Real Hard Cases

by Robert Jeffrey

  If gang fights as an indoor sport cause problems, those that take place outside can be an even bigger headache. Nothing much has changed in this since the twenties and thirties. Groups of youths still confront others with all sorts of weapons and sticks and stones as they defend what they call territory or try to move in on another group’s area. In Glasgow, the defining line between one gang’s patch and another’s can be a main road and innocent motorists are at much risk passing through such places. Stones hurled from one ‘war zone’ to another across the street can hit cars and potentially lethal objects can be dropped from motorway overpasses. It is all mindless stuff and, if you ask the gangs why they are fighting, the answer is often that the other lot have no right to come into ‘our patch’ or simply that ‘we hate them’. I suspect much of it is just because there are neds who like a bloody battle.

  The innocent do get hurt and a tragic case in which A Search for Justice played an important and successful role shows that in dramatic fashion. Gang fights over territory are not exclusively a Glasgow phenomenon – much of the wrongdoing that takes place there is mirrored in cities up and down the land. This one took place in Dundee and ended up with a demonstration that, if victims of injustice fight hard enough, they can make their point. Although this case ended up as a success on paper, the tragedy is that an innocent fifteen-year-old boy was dead.

  On 30 March 1998, young John Kidd went out after his tea to indulge the usual teenage passion for football. He met a group of friends in Drumgeith Park and had a kick-around. This harmless burning up of energy in an attempt to mimic the heroes of the real-life clubs they supported ended dramatically. The young footballers were attacked by a gang known locally as the Fintry Shams, denizens of a tough local housing scheme. The time was around 9.45 p.m. and, in a way that is not unusual, neighbours near the park sensed trouble was in the air that chilly night. Calls were made to the police but, for one reason or another, no assistance came. In the meantime, John Kidd was hit in chest by a stone thrown by the invaders. This injury was so severe that it killed John.

  A few minutes before the fatal blow had been struck, a police van had reportedly been seen going along Pitkerro Drive, one of the park’s boundary roads, only a few yards from where John was to die. Reliable witnesses claim that they attempted to signal to the driver of police van and his companion to stop but the van simply went past on its way to whatever, wherever. As I have said earlier, the arrival of the police at a gang fight usually results in the fighting mob scarpering as soon as they see a blue light or hear a siren. Had this van stopped and the officers taken an interest, it is my view that the Fintry Shams would have taken to the hills and John Kidd would still be alive.

  Hearing of the disturbance and worried about what was going on, John’s mother ran towards the park. Meantime, friends and neighbours were trying to comfort the injured boy as he lay on the ground. A few minutes later, an ambulance and, belatedly, several police cars arrived. The paramedics were swift to realise that the boy was dangerously injured and reported back to base on the extent of the emergency and the cops, too, were quick to act. They intercepted Mrs Kidd as she made her way to the park and, instead of letting her travel to the hospital with her dying son, they drove her to a local police station where she was interviewed. Almost an hour later, she was taken to the hospital. When she got there, she asked about her son and, without being told anything, she was taken to a cubicle. Pulling aside the cubicle’s curtain, she found her son lying there dead.

  An arrest was made but, in court, the case was found not proven and the accused walked free. This family tragedy was becoming more and more horrific.

  Through their solicitor, the Kidds questioned the behaviour of the police on the fateful night. In particular, they wanted to know what the police response to the neighbours’ phone calls reporting the gang fight had been. They were told that a detective constable had acknowledged a radio message about the calls but that he had failed to attend the scene. This officer was suspended for a period of nine months. Astonishingly, one explanation given to the family was that he had acknowledged the call but ‘forgot to attend’.

  So now we come to the mystery of the van which reliable folk said they had seen go past the park. The family’s initial questions on this were met by an answer to the effect that such a van could not be identified. And, on 8 April 1999, they received a letter from the Tayside Police which said, ‘The matter of the passing police van regrettably still remains unsolved though I am advised that it was dark at the time.’ The outside observer could be forgiven for supposing that the whereabouts of a police van at any given time would be known.

  It was in August 2002 that the family turned to A Search for Justice for help. They believed that they were being given the run-around and it is difficult not to agree that, regrettably, this seemed to be the case. We are back to the issue of following procedure with which I began this chapter – in this, case the basics were not followed. Incidentally, before we got involved, there had been another meeting between the family and the police, in June 2000, during which a superintendent candidly told them that, if the officer who had originally been contacted had attended the incident, ‘there is no doubt that your son may (sic) still be alive’.

  A Search for Justice discussed the case at length and it was agreed that I should travel to Dundee to meet the family and this I did. I visited the location where the attack had happened, took photographs and interviewed witnesses. When we went to the scene of the tragedy, one witness proved particularly helpful. He graphically demonstrated his actions on the approach of the van and his attempts to force it to stop. His re-creation of the events was so realistic that, at one point, he almost got himself knocked down. Asked if he had made eye contact with the driver, he insisted he had and that the driver had also seen him but, when we spoke to the police, I was told by a female superintendent that ‘there was no police van in the area at that time’.

