The lawyer hired by Hughes was Paul Reid, who also represents Frankie ‘Donuts’ Donaldson. Reid finds time for his gangland clients between stints sitting on the bench, where he wears a wig and dispenses justice as Sheriff Paul Reid. Reid’s letter was not just laughable in its demand for an apology and compensation for Hughes and his wife, but inaccurate. He wrote, ‘She [Jackie Hughes] is a lady of impeccable character. She has never come to the attention of the authorities, her reputation in society is considerable. The article is clearly offensive, untrue and defamatory of her substantial reputation.’ Never come to the attention of the authorities? In 2010 she appeared in a court dock charged with three counts of fraud and four under the Proceeds of Crime Act. The fraudulent mortgage obtained by her co-accused and husband was taken in her name.
Throughout this period, bankruptcy appeared to have no detrimental impact on Hughes’s lavish lifestyle, as evidenced by a drip-feed of stories in The Scottish Sun. On one occasion a photographer was told to be in place for Hughes getting into his soft-top black Porsche along with Celtic footballer Anthony Stokes. A photo of the pair of them and the car appeared with the headline ‘ANT’S A TOP CAR BARRY’ but no mention of bankruptcy.
The next story about Hughes saw him on a Barbados beach, wide toothy grin and hands in pockets, chatting to Manchester United and England star Wayne Rooney. Under the headline ‘HUGHES LOOKIN’ AT ROO’, it told how the pair ‘happily nattered as their kids played together in the sea’. Any casual reader would assume Hughes was an urbane, successful businessman – not a two-bob bankrupt thug with gangland connections. The story read like a ‘Wish you were here?’ postcard to the folks back home until the final line, which made a fleeting reference to Hughes being fined for mortgage fraud, although, yet again, the piece failed to mention the active bankruptcy.
Even the most simple, slavish, naive or incompetent journalist should have raised the blindingly obvious question: how is it possible that a bankrupt owing £10 million to the tax man, whose every penny is supposedly under the control of a court-appointed trustee, is able to swan around on a luxury Caribbean holiday? I was sickened. Hughes was a major figure of interest due to his criminality and associates. He had attacked me and the newspaper through legal channels. Yet he was still able to click his fingers and demand soft-soap treatment.
If no one else was bothered about it, I was. Days after the Rooney story, I emailed his trustee to say, ‘You may also be aware that Mr Hughes’ lifestyle does not appear to have been impeded by his sequestration, as he continues to be seen in expensive vehicles and exotic locations. If your investigation in this case results in the need for the sequestration being extended, I would be grateful if you could let me know.’
There was no reply, and my workplace protestations about this perverse PR fell on deaf ears. Weeks after the Barbados photo, The Scottish Sun carried a story about one of Hughes’s daughters raising money for charity with her ‘glitzy birthday party’. It reported: ‘She was joined by celebrity guests including Towie star Lauren Pope, 33, as well as Celtic striker Anthony Stokes and Rangers ace Nicky Law, both 27. Following the event at the city’s trendy St Jude’s bar, her dad Barry, 36, said: “It’s a great gesture for a really good cause and we’re extremely proud of her.”’ How generous! Staging a grandstanding charity birthday bash while owing the tax man £10 million. It was taking the public, including our readers, for mugs. Of course, this puff piece contained no mention of criminality or bankruptcy but did include the name of his daughter’s private school, the fees for which Hughes was somehow able to pay. I did not see the story at the time – which is just as well. Had I done so, my reaction might not have been conducive to office harmony or career progression.
24
DEFIANCE AND BETRAYAL
After a helter-skelter of doctors, Christmas, aching eyes, burning skin, Hogmanay, hobbling, racing thoughts, restless nights, tears and a mobile phone seemingly possessed came a conversation that stopped me in my tracks. It was 16 days since the acid attack when I called my boss Gordon Smart to tell him that Frankie ‘Donuts’ Donaldson was due in court.
