by David Leslie
About the Author
David Leslie has worked for the News of the World since 1970. He has covered scores of major stories, including the tragedies of Zeebrugge, Piper Alpha, Lockerbie and Dunblane. He has been based in Glasgow since 1994, concentrating on crime and major investigations. He is also the author of the bestselling Crimelord: The Licensee, about the elusive multimillionaire gangster Tam McGraw.
BIBLE JOHN’S SECRET DAUGHTER
Murder, Drugs and a Mother’s Secret Heartbreak
David Leslie
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licenced or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781780571201
Version 1.0
www.mainstreampublishing.com
Copyright © David Leslie, 2007
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by
MAINSTREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY (EDINBURGH) LTD
7 Albany Street
Edinburgh EH1 3UG
ISBN 9781845962289
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast
This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of those close to Hannah Martin. In some cases, names of people and places, dates, sequences or the detail of events have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such respects, not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Hannah Martin died in penury. But had her wealth been counted in the number and loyalty of her friends she would have been rich indeed. Many have contributed to the telling of her story, but it is to Hannah’s closest friend that I am especially indebted, not just for the generosity of her memories and time but also for her integrity, honesty and determination that this should be a true story. This delightful lady has asked not to be identified publicly, but she knows who she is and I am so grateful to her.
For reasons I explain in the story, Hannah called her own daughter Isobel, a name I retain throughout, even though it is not one by which she is now known. It is easy to see why she has blossomed in the career she chose. Her charm and intelligence have made every one of our many meetings a delight and she opened so many doors for me. To know her is a privilege and she exudes a pride in her mother that humbles the listener.
My thanks also to my photographic colleagues, George Wright and Gary Jamieson; to Graeme Mason for his hospitality and candour; to Innes Smith for wise and kind thoughts; to Deborah Warner, my editor at Mainstream, for patience and positive help; and to Hannah Martin.
CONTENTS
Prologue
One: Dance Crazy
Two: The Stranger
Three: In the Beginning
Four: The Brothel
Five: Betrayed
Six: Keeping Mum
Seven: The Godfather
Eight: Family Secret
Nine: Arriving and Leaving
Ten: Tea in the Grass
Eleven: A Nice Little Earner
Twelve: Dying for a Song
Thirteen: Bible John
Fourteen: Resurrection
Fifteen: Continental Poses
Sixteen: The Girl With Red Hair
Seventeen: Sugar Daddy
Eighteen: Del Boy
Nineteen: Laundering
Twenty: The Safe House
Twenty-One: The Deceivers
Twenty-Two: Sowing Seeds
Twenty-Three: The Missing Bung
Twenty-Four: The Wretched Soul
Twenty-Five: Blood on the Walls
Twenty-Six: Go Home
Twenty-Seven: Serial Searching
Twenty-Eight: World’s End
Twenty-Nine: Finding Out
Thirty: The West Wing
Conclusion
PROLOGUE
It was while researching material for my first book, Crimelord: The Licensee, that I first learned of Hannah Martin. She had been the star prosecution witness at the trial of 11 men accused of smuggling cannabis into Scotland under the floors of holiday coaches. It had been the biggest and most successful racket ever, grossing close to £50 million, making very rich some of the most astute and leaving leading European criminal gangs agape at the sheer simplicity yet genius of it. A host of police forces were baffled as to why it had operated for so long without their knowledge.
Time after time, I wondered who Hannah Martin was and why she was so important, but no one seemed able or willing to tell me. For all her significance, very little had been written about this woman, once the mistress of one of the accused men, Graeme Mason. One of the reasons for this was that restrictions had been placed on the reporting of the men’s lengthy trial in Edinburgh during the spring and summer of 1998. The other accused were due in the dock once the initial trial was over; therefore, the Crown did not want to risk a defence charge that their own claim to innocence had been prejudiced by sensationalism.
Many of those I interviewed while writing Crimelord were adamant Hannah Martin was a key player in the smugglers’ downfall, but finding anyone who knew her or would talk about her proved an elusive and eventually unsuccessful mission. She had simply disappeared; it was almost as though she had never existed.
After the book was launched, I was contacted by its publisher, Mainstream, and told that a reader who wanted to discuss Crimelord with me had left a telephone number with a request that I get in touch.
When I called, a woman answered and I introduced myself.
In a pleasant, friendly voice she said she had enjoyed the