  Search for Justice took a report I had produced to the family’s solicitor. The upshot was that I was precognosed, in Edinburgh by counsel representing the family. In dealing with legal matters and in the courts generally, you can never be sure of an outcome to any action and, at one stage, this looked as if it could go either way. However, I stuck to my interpretation and the belief that, if the police had acted correctly and according to procedures, it was possible that John Kidd might not have died.

  It ended up as a major success for the Kidd family and their legal representative. Eventually, Tayside Police admitted responsibility and agreed to pay compensation but some questions remained.

  Much of the furore over this case had been stoked by various Sunday Mail investigations and reports – and rightly so. Their crime expert, Marion Scott, who had a long involvement with the case, got in touch with the family for what the papers call a ‘wrap-up’ piece and what emerged was astonishing. It seems that, when the detective constable received the call about the disturbance at the park, he was playing cards. Who with? Only one policeman was disciplined. Where were the officers in charge of the station? Could it be that the mystery officers in the mystery van were also playing cards? It is a sad episode. And no part of it is sadder than the fact that poor John Kidd died alone in the ambulance when his mother could have been holding his hand as he passed away …

  11

  AN ARMCHAIR, A FILM ON TV AND A DOG

  When fleeing bank robbers are caught on film and TV, it usually involves a street chase with squad cars being driven like F1 racing cars. There are tyres squealing and sirens blaring out as the cops go in hot pursuit of the bad guys. After a series of sensational shots of near collisions, much skidding around and handbrake turns worthy of rally driver Colin McRae, the robbers are eventually pulled over and arrested. Reality is often very different from this. It certainly was in the case of a guy who did a bank in the centre of Glasgow.

  As I was passing an idle moment or two playing table tennis in the station with Detective Constable Joe Woods, we were i
nterrupted. The police radio was barking out an urgent appeal for a squad car to go to a bank in Hope Street where there had been an armed robbery. It wasn’t quite on our patch but the response to this appeal seemed to be a little tardy so we stopped the big ping-pong battle and headed for the scene.

  Uniformed officers had arrived a minute or two before us and we all found the staff in a state of considerable shock. The manager told us what had happened. A fairly respectable-looking man had walked in and asked a teller to arrange for him to have a word with the boss. It was done there and then and the manager, thinking he was dealing with a prospective customer looking for a loan, got a real surprise when the visitor pulled out a gun and ordered him to call the cashier into the office. You don’t argue with a guy waving what you believe to be a loaded handgun in your face and the manager quickly complied.

  The cashier was told to get £5000 fast, which she did. The raider carried a holdall – which might have been a clue to his intentions – stuffed the readies into it and beat it out on to the street. Fortunately, one brave young teller had the presence of mind to follow him and saw him disappear into reception area of an office block not far from the bank. The teller quickly took us to where he had seen the robber disappear.

  We got a dog and a handler and I told the dog branch man to stand at the main door to this bolthole and let no one in or out. Joe and I then started a search of the building starting on the ground floor and working upwards. In a third-floor toilet, we found an imitation gun, a sports jacket and a small tin of face cleansing pads. This tin had a label attached to it indicating the chemist who had sold it and the address was of a shop in Currie, a fairly nondescript little town to the west of Edinburgh.

  I wondered why this particular floor in a large building had been used to dump the stuff and we got a lead when we discovered that on the same floor was a hairdresser. It was no ordinary cut and trim place but an upmarket business specialising in customers who wore toupees. And it was the sort of establishment where you made an appointment. Yes, a few minutes after the robbery had taken place, a customer from Currie had popped in for a trim. The danger of vanity!

  The young girl who had attended him was helpful. While at work wielding the scissors, she said she had heard the sound of police sirens nearby. She also noticed the customer had traces of ‘grease’ on his face, that he was sweating heavily and that he had a holdall which he kept tightly clamped between his feet. The guy was a regular and the girl knew him but normally he was so tight with his money that he never tipped. He did this time and little wonder with £5k in his holdall. It did not take a genius to figure out that the man in the toupee would turn out to be the bank robber. By the time we had discovered this, our boss in the CID had arrived. We told him what had transpired and, of course, he suggested we head out east on the motorway towards the capital and get to the address in Currie as soon as possible. He added that we should take the police dog with us to help identify the robber. I asked if the dog would bark, growl, wag his tail or just bite the suspect. We went without the dog!

  We set off at high speed for Currie. We found the house without much bother, knocked on the door and were admitted by a young woman, who told us her husband was in Glasgow ‘on business’. He returned half an hour later to find two detectives sitting, quite at home, in his armchairs watching a Jeff Chandler movie on TV and drinking tea. The wife indicated us and said, ‘These gentlemen want to speak to you.’

  ‘Can I help?’ he said and we informed him that we were here to arrest him for a bank robbery carried out in Glasgow earlier that day. He immediately passed out in a faint and had to be carried over to a sofa.

