by Robert Daws
Calling in a favour from a police colleague, I obtained the previous night’s CCTV footage from the Dudley Ward Tunnel. Surprised by the growing anxiety I felt at what it might reveal, I fast forwarded to my arrival at the tunnel and watched the grainy images appear on my terminal screen. The CCTV camera within the tunnel was several metres along from where I had stopped my motorbike. I knew it would affect the possibility of greater enhancement of images. Watching, I saw myself on the bike slow down and come to a halt in the middle of the tunnel in front of the young woman. The problem I now had, was that the film revealed that the young woman was not standing there. The pale-faced girl that had stopped me in my tracks was nowhere in sight. Apart from myself, the tunnel was empty. The shock of this made my pulse race. As I continued to watch the unfolding sequence, I felt the same sensations that had overcome me the night before. There I was, in the tunnel, dismounting from my bike and taking off my crash helmet. Then I saw the moment, seconds later, when I realized that the girl had vanished. My body language from the footage was that of a person shocked. I looked around and then I took a few paces forward. The next moment, the film showed me reaching for my pocket and taking out my mobile phone. With frustration, I noticed that my back was to the camera and that the mobile phone in my hand was out of sight. Then it happened. Almost too quickly to observe, the phone flew through the air and hit the wall of the tunnel on the opposite side. What was not clear from the CCTV, was whether I had thrown the mobile phone myself. The angle and distance of the camera placement in the tunnel, plus my turned back, prevented the act from being visible. What followed next was crystal clear. As I remembered, I walked over to retrieve the phone and placed it back into my pocket. Returning to the motorbike, I replaced the crash helmet on my head and mounted the machine. Starting the engine, I edged over to the opposite lane and then speeding up, pulled away from the scene and motored out from the tunnel. At no point in the footage did another human image appear. If it had been a ghost, then I was the only person to have seen it.
With no physical evidence or images to support my story, I gathered that any ideas I might have of presenting my experiences to fellow police officers were unwise at best and professional suicide at worst. But I couldn’t just let it go. Heading across to the records office, I asked the woman police clerk if she could bring up files on anything regarding the Dudley Ward Tunnel. The chocolate cupcake I had stopped off to buy at the police canteen was well received by the clerk, who asked for half an hour to check out what was available. Upon my return, she presented me with several case documents. Sitting at a computer terminal in a corner of the office, I looked through them. The largest file appertaining to the tragic death of a local man as the result of a rock fall. There were several other reports about the subsequent closure of the tunnel and a few more regarding careless driving in and around the area. Only one file stood out as different from the rest. Dated September 1987, it described an accident in the tunnel that had killed a young woman. A truck driving through the tunnel from the southern entrance had hit a girl after she had walked out from the side of the highway. The driver reported that she had appeared in the middle of the lane at the last minute and looked up at him. With no time to avoid hitting her, the girl was struck at speed and died on impact. There had been no way to avoid hitting her, the driver had stated, telling the police and later the coroner’s court, that it seemed as though the girl had done it on purpose. That she had wanted to die. With no CCTV available the police investigation had little alternative but to concur with the driver’s statement. The coroner’s report concluded death by misadventure, most likely due to an act of suicide.
‘You look a little pale,’ the clerk observed.
Taking no notice, I continued reading the file. The young woman was never referred to by name. The reason for this was finally explained on the last page. Injuries to her head had damaged her skull so severely that any facial identification had been impossible. The Royal Gibraltar Police put out a public appeal, describing the girl's probable age, hair colour and the clothes she was wearing. Only one response was received. A German tourist reported seeing a young woman getting off the back of a motorcycle at Europa Point an hour before the accident in the tunnel. A young man had driven the motorcycle and he and the girl were having a heated argument. After a few minutes the man rode off and the girl sat on a bench and cried. Minutes later the motorcyclist returned, the girl remounted the back of the bike and they drove off towards the Dudley Ward Tunnel. The police concluded that the couple may have continued to argue, resulting in her dismounting from the bike once more. Finding herself on foot, the girl continued northwards and entered the tunnel. This information helped explain how the girl may have got to the scene of the accident, but it did not identify whom she was. The motorcyclist remained untracked and all subsequent inquiries and appeals for help in identifying the dead girl had come to nothing. Nobody knew who she was or from where she had come. Missing females of approximately the same age were checked, both on the Rock and across the border in Spain. Dental records were crosschecked with several potential candidates over the following years, but none matched. The coroner later gave permission for burial, thus depriving the case of future forensic discoveries. The dead girl’s death, though still deemed to be an open case, had in reality been filed and forgotten. Jane Doe.
Leaving the office, I walked out into the shaded central courtyard of Police HQ and sat on a bench. The sun was now high in the sky and the heat stifling even in the shade. Not that I noticed. My mind was on the face of the young woman I had seen in the tunnel. Was it possible I had seen the ghost of Jane Doe? Was she the suicide victim from 1987? Despite the heat, a shiver ran down my spine.
