess one,’ he said. ‘It may provide comfort.’

  I told him it would not be necessary. That I felt much better.

  ‘All the same,’ he replied. ‘What harm can it do?’

  And so I took it.

  ‘All will be well. You’ll sleep tonight,’ he continued. ‘Come see me tomorrow.’

  I thanked him and he left.

  As I opened the door to the top-floor apartment, Banjo greeted me. The eight-year-old Bijon Frise was excited to see me. Lifting her up, I carried her through to the sitting room and stood for a moment looking out across the balcony towards the sea lapping against the shoreline. It was a comfort to have the little dog in my arms. Something told me that if anything threatening visited during the night, the little dog would at least warn me of its presence.

  I slept with the hall light on and Banjo beside me on the bed. For at least an hour, before unconsciousness claimed me, I lay gazing at the ceiling, my mind racing. What had happened? Had I seen a ghost? Had I been in danger? How had I allowed myself to react in the manner I had? Was I truly wearing a silver cross around my neck? It was the girl’s face that kept coming back. Her eyes. That sadness. Something about her look was familiar. Particular. It made me shudder.

  I slept, only to wake hours later. I had not been dreaming,
but my mind was soon flooded by memories.

  I’m on a bridge above a motorway. Below me, I watch the traffic speeding by. It’s a place I know well but haven’t seen for years. A place of refuge. Watching the road and the world fly by. People going elsewhere. North and south. Away from where I am. It’s afternoon and the sun is baking hot. The smell of car exhaust rising from below. I’m used to it. I almost like it. I’m seventeen and I’m alone. Something has happened that day. That morning. Something horrible. I can’t bear to think of it. It’s my fault. I am to blame and I loathe myself. I wait and wait until finally, I have to go. I push myself up on the rails and climb over to the other side. Facing outward, my hands clenching the rail behind me, I look down at the oncoming cars and lorries, their speed increasing as they near. And still, I wait. I don’t know why. I don’t want to stay. I need to go. To finish it. And then a voice. Distant but persistent. Not loud. Not urgent. Just there. I’m awake now. I look down and my head swims. Breathing quickly I look up and try to balance. Still the voice. I turn and see him. The policeman. Not too close. Not too far away. Just near enough. His voice…encouraging me…gently…to stay. And so slowly, very slowly…I choose to stay.

  Remembering and half remembering, I fell back into a deep dreamless sleep.

  ***

  Seven hours later I was back at my desk at Police HQ. I wasn’t due at work till the afternoon, but I had a lot on my mind. On waking, I realized the events of the night had to be explained in a logical manner. A sense of shame propelled me to investigate. I even took my temperature, hoping an approaching virus might be blamed. The thermometer’s reading told me that such hope was in vain. Had I eaten something or taken something that might have led to the vision and experience of the previous night? I had not. Putting to one side a possible psychiatric origin to the happenings, I focused on the physical facts.