Real Hard Cases

by Robert Jeffrey

  Cops on the beat will mix with prostitutes right from the very start of their careers. The girls are out on the streets after dark and they deal with all sorts of strange punters and see a lot going on. Most of them have good relationships with the cops and will be ready to provide helpful information when they can. They are aware that, as well as having the ability to huckle them, the cops can also sometimes be in the position to save their lives. Those who manage to survive in this nasty business can be shrewd cookies indeed.

  A woman I will call Sadie is a good example. I remember getting a distress call from her one night. Her husband, no doubt fed up with her and her way of life, had thrown her out on to Allison Street in the south side of Glasgow, a patch I know well. Her sister lived in nearby Govanhill but she was away and would not return till the next day. Sadie had been of assistance to me in an investigation and now turned to me for help. I got in the car and headed to Allison Street and soon found her wandering about. By this time, it was the wee sma’ hours and she was some sight as she got into the car (I hoped no one I knew was watching!). She was in full glam working gear, short skirt, shiny black boots, dripping with cheap jewellery etc. but the heavy mascara was running down both cheeks and tears were not far away.

  I took her to a local hotel and told the night porter who I was and said that Sadie was a vital witness we were protecting from gangsters by moving her around hotels. The guy was goggle-eyed at the appearance of Sadie, not normally the sort of girl who pitched up in his hotel. I paid in advance and left satisfied that I had done the right thing. The next day I got a call from Sadie who said she was now off to stay with her sister and could I meet her so that she could repay me for the bed and breakfast. When she handed a few notes over, I asked her where she had got the cash – when I had picked her up she was stony broke. She smiled and told me that the hotel I had taken her to was much used by commercial travellers and the like and that she had ‘made a few quid’ during the night! Such is a life in prostitution.

  Mostly, cops’ dealings with street girls are much less amusing. The oldest profession is also perhaps the most dangerous and, for a detective, solving the murder of a prostitute is often challenging. Obviously, for a start, the usual appeals for anyone with information to come forward often fall on deaf ears. The sleaze merchants who kerb-crawl don’t see it as a duty to let the world know what they get up to after dark even if it could help solve a murder. But, as anyone who follows the tabloids knows, girls are killed by their clients – sadly on an all-too-regular basis. But I can assure you that the police put as much effort into solving these hard cases as they do for any murder.

  I was involved in one such high-profile case and it was a frustrating experience. A lot of old-fashioned detective work went into it but without success. This was the infamous murder of Jacqueline Gallagher. Jacqueline was a good-looker and it was hard to believe that she had turned to the streets. Drugs were to blame. The amount of cash needed to feed a habit is remarkable and, for many girls, prostitution is a quick fix – an easy way to fill the syringe and avoid the agony of life without drugs.

  Jacqueline’s death had been making headlines on and off for years before her mother turned to A Search for Justice in July 2005. Her daughter was twenty-six when she was found dead in a lay-by in Bowling not far from the north end of the Erskine Bridge in June 1996. There was massive media coverage of the discovery of her body which had been found in bushes wrapped in a curtain. After some initial difficulty, the body was identified. And not long after came a surprise move. As I have pointed out, it is not normal for prostitutes’ clients to identify themselves but, in this case, one did and, indeed, he did more than just admit to being a client. A man called George Johnstone, from Erskine, visited the murder incident room claiming to be have been one of Jacqueline’s clients and, most significantly, offering to give a DNA sample. Amazingly, this offer was declined and that decision was to have remarkable consequences years later.

  The murder of Jacqueline Gallagher remains unsolved. But it is interesting to look at what happened to the investigation at the time and later. CCTV is of great assistance to the detective and, in this case, hours were spent poring over footage from Glasgow’s red light area, the streets around Blythswood Square. Suspect vehicles were noted and investigated. It was time-consuming routine work but that is often the road to success in a murder investigation.

  After all the initial flurry of activity, the trail went cold but later George Johnstone was making newspaper headlines. He was involved in a fatal road accident in Paisley, stood trial and was found guilty. His DNA was taken and it matched DNA connected with Jacqueline’s murder. He had, of course, originally offered his DNA and, without any coercion, he claimed to have been a client.

  After his release from prison on the motoring charges, he was arrested and charged with killing Jacqueline. He went to trial and was freed on a not proven verdict. Clearly, among other things, the jury were unhappy with the fact that his offer to DNA at the time had not even been taken up by the police. This was the situation when I came on board at the invitation of Jacqueline’s mother.

  Johnstone offered to let me interview him but I decided not to, preferring to approach this complicated puzzle in my own way. I went to Dumbarton Police Station where I met Detective Superintendent Ken Watters, a man with a caseload of unsolved murders he had been delegated to investigate. The Gallagher case was not one of them. Ken was approachable and helpful. In the initial investigation, there had been some concern about a red Citroën van. Despite Ken not being involved in the case, when he knew I was coming, he read through the papers. He told me that more than 700 such vans had been investigated and that intensive inquiries had been made on ‘action forms’. An action form is made out with the registration number and the name of the owner of all the vehicles that could possibly have been at a crime scene. The forms are sent to the area where the vehicle is based and the local police then try to find out from the owner where the vehicle was at the significant time. If possible, an officer will also take a look at the vehicle. The forms are then sent back to the originating office.