Still reeling from the discovery that Donaldson wrongly believed me to be in a relationship with his ex-partner Jane Clarke, I realised that, rather than back down, the only option was to stand firm. Smart agreed with my suggestion of press solidarity and alerting all newspapers to Donaldson’s spurious £1-million claim against Jane, which was nothing but an extension of his campaign of domestic terror and control.
He then brought up the phone call of 10 months prior, the obstreperous whining from Barry Hughes about my ‘GIRL POWER’ investigation detailing the roles of women in organised crime. Smart told me what I already knew – that Hughes had been angry because we dared publish details about him and his wife and their criminal saga, even thought every word was accurate.
What Smart said next caused me to freeze, incredulous. According to Smart, Hughes hadn’t just vented – he had also revealed knowledge about my car, home address and other personal information and that harm would be done to me. I was so taken aback that I did not ask why on earth this had been withheld from me until now. Even before Smart dropped this bombshell, I had deemed the Hughes call concerning enough to include in my letter, posted the day before, to Greater Glasgow CID boss Detective Superintendent Stevie Grant. I was reeling. Why had Smart not told me at the time? I am certain there was no malice on his part. The only conclusion that made any sense was that he had not viewed the Hughes call as a serious threat. Perhaps the newspaper’s favourable relationship with Hughes was also a factor in not mentioning it at the time. But why tell me now? Had Smart simply forgotten that he had withheld it? It seemed to be the only logical explanation. I wanted to know exactly what Hughes had said. More pressingly, I hoped that Smart would provide Detective Sergeant Craig Warren with every single detail.
I immediately sent Smart a text, ostensibly confirming the plan to alert other editors to the Donaldson case, but adding, ‘In my letter to cops I mentioned the BH [Barry Hughes] call to you last March [actually February] but I wasn’t aware that he knew my address, car & reg, ex-wife info etc. or that he was making actual threats. Given what’s happened I think it would be worthwhile telling cops everything about that call.’
I called DS Warren to pass on the new details about the Hughes call, then emailed the Solicitor General, Lesley Thomson, who had taken a personal interest in my well-being. I told her, ‘Mr Smart today informed me that during that call, Mr Hughes made a clear threat to harm me and told him my home address, car make and registration and other personal details. I have suggested to Mr Smart that Police Scotland ought to be given a full statement about what was said by Mr Hughes.’
It was 27 days and 17 medical appointments after the attack when I returned to work, determined and defiant. It is not in my nature to hide away with the curtains closed. It was business as usual. I also had matters to address with my editor, the police, the judiciary and the Crown.
When I arrived in the office, trainers cushioning my aching feet, I passed the desk of a senior executive who beamed: ‘It’s not the first time some bloke has splashed liquid on your face.’ Beside him, Smart chimed: ‘I hope you’ve got plenty of stories.’ I did not expect a brass band and ticker tape, nor am I a weeping wallflower, but the tone felt slightly unnecessary.
Smart did not come near me for the rest of the day so, the following day, I sent him an email to try and get some answers. I wrote, ‘One aspect of it [the Barry Hughes call] I didn’t fully take on board was his reference to my ex-wife/divorce. It surprises and troubles me that he had that info and I would like to find out who told him. I’d be really grateful if you could recall what he said as that will enable me to ask questions of various people who had knowledge of my divorce.’ Just like my text message, no reply was forthcoming. It seemed the editor had decided it would be smart to clam up.
That same day, I sent a letter to Scotland’s most senior judge, Lord Carloway, a lawyer
called Colin Sutherland, whose full title is Lord President of the Court of Session and Lord Justice General of the High Court of Justiciary. I wanted to prevent any chance of my attacker William ‘Basil’ Burns coming in front of Sheriff Paul Reid, who as a lawyer had also represented Donaldson, Hughes and other criminals I had dealt with. I believed that Carloway should know that Reid was acting for Donaldson in the £1-million civil case against Jane, and that the domestic violence case was contaminated with threats towards witnesses. I explained about Reid’s letter of complaint to my newspaper on behalf of Hughes and his wife, and the sheriff’s inaccurate claim that she ‘has never come to the attention of the authorities’. The letter concluded, ‘Given the claims made by Mr Reid on behalf of clients such as these, I have concerns about his suitability as a judicial office holder but appreciate that is a matter for yourself and the Judicial Appointments Board for Scotland. However, given the above, I would greatly appreciate it if you could ensure that Mr Reid has no involvement in the proceedings involving my assailant Mr Burns.’
