Fitted Up

A True Story of Police Betrayal, Conspiracy and Cover Up

Russell Findlay

• Publisher: Birlinn
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781788850742

The investigative journalist and author of Acid Attack reveals the true story of one innocent man's battle to salvage his reputation and his life. As army veteran Bill Johnstone watched his garage business burn to the ground, he was certain the fire had been started deliberately. And when the police failed to investigate, he complained. Johnstone then made a shocking discovery: an extensive criminal record had been applied to his name. He believes this was no accident but a malicious act by a police officer. Those few keyboard strokes were the catalyst for a high-stakes battle that consumed his life. What began as police incompetence, soon escalated into an extraordinary saga of betrayal, conspiracy and cover up. This is the incredible true story of his decade-long fight for justice. In an age where our personal information is stored and shared digitally, it could happen to anyone. Praise for Russell Findlay's Acid Attack "Cast[s] light on the reality of Glasgow's vicious gang culture and the dangers for those brave enough to report on it." — The Guardian "A good gritty read... expect your heart to race." —Gina McKie, DJ and radio legend "Puts his head where most reporters wouldn't put their feet." —Mark Daly, BBC Scotland investigations correspondent "I've read it twice, it's an utterly fascinating book." —Tam Cowan, BBC Radio Scotland "Real journalism is still practiced by brave individuals. I use that word deliberately, because it takes courage to expose the dangerous, violent and depraved. Russell Findlay displays that courage." —Joan McAlpine, MSP, Daily Record

1

THE ARMY: SQUARE GO

‘Who’s Bill fucking Johnstone?’

So the fresh young recruits stepping from the bus at the British Army’s Salamanca barracks in West Germany were welcomed. Asking the question was Ayrshire soldier Ricky Ferguson, who’d been tipped off that Johnstone might be a challenger to his title of Royal Artillery 16th Regiment bare-knuckle boxing champion.

Bill Johnstone exited the bus that frozen February morning in 1975 and made himself known with the snarled response, ‘Who’s fucking asking?’

Introductions over, Ferguson ordered him to be in the gym at 9 p.m. for a ‘square go’ but Bill – eschewing Queensberry Rules for the Gorbals’ version – immediately lashed out with a ferocious blow to his rival’s face, sparking a blur of fists. After several minutes of toe-to-toe combat in the snow and gravel, they were prised apart and handed cans of beer and cigarettes before a second round of intense pummelling began. The spectating soldiers’ cheers and heckles were punctuated by the steady and soft thud of fists on flesh. Bruised, bloodied and blowing white plumes into the winter air, the exhausted pair was eventually separated and, with mutual respect, a draw was declared.

Born in Paisley before moving to Glasgow’s Gorbals – whose local hero was diminutive boxer Benny Lynch – Bill later spent most of his childhood in the sprawling Easterhouse estate, where his Catholic mum overruled his Protestant dad to send their boy and four sisters to the Catholic St Leonard’s secondary school. As a 14 year old who excelled at athletics and karate, he enrolled in the Prince of Wales Sea Training school in Dover. With pupils drawn from across the Commonwealth, the rough young Glaswegian stood out and thrived, his ability to learn and follow orders earning him the title of ‘leading boy’ for the entire school, a prestigious position to hold. For three years he travelled the world in giant container ships and oil tankers. As ‘engine room boy’ he was tasked with dangling by a rope on a bosun’s chair into hot, dark, cavernous oil storage tanks, where, with no safety equipment and cloying chemical fumes penetrating the senses, he’d blast a hydraulic gun against the hardened crude oil encrusted to the sides. On board vessels such as the 10,000-tonne MV British Dragoon, Bill would often not see land for months, but he enjoyed the discipline and adventures far from home.

While visiting family in Glasgow, and having just turned 17, life took a dramatic change of direction due to a chance encounter in a city centre pub with Brian ‘Woody’ Woods, an old school pal who was in the army. Resplendent in naval uniform of bell bottom trousers, Bill was drinking in the gloom and smoke of the Ingram Bar when Woody spotted him. Having regaled the bar with his capers as a member of the Royal Artillery, Woody then imparted to Bill some considered career advice: ‘Fuck that navy shite!’

Persuaded by his friend’s wise words and action-packed tales, the very next morning Bill joined up at the army recruiting office in Queen Street, a few doors down from the pub. Two weeks later he was on a train to the Royal Artillery barracks at Woolwich, London. That first night, the stifled sobs of green recruits could be heard in the dorms, but Bill, having already travelled the world by sea, and imbued with discipline, slept soundly.

The initial intake of 200 dwindled steadily, with around 30 men left standing at the end of 26 weeks of basic training. Many of the drop-outs and rejects simply could not handle the harsh physical demands, spartan conditions and terrifying instructors, like the Irish NCO Sergeant Joe Fury, whose name matched the apoplexy of his orders. Fury had a fine line in nicknames for his charges, with Bill identified as ‘Cunty McFuck’.