An idea came. Calling into the canteen once again, I bought another cupcake – strawberry this time – and headed back to my new friend in records.
Handing the confectionary to the surprised clerk, I asked her if she could tell me when the last crosscheck inquiry had been conducted. She told me it was in the May of 1992, five years after the young woman’s death.
‘Are you cold-casing this?’ she asked.
‘So after 1992…’ I continued, avoiding her question, ‘…all crosschecks with incoming missing persons notifications ceased?’
‘I guess. Five years is a long time. With not much to identify her with in the first place, I presume resources were directed elsewhere.’
‘I presume you keep records of all missing person notifications?’
‘But of course. Interpol. London Met. Spanish. German. Dutch. Finnish. You name it. They all end up here. I can send them over to you. You can peruse them in the comfort of your own desk. Any years you want to see in particular?’
‘Yes, please. 1987 to the present day should do it.’
***
Although filtered to comprise – ‘Caucasian. Young female.’ – the number of missing person files was large. Where do all these people go?
Starting with the first missing person's notification, I began the task. Part of me recognized my search was futile, but an instinct prompted me to continue. As the clerk had informed me, the notifications came from many countries. All had a large photograph of the missing person and details about them. All were presented formally by the many different police forces circulating the requests for possible information leading to the whereabouts of the lost citizens. Within half an hour I had completed 1987 and 1988. Moving on to 1989, my heart sank as picture followed picture. Some of the young faces I was seeing would have turned up over the years. A prodigal daughter returned to the home nest. Others would have gone forever. Some by choice, others through accident, suicide or malicious means.
I might have missed it. Numbered 3A, the document had been included in a file containing three missing persons sent over from Spanish police in Andalucía. The file’s main cover had announced that it contained three missing person’s notifications and photographs. Assuming that the fourth document was a part of the third missing person's docu
mentation, I moved to the next file. Something stopped me. Opening the file, a handwritten letter and a small colour photograph appeared on my screen. The photograph showed a girl in her late teens sitting on a swing and smiling to camera. She had brown hair and an open, pretty face. It was a face I knew. It was the girl in the tunnel.
The air in my lungs seemed to vanish, as once again I felt a cold, crawling sensation rise through and over my body. I had to grasp the side of my desk to steady myself. I forced myself to look at the screen again, to confirm what I already knew to be true. It was her. Younger, but unmistakably the same person I had seen the night before. The handwritten letter was from her mother. The address on the letter stated the Bulgarian city of Pernik. The girl’s name, Petya. Petya Velichkov. Her mother had written to the police in Malaga because that was where she believed her seventeen-year-old daughter had traveled to find work. Although written in poor English, Petya’s mother’s concern for her daughter was clear. There had been no contact from Petya for months and she feared the worst. She believed her daughter had fallen in with bad company. Spanish police responded by attaching the letter and small photograph amongst the more formal missing person notifications they were sending out to Gib, but it had been passed over. Just as I had nearly passed it over myself.
Exhausted, I looked away from the screen and took in the busy office around me. Police officers going about their daily work. My boss, Chief Inspector Broderick, complaining about some directive from the top brass. My colleague, DC Calbot, pretending to work harder than he actually was. The whole place active and bustling with police business. Just as it always was. Normal and sensible and real. How could I tell them? How could I explain what was happening? I couldn’t even explain it myself. A sudden feeling of claustrophobia engulfed me and I knew I had to leave.
***
I rode my motorbike back to Catalan Bay, taking the Gibraltar Town route. I wasn’t ready to revisit the Dudley Ward Tunnel yet. I had left work complaining of nausea. It wasn’t a lie, but it was far from the truth. Gus Broderick had told me to ‘Piss off quick before everyone gets it’. Part of me wished that I did have a stomach bug.
Back at the apartment, I gave Banjo a chewy treat and then sat on the balcony looking out to sea and the clear blue afternoon sky. I attempted to clear my mind. Putting any possible supernatural elements to one side, I knew I had to address the case itself. Although Petya had been killed twenty-nine years previously, her family would still have to be told. I knew ‘completion’ in such circumstances was needed no matter how long the time gap. How I'd discovered Petya’s identity and my reasons for searching the files in the first place, could prove very difficult to explain. ‘I saw a ghost’, wasn't going to cut it. The truth was not acceptable, not even to me. But I could tell part of the truth. That I had heard about the girl’s death by chance and become interested in it as a ‘cold case’. By sheer chance, my unofficial first search of the records had produced an overlooked letter and photograph of a girl who had not been checked out at the time. I would request a crosscheck with Petya Valichkov’s dental records in Bulgaria – should they still be available – hoping to confirm her identity as the dead girl in the Dudley Ward Tunnel. Although it seemed to be the best plan I could come up with, I realized that its chances of success were not good and that my reputation might not survive its execution. On the other hand, I could walk away, forget it and literally ‘give up the ghost’. I decided I needed a drink. A large red wine.