  When he came to, he blurted out the whole pathetic little tale. He had a business that was experiencing cash-flow trouble and the Edinburgh banks would not give him the money he needed to sort it out. In desperation, he decided to help himself from a Glasgow bank. He could see no other way out. He told us he had scouted the bank in Hope Street the week before the raid and that he was in the city for his monthly trim on the day of the robbery. He confirmed what the bank manager had told us and said that, when he had left the hairdresser and gone down to the street, he was confronted with a policeman and a dog. He said he had patted the dog which wagged his tail for him. Maybe the boss was right and we should have taken the dog to Currie!

  The guy was no desperado. The gun was an imitation one though it was realistic enough to scare the bank manager. He had had no previous dealings with the police and had clearly been driven to the robbery simply by the worry of his business going down. He was desperate for us to tell him what would happen to him and we suggested, taking his background into account that he would be dealt with in reasonably lenient manner. Indeed, we told him we thought that three years might be par for the course.

  He pleaded guilty at the High Court but, yet again, we got a lesson on the dangers of trying to guess what will happen in any court. You just never know. The week before the man in the toupee appeared in court, there had been a number of much more serious bank robberies in the city and, in one, a member of staff had been injured. The papers were full of it. The judge told our man that there was too much of this sort of thing going on and he was determined to crack down on bank robbery. He gave the raider seven years which, in those days, meant four years and eight months. I could not help feeling a wee bit sorry for our man. After all he had gone home, having got clean away with a bank robbery, to find two cops sitting in his front room.

  The man in the toupee was a bit of a born loser, I suspect. But life can turn up winners as well, even if you are a cop. I have often chanced my luck in hard cases and got a result. But only once did I back a string of winners. Gambling on horses is not my scene at all – I was pretty sure that winning some cash was not a decent prospect. But there is always an exception and once, along with some colleagues, I did make a modest bob or two from a four-legged friend though in this case the assistance came from a dodgy two-legged character.

  In the CID, you don’t get much respite from chasing murderers in a city like Glasgow – especially when, even in the twenty-first century, it can still be called the murder capital of Europe. However, just occasionally, you do get a break from it and we were enjoying one such unusual spell of non-violence when the city’s detectives got a call for assistance. It came from officers in Irvine down on the Ayrshire coast and they phoned at just the right time because, for once, we did have the manpower to be able to offer some help – something that doesn’t often happen in Glasgow.

  The problem was at the town’s famous Marymass Festival. This popular annual event has a long history and thousands come to watch the street parade, which is led by the local beauty who has been chosen as that year’s Marymass Queen. Most towns in southern Scotland have similar fetes and folk flock to them for all the fun of the fair but such gatherings also attract those who prefer to pick pockets and snatch handbags rather than ride a carousel or throw balls at coconuts to try to win a cuddly toy.

  Anyway, when the Ayrshire cops phoned for assistance on this big day, I had to ask if they were sure it was really us they required and not traffic guys or beat cops – this was the Serious Crime Squad they were contacting, I reminded them. I was assured we were required.

  It seems that, at the previous year’s festival, there had been trouble at the ‘horse racing’. This was news to us but it was explained that, as part of the festivities, horse races were held on a piece of open ground just outside town. This was not Ascot or York and it was certainly no glittering Jockey Club event with tiered grandstands packed with champagne-swilling toffs parading their finery. This was Ayrshire working folk having fun and spending their hard-earned cash – lots of it.

  Two of the preliminary races were for the magnificent working Clydesdales that are such an attractive part of farming in these parts. They’re not exactly the sort of animals that the Pony Express would use but they are extremely beautiful. However, the rest of the races were, if not for thoroughbred racehorse
s, at least for horses that looked as if they could run a bit.

  Six of us had gone down the coast that Saturday but we were not really needed. There was no sign of Glasgow pickpockets having descended en masse on Ayrshire – a team from Saracen in the north of the city had been expected – and there were no signs of crowd trouble. It was shaping up to be a nice afternoon off. We enjoyed a pleasant lunch and wandered round the temporary racecourse.

  After the first race was run, an acquaintance I met informed me that he had been given access to the result of the races in advance by a friend. How often have we all heard that? Nonetheless, it was agreed that he would stand outside the committee tent and five minutes before the start of each race indicate, using his fingers, the number of the horse that was expected to win the race. This was intelligence that I had to share with my colleagues. And, just as the second race was about to start, my tipster indicated the number four, giving the plain-clothes cops time to put on a small wager with one of the many bookies from the city who had come down for the event. Number four duly won and this turned out to be a regular occurrence on that pleasant afternoon in the sun. The cops were turning a nice wee profit even though, at this stage, it seemed as if the races were being run competitively.

  The last race was a quite different affair. Our man Bert, as I will call him, promptly turned up outside the tent before the race and indicated we should back number five. The last race at any meeting always generates a lot of activity for the bookies – it’s the last chance of the day for losers, ever hopeful of turning a profit, to chase their losses and, for the winners, it’s a chance to use some of their winnings to make it an even better day.