Being aware of the judiciary’s hostility to any perceived criticism from outsiders, coupled with their entrenched culture of secrecy, I did not expect much back. I was not disappointed. Carloway’s legal secretary, Roddy Flinn, told me that Reid is ‘entitled to represent his client’s version of events’, adding, ‘There is no suggestion in your letter that Mr Reid acted irresponsibly in so writing.’
Wrong. This prompted me to respond with another letter, more forthright in tone. I wrote:
I respectfully disagree with Mr Flinn’s interpretation of my letter of January 20. It is obviously proper for a solicitor to faithfully represent a client’s version of events where instructions are honest and reasonable. However, Mr Reid’s decision to knowingly make a false statement on behalf of this client (Mrs Jackie Hughes) is irresponsible, dishonest, unprofessional and improper. I believe that such conduct is incompatible with the high standards apparently expected of judicial office in Scotland. I find it concerning that a part-time sheriff, while being well remunerated through public funds, is free to simultaneously act in an aggressive and/or dishonest manner on behalf of major organised criminals.
Back came another reply from Flinn, proposing that I could raise my concerns about Reid’s lawyerly conduct with his professional body, the Law Society of Scotland. This would be futile, of course, knowing as I did the Law Society to be a trade body and aggressive lobbyist for its members, not a fair and independent arbiter for the public.
In response to Flinn’s question of whether I was complaining about Reid’s conduct as a judge, I replied:
My knowledge of the judicial complaint process causes me to believe that making a complaint may be ineffective due to a lack of fairness and transparency. Given the detailed concerns that I have raised about Mr Reid’s dishonest conduct in his dual and conflicting roles, I would respectfully suggest that what happens next is your decision to make.
I would be grateful if you could inform me of your decision. As previously stated, I would gladly provide any information that may be required.
And that marked the end of my correspondence with the judiciary.
Back at work, I tried to get on with my job, but the niggle about Smart was ever present. I confided in a colleague who was aghast and urged me to raise the matter officially, but instigating an internal grievance process was the last thing I needed.
Two CID officers came to the office for a statement from Smart, with a company lawyer at his side. This took two visits as they ran out of time – hardly instilling confidence in me that they were doing anything other than going through the motions about who was behind the attack.
On the same day as the CID’s first visit to Smart, there was a breakthrough in the acid attack investigation. Alex Porter, the getaway driver who had roared away without his hitman passenger, was detained. I did not know Porter’s name, let alone anything about him, which indicated his lowly position in gangland’s pecking order. The day after Porter’s detention, I was surprised when a member of the company’s HR department asked me to provide them with information about Smart’s undisclosed Hughes phone call, having apparently learned of it from the colleague whose confidence I sought.
Later that same day I got a call from DS Warren. He said he wanted to see me but would only tell me what it was about in person. He came to the office and warned me there was intelligence suggesting that my safety could be at risk. Such a warning is known as a ‘threat to life’ or an ‘Osman’ after the London businessman Ali Osman, who was murdered in 1988 when the police had failed to disclose a threat from his killer.
The police required me to sign a document acknowledging receipt of the warning. It felt like a legal hand-washing exercise should I end up injured or dead. A jarring section of the template document says the warning ‘does not justify you committing any criminal acts’. Gangsters involved in feuds frequently receive Osmans, hence the warning not to retaliate, but the only retaliation I planned involved the legal use of written words, not guns and knives. When I told the company about the Osman, they went into a minor meltdown. The acid attack had shaken senior management in London and Glasgow, and there was a reassuring willingness to do whatever was needed to ensure my safety. They suggested numerous times that I could temporarily leave the country or even ensconce myself in some kind of safe house. Would I at least consider personal security guards to accompany me and be discreetly placed outside my home? Er, no thanks – I’m a journalist not the President of the United States.
I politely declined these extreme offers but did agree to the use of a hire car as I was conscious that my own vehicle was known, and that I was at my most vulnerable while travelling between work and home. This went on for weeks but the novelty of being on first-name terms with Hertz staff quickly wore off and the final hire vehicle was returned.
Keen to assess the significance of the Osman, I contacted Labour MSP and former police chief Graeme Pearson, who counselled that the police would be ‘hyper-sensitive’ about my wellbeing because of my job, joking that journalists were a ‘fairly precious commodity’, several levels above MSPs.
A James Bond-style gadget arrived on my desk. It looked like a chunky black car-key fob but was in fact a panic button. When pressed, it would transmit an audio of what was happening in the immediate vicinity to an operator who could call 999, directing the police through the device’s GPS. The gizmo needed to be charged daily and soon ended up in the back of the kitchen junk drawer. 007 never had such problems.
I was at work on Saturday, 6 February 2016, when I picked up a police press release about the arrest of a man for the non-fatal shooting of the Daniel family associate Ross Sherlock, who was targeted outside a primary school in suburban Bishopbriggs. The police do not name arrested people – they only provide their age. But I was immediately curious as the alleged school shooter was 58 – the same age as acid-attacker Burns. My curiosity was heightened because of Burns’s links to the Lyons mob through his Paisley associate Robert ‘Piggy’ Pickett – ergo an enemy of Daniel associates such as Sherlock.
I simultaneously contacted the CID office dealing with my attack and the press officer who issued the release, asking them both the same question. A coy CID officer came back quickest, confirming that, yes, it was Burns who had been charged with the shooting. I was annoyed with the police for failing to inform me of this massive development and equally peeved when my by-line was removed from the story, which felt like an act of cowardice. In an emailed request to the duty editor, which was rebuffed, I said, ‘To run scared and change how I do things is exactly what these people want. I would like respectfully to ask that my name be put back on the story. This is not to make any big point but to show these people that it is business as usual. I wrote this story prior to establishing Burns’s identity.’
Smart was rarely seen in the office, and I had pretty much lost hope of him providing me with my request for details of the Hughes call. HR boss Emily Bayne called me i
n for a chat. I expressed sincere gratitude to her and senior management for their support but disappointment that Smart had not even replied to the email I had sent him three weeks earlier. She said she would tell him to do so.
That day at work was full tilt. A bloodbath gun attack had taken place at a Dublin boxing weigh-in between two rival drug gangs and I established a Scottish link. Glasgow lawyer Sam Kynoch was the boss of MGM Scotland, a gym and promotions company that was the ‘sister business’ of a Marbella gym run by the Kinahan mob, one of the factions in the Irish gang war.
As I was up to my neck in phone calls about the lawyer and the Dublin drug war, Smart came over and invited me into his private office. The tone was courteous and civil – I sought answers, not an argument. I asked him for every detail of what Hughes had said to him as it might have had some bearing on the acid attack. It might also have helped work out how such sensitive personal information had reached Hughes.
Smart told me that Hughes was ‘quite specific’ about getting me ‘done in’ and ‘reeled off a list of things’ about me. According to Smart, Hughes had ‘done research’ on me and had ‘taken an interest in a lot of the detail about’ me. Disappointingly, Smart struggled to recall the specifics – which would have been fresher had he told me at the time. Furthermore, Hughes allegedly said he could not ‘lay a finger’ on Smart, as he was the editor, but did say, ‘I’m going to hurt your friends.’
Smart revealed that he personally brokered the Hughes story about the Barbados beach and Wayne Rooney – which made no mention of Hughes being a £9.6 million bankrupt.
Acid Attack Page 17