  I thought taking a look at the forms that had been completed in the Jacqueline Gallagher case might be helpful but, to do so, I needed to apply for permission under the Freedom of Information Act. No joy – I never got to see the forms. It seems Strathclyde Police did not want me to investigate this murder but I pressed on. With the help of Jacqueline’s mother and newspaper cuttings, I found two witnesses who claimed to have seen the suspect vehicle around the place where the body had been found at the material time.

  One was a man I will call Robert. He lived in Old Kilpatrick, in the shadow of the Erskine Bridge, and a short distance from Bowling. He told me that he was out walking his dog at 6 a.m. and, as he approached the lay-by, he saw a red Citroën van. The back of the van was facing him and the rear doors were open. He said that it was empty apart from dustsheets. He became aware of noises in nearby bushes and saw a man struggling with what appeared to be a heavy carpet. He said he knew a bit about vans and that he was certain the vehicle was a Citroën. He said there was lettering on the van and remembered seeing the words ‘Causeyside’ and ‘free estimates’. In my view, this was an honest and reliable witness. Another witness was a guy we can call James. He said he and two workmates saw a red Citroën van parked rather carelessly in the lay-by. He said they particularly remembered it because it was so badly parked it could have interfered with other traffic.

  James and his mates also claimed to have seen something being dumped in the bushes and assumed it was a heavy carpet or something similar – sadly, people dumping at the roadside is no unusual occurrence. The three men proceeded up the A82 towards Loch Lomond and stopped at the lights near the garage at the junction for Helensburgh. The garage is well known locally as Jackie Stewart’s because it was once owned by the racing driver’s family and, as they waited for the green light, the red Citroën drew alongside. When the driver noticed they were havi
ng a good look at him, he ducked down as if to hide his face. James thought the van had the word ‘Design’ painted on it in an artistic fashion.

  The two vehicles drove off and passed through several roundabouts which would have given the van driver the chance to go in the opposite direction if he thought he was being followed. The driver, however, didn’t turn back at any of these roundabouts but he did veer right towards Balloch at the bottom of the Loch Lomond road and that was the last James saw of the van again. James said he jotted the van’s registration number down but he lost a bit of paper he had written it on.

  When the police were told all this, they were unimpressed and said the witnesses were unreliable because they had talked of seeing the van on two different days. The police also said the two witnesses’ descriptions of how the van was parked did not tally. The police were dismissive about the heavy carpet, pointing out that it was a light curtain that had been found with the body.

  I went back to James and Robert and they both told me the same story about how the van had been parked. And they said the sightings were on the same day. I was sure they had seen the body being disposed of and that the driver was possibly a painter and decorator who lived east of Balloch, an area that could include Bonhill, Jamestown and even Stirling. The media were of great assistance and descriptions of the driver and the van were widely circulated but nothing was turned up.

  It occurred to me that, taking into account the frequency of attacks on prostitutes, the killer of Jacqueline could have struck before and might strike again – hence my desire to have a look at the action forms on the 700 vans. But, unfortunately, it was not to be and the mystery of who killed Jacqueline lives on.

  Another tragic case in a similar mould is that of Emma Caldwell. She too had turned to prostitution to pay for drugs and was found dumped in a remote area near Biggar in May 2005. Newspapers made much of the beauty of this girl, printing pictures of her before her descent into prostitution and addiction and what she looked like at the time of her death. The contrast was hellish. She had been living in a women’s hostel on the south side and CCTV cameras got horrifying pictures of her drug-ravaged face as she went to ply her trade in the city centre. I had a friend who knew her in the old days and he said she was so strikingly beautiful that she stopped conversations when she entered a room. Drugs wrecked her. No wonder we want to show drug dealers no mercy.

  But girls, drugs and prostitution will continue to go together so what should we do? I believe the answer is licensed brothels, like they have in Holland – strictly run and with medical supervision. Street prostitution should be a crime that is cracked down on toughly. It might not happen and, until it does, I would have a maximum police presence in red-light areas. I would also advocate the use of CCTV cameras in these places and the punters’ car registration numbers being recorded.

  A number plate played a role in an interesting case involving prostitution in my days with the Serious Crime Squad. Some of the girls on the street told the cops they were a bit worried about a guy who cruised the red-light district in a sports car with what could be a personalised number plate – an indication right away that the driver might not be the sharpest tack in the box. Several of the girls said he was a weirdo and very violent.

  A few nights later, a colleague and I were in the Blythswood Square area in a squad car when we saw a car that looked suspiciously like the one the girls had mentioned. The driver had a passenger, a young woman, but, since we had not seen her get in the car, we did not know whether or not she was on the game. Anyway, we stopped the car and spoke to the couple separately. Conscious that the girl could simply be an innocent acquaintance of the driver, I spoke to her very carefully. I had to point out to her that we had had reports of a weirdo in just such a car and I asked if she was happy to continue her journey. She thanked us and indicated that she didn’t have a problem and the couple drove off. My colleagues confirmed the driver’s identity and found he stayed in Paisley Road West not far from Ibrox, home of Glasgow Rangers.