***
Seven days later I was back in the Dudley Ward Tunnel. This time I was not alone. Two police motorcycle officers had closed down each end of the tunnel to traffic. The reason for this was that Father Lagomarsino and myself had been granted ten minutes to perform a short ceremony at the spot that Petya had met her death. I was to place a small bouquet against the wall of the tunnel and the father would say a prayer for the soul of the young Bulgarian. No one else stood with us in the tunnel. This was to be a simple and private affair.
To my great surprise, Superintendent Massetti had believed my story and allowed me to contact the authorities in Pernick. The blame for the oversight in detecting the mother’s letter, she reasoned, was that of the Spanish police. It had been attached to the other formal notifications without being converted into an official document. It was little wonder it had been overlooked.
The question of what had happened to the man on the motorcycle could only be answered by pure conjecture. A boyfriend? The two had most probably come from Spain for the day. Having argued, the man had finally left Petya near the Dudley Ward Tunnel. Furious with his girlfriend, he may have thought he’d teach her a lesson and let her walk it off. Later, after he had cooled down, he may have returned along the coast road to find her. Arriving back at the tunnel he had learned what had happened. A girl had been killed walking through the tunnel. Panicking, he had taken flight, crossed over to Spain and disappeared for good. Perhaps, as Petya’s mother had feared, her daughter had fallen in with bad company. Mala compania.
News from Bulgaria came by return. Dental records for Petya Valichkov had indeed been kept and so a crosscheck was carried out within days. The news that the records identified Petya as the tunnel victim meant that the Bulgarian authorities could inform the Valichkov family. Petya’s mother, in her eighties and in failing health, thanked them and asked that the RGB be informed of her gratitude. Sadly, ill health would prevent her from visiting Gibraltar, but she was grateful beyond words that Father Lagomarsino would pray for her only child. Her little Petya.
After the ceremony, the father left me alone with my thoughts. I still had the little silver cross and chain around my neck. I had offered it back to the father, but he had refused it, saying it belonged to me now and was mine to keep or hand on to another as I wished. I was grateful to him and decided that I would send it to Petya’s elderly mother. Perhaps it might comfort her as it had comforted myself. I then placed the photograph of the young and smiling Petya amongst the flowers at the side of the road, hoping that her ghost, if ghost it was, had finally been laid to rest. I still had doubts about the supernatural, but my experience that night in the tunnel could not be explained in any other terms. Accepting this, I wondered why it had been me she had stopped. And then I remembered my recollections of the same night. Those images – playing out so vividly in my mind – of a time when I had been vulnerable and close to taking my life. I had been a young woman, standing on a bridge overlooking a motorway. I had stood there alone, preparing to jump into oblivion below. It had been a voice that had saved me. Not the voice of God. Not the voice of an angel. It had been the gentle, reassuring voice of a police officer. That officer had saved my life. Sadly, for Petya Valichkov, her police officer had arrived too late.
***
If you have enjoyed this ghost story, perhaps you’d like to follow further adventures with Tamara Sullivan. The Rock novella and The Poisoned Rock can be found on Amazon worldwide, robertdaws.net and at urbanepublications.com
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About the author
As an actor, Robert Daws has appeared in leading roles in a number of award-winning and long-running British television series, including Jeeves and Wooster, Casualty, The House of Eliott, Outside Edge, Roger Roger, Sword of Honour, Take A Girl Like You, Doc Martin, New Tricks, Midsomer Murders, Rock and Chips, The Royal, Death in Paradise, Father Brown and Poldark. He has recently enjoyed a second visit to Midsomer Murders, together with the films, An Unkind Word and Swimming With Men and the new comedy series Sick Note for Sky TV.
His recent work for the stage includes the national tours of Michael Frayn’s Alarms and Excursions, and David Harrower’s Blackbird. In the West End, he has recently appeared as Dr John Watson in The Secret of Sherlock Holmes, Geoffrey Hammond in Public Property, Jim Hacker in Yes, Prime Minister and John Betjeman in Summoned by Betjeman. He also played Victor Smiley in the much acclaimed stage adaptation of The Perfect Murder by international bestselling author, Peter James. He is returnin
g to the stage in 2017 in Alan Ayckbourn’s classic comedy, How The Other Half Loves.
His many BBC radio performances include Arthur Lowe in Dear Arthur, Love John, Ronnie Barker in Goodnight from Him and Chief Inspector Trueman in Trueman and Riley, the long-running police detective series he co-created with writer Brian B Thompson.
Robert’s third Sullivan and Broderick novel – Killing Rock – will be published in 2017, as will his thriller, Progeny. His first novella, The Rock, has been optioned and is being developed for television. He is currently co-adapting the international bestseller, Her Last Tomorrow, by Adam Croft for television, as well as writing a new thriller for the stage with award winning television and stage writer, Richard Harris.