Just as Bill had stood out during his merchant navy training, his natural virtues of industry, discipline, intelligence, tenacity and fitness were recognised in the army, and he was named best gunnery student, another impressive accolade. Gunner Johnstone was then put on a bus to join the 16th Regiment in Germany, where he did not yet know that his 400-mile journey would end with Gunner Ferguson waiting for a scrap.

The 16th air defence regiment, while open to all British Army recruits, is unofficially known as the ‘Glasgow Gunners’ because of the large number of men from Scotland’s most populous city within its rank, and it is renowned for being robust and efficient.

With the Cold War set to permafrost in the late 1970s, they were part of the NATO force primed and ready for a Russian attack. Much of their time in Germany’s Rhine Valley was spent wearing cumbersome suits which were supposed to protect them from chemical and biological attacks or the aftermath of a doomsday nuclear strike from the Kremlin. If the Cold War had turned hot, the official lifespan of these ‘forward edge of battle area’ soldiers was two hours, which was probably optimistic. They would likely have been vaporised in a heartbeat.

Bill became part of a four-man specialist reconnaissance unit whose job it was to get as close as possible to enemy positions and set up OPs (observation posts), where they would remain entrenched, the eyes and ears of the regiment, undetected for weeks on end. Resilience and physical endurance were key attributes. Patience was learned with difficulty.

While off-duty, these disciplined but hardened young men didn’t need much encouragement to unwind. Bill and a friend once drunkenly attempted to sneak two German girls into the barracks in the back of a taxi, only for their amorous plot to be thwarted by Gordon Highlanders on guard duty.

Having been caught, Bill’s pal inflamed the situation by questioning the sexuality of the kilted soldiers who had spoiled their fun: weren’t they the Gay Gordons? Goading escalated into a punch-up. The Gordons were sober and more numerous, so there was only ever one outcome. Bill and his pal put up a decent show but were given a sound hiding.

When they awoke in the cells nursing bruises and sharp hangovers, they were marched in front of the Gordon Highlanders’ regimental sergeant major, who locked them up for seven days. This being military justice, a second judge awaited. The 16th Regiment’s regimental sergeant major gave them another seven days to be served consecutively. Part of their punishment was to paint the base’s seemingly endless miles of kerb-stones black and white. For hours on end they worked, the monochrome pattern burnished on to their brains even when their eyes were closed for sleep. This incident was enough to blot Bill’s otherwise untarnished record and prevented him from receiving the medal which is awarded to military personnel for long service and good conduct. It takes just one black mark to stop this medal from being pinned on a soldier’s chest, no matter how exemplary his entire service.

Bill quickly learned that soldiers did what they were told and had no rights. Any thought of complaining – let alone being granted a fair hearing – was fanciful. One regimental sergeant major’s office door displayed a witty and ironic sign, stating ‘RSM and complaints department’. If any NCO or officer wanted to discipline a soldier, he could come up with any reason to do so. Evidence was not necessary. All they needed was Section 69. This catch-all regulation could be applied to just about any misdeed, real or perceived. For example, if a solider sincerely attempted to answer a question screamed in his face, this in itself could be classed as insubordination – a Section 69. If they kept their mouth shut, then it was ‘silent insubordination’ – also a Section 69. This contradictory dilemma was a classic double bind, as made famous by the satirical Second World War novel Catch-22, which military veterans recognise all too well.

Military courts-martial were ridiculously one-sided and could hear dozens of cases in a day. Bewildered soldiers would be marched in, almost always found guilty – and then asked if they would accept the consequent ‘award’. It was a rhetorical question. The senior officer acting as judge would only then reveal the punishment.

Bill honed his bare-knuckle pugilism by sparring with travellers on gypsy camp sites in Scotland and was so skilled at various martial arts and unarmed combat that he started instructing other soldiers how best to break bones up close. One day he and Joe McDermott, a fellow Glaswegian and member of 16th Regiment who became a lifelong friend, were at a large tented army camp in the village of Sennelager, an hour east of Salamanca barracks. As the two men were practising their skills with nun-chucks – Japanese martial arts sticks – they were met with wolf whistles and jeers from a watching gaggle of bored English soldiers of a light infantry regiment. Without hesitation, the two men put down their sticks, unsheathed their long and sharp trench bayonets, and marched over to the English camp, where they spat out the offer of a ‘square go’ to any of the ‘fucking comedians’ present. The sight of two approaching savages, waving bayonets though massively outnumbered, immediately silenced the mocking. Their tormentors raised their hands, broke eye contact and melted away, mumbling, ‘Only joking, Jock. No need to be like that, no one wants any trouble’.

Even for the Glasgow Gunners, Bill was at the extreme end of the spectrum. Aged 19, he was as lean, powerful and quick as a professional boxer but with the added element of having a cold and obedient military mindset, of being capable of killing and wounding without pause for thought. He was ferocious. These traits saw him thrive in the army, but they would also serve him well many years later when faced with enemies in Scotland – people who should have been on his side.

2

THE RAZOR BLADE

By the beginning of December 2009, with his vehicles destroyed in the garage blaze, Bill took off for London to attend a classic car auction, hoping to restock his business. It was as much to do with getting out of town as any serious buying, as there could be no quick fix to the financial disaster wreaked by the fire. He and Jackie were ostensibly away on business but they also needed some breathing space, time to clear their heads and assess events back home.

Jackie’s elderly father, Jack Mills, was looking after the couple’s post during their absence, piling up incoming mail on the kitchen table of their comfortable detached home in the West End of the city. Amongst the bundle of bills, marketing junk and glossy leaflets for takeaway pizzas was a white envelope containing a nasty surprise.

As they sifted through the mail on their return, Jackie handed the envelope to Bill. It was addressed to him, although she commented on the handwritten scrawl, which was like that of a pre-school child. When Bill tentatively opened it, another white envelope – cut in half – fell onto the table. Inside the half envelope was a doubled-edged razor blade, the thin steel glinting in the kitchen light. The postmark date was 30 November. Presumably the sender’s intent was to inflict fear – or a nasty finger cut. For a man like Bill, it was as childish a threat as the writing on the envelope. The message was crude, and may have seemed laughable, but Bill was smart enough to understand that, after the fire, it had to be taken seriously – the cowardly sender knew where he lived, and who knew what he was capable of.

Bill and Jackie put the items into a plastic bag, which they took to the police station the following morning, 9 December, passing the evidence to DC Vicky Reid for the attention of DC Campbell Martin.

Just as before, Bill and Jackie were sent away: Someone will be in touch. Goodbye.

The next day they heard nothing from the police, but Bill picked up whispers from a car trade contact that John Lawson had been visited by DC Martin on 29 November and that he had not been happy about the attention – although he was apparently cocksure enough to think he had nothing to worry about. The envelope’s postmark therefore meant something: the razor had been posted the day after Lawson’s police visit.

At around 11 p.m. on 11 December, Bill finally managed to get DC Martin on the phone and could barely believe what he was told. The detective informed him that the fire case had been closed due to lack of evidence. The police had singularly failed to investigate the fire, but had now closed the book on it because they had not found any evidence. It felt like a police take on a military catch-22.

In relation to the razor blade, Bill was told that it could take up to a year to have it forensically examined. Martin also told him that Lawson had provided an alibi for the night of the fire and he believed it to be plausible. Bill’s military experience had instilled in him the discipline to maintain his cool in circumstances which would cause others to become emotional. This time, he came close to losing it.

He bridled at not only what Martin was telling him but also the high-handed, dismissive tone in which it was delivered, with jarring phrases such as ‘end of story’ and ‘case closed’ sounding like provocation.

Trying hard to contain his fury, Bill addressed the young detective. ‘Son, you have done fuck-all about the fire or the blade, be under no illusion that you’re not walking away from this.’ Before the officer could respond, Bill cut him off. ‘My granny would make a better fucking detective than you,’ he snarled at him.

The heated phone call was suddenly terminated and when Bill immediately called back to continue his un-solicited appraisal of Martin’s detective skills he was told by another officer that he was no longer available.

Bill was seething. His £300,000 garage and £80,000 collection of cars had been destroyed. He had received a razor blade at his home. He was concerned that the vendetta would escalate. Most of all he was worried about the well-being of his family, not least his three younger children to his former partner. Yet the police – making a mockery of their oft-stated ‘Keeping People Safe’ PR mantra – were either disinterested or being plain lazy.

Bill turned to his lawyer, Chris Rogers, who from his office in Rutherglen sent a letter to the police complaints and discipline unit. His letter, faxed on 16 December, set the tone for much of the future correspondence:

Our client [Bill] heard, through a third party, that the suspect [Lawson] had been interviewed on 29 November but nothing further was to happen. DC Martin did not advise our client of this. Our client received in the Royal Mail a letter posted on 30 November, the day after the suspect had been interviewed. This item contained a razor blade. The item was handed to a police station on 9 December (our client had returned from London on 8 December) for the attention of DC Martin. He was promised a return call on 9 December. No call was received. Our client telephoned DC Martin on 11 December. He was advised that the case ‘had been closed due to lack of evidence’. He was further advised that it could take ‘up to a year’ to have the postal item forensically examined.

Our client is utterly vexed that there has been minimal investigation into his concerns. No witnesses have been interviewed; there has been no attempt to establish the cause of the fire.

Our client now has genuine fears for his own safety and for the safety of members of his family. He feels that there has been a complete lack of regard for his complaints here and that further, more serious incidents may take place. He alleges that the suspect is a dangerous and bizarre individual....