  We will call the guy John X. The night we stopped the car was a long and busy one but, nonetheless, before we logged off at 7 a.m. , we drove over to Paisley Road West and had a look at the address the driver had given. Sure enough, the car was there and, at that time, we never gave a thought to the fact that perhaps we should have taken firmer action when we stopped John X in Blythswood Square.

  Back at work at 11 p.m. the next night, we were shocked to hear that a prostitute had been seriously assaulted by a sports car driver. And she told the officers on the case that, soon after she had been picked up, the car had been stopped by police and one of the officers had warned her about the driver. I phoned the cop in charge of the case, told her what had happened and that we knew who the driver was. She had no objection to us paying him a visit.

  When we got there, the car was parked outside and we gave the door a knock. Cruising the red-light area in an eye-catching and easily identifiable car was not the brightest of moves as I earlier observed but John X had another surprise for us. My opening words – to be repeated months later at Glasgow High Court – were ‘Do you remember me?’

  He replied, ‘Yes, you’re the policeman who spoke to me last night.’ Reverse identification! In one sentence, he had identified both himself and me. Without hesitation, we took him off to the Central where John X was charged with attempted murder. As we took him away, I remember thinking it was odd that, at the time we arrested him – three o’clock in the morning – his wife, a teacher, had not been in the house.

  We had impounded the sports car and, a few days later, a prostitute, who was at the office making inquiries, noticed it and told the CID that she had been assaulted by the driver of the car. She went into great detail of the horrific and perverted attack. The accused took part in identification parades and, after being picked out by other prostitutes, further charges followed.

  But the tale was far from over. Our original informant, the prostitute who had told us about the car, came back to the office to say that John X’s wife had been in a pub in Maryhill looking for a heavy to threaten witnesses who might testify against her husband. It so happened that she was given the name of someone who could fit the bill and that guy happened to be the husband of the woman who had told us about the number plate. A meeting was arranged and the so-called heavy was given £400. I told the informant to keep the cash and put it about that witnesses would be silenced. Then I went to the procurator fiscal who consulted with the Crown Office and they backed this rather unusual course of action I had taken.

  It was amusing that on the day of the High Court trial when John X entered the dock and was seen to get a thumbs up from his wife. But there was a surprise in store for him. Silenced witnesses? What silenced witnesses? One after another, prostitutes and other witnesses identified him as the attacker. It was, as they say, a no-brainer and the jury wasted no time in finding him guilty. He got ten years – a good result.

  After the case was over, I went back to the fiscal with another question – what was to happen to the £400 given to the prostitute’s husband as part of the silenced witness scam? The reply I got delighted me. ‘What £400?’

  4

  HELL IN A HOLIDAY CAMP

  Rape is one of the most horrific of crimes – and one of the most difficult to deal with. I had some experience of investigating it in my time as an officer in the Strathclyde force but it was with A Search for Justice that I saw another side of this despicable crime. It was an eye-opener to me, a former detective with years of experience of life on the streets of Glasgow. All the old arguments about rape and the difficulty of proving it and the danger of false accusation are regularly rehearsed in crime books and articles. Even the law has problems with it – rape is dealt with differently under the Scottish legal system from the way it is treated in England, particularly in how the crime is reported in the media. Up here, we are rightly extremely careful about preserving the anonymity of the victim – another example, to my mind, of the
superiority of Scots Law over the English version.

  Anonymity is vital – rape often results in victims of the crime being mentally scarred for life and the last thing they need is the added distress of having their names appear in the media. Even the successful conviction of an offender can be of little consolation to a woman violated in this manner, something that the psychologists have been examining for years. In some respects, being a rape victim is like no other type of victim: the ramifications run deep into the subconscious for years, perhaps for a lifetime. It can not be shrugged off in the way some other crimes are ultimately forgotten, buried under the pressure of getting on with life. For the victim and the family concerned, the anguish is horrific. And sometimes, as in the tale I am about to tell, that anguish is added to by, of all people, the police.

  Ninety-nine per cent of folk who have had a holiday in a holiday camp take home happy memories. Many return to such places as Butlins in Ayr year after year. For some people, a fortnight in the company of the Redcoats, the excitement of bingo, ballroom dancing, variety shows, cheery modern bars and friendly company are a lure they can’t resist. Each week during the cold dark winter months, they carefully put away some cash, hoarding it to pay for a sunshine break that they look forward to all year.

  And it has to be said that, among the younger clientele of such places, up and down the land, the somewhat mysterious and exciting thing that’s called ‘chalet life’ is also an attraction. Teenagers by the thousands have had their first real experience of what is coyly called the opposite sex in such camps. Generally, it is all pretty harmless fun, the stuff of growing up and experiencing the ways of the world but this was not the case for two girls I will call Linda and Susan who came to my attention in a Search for Justice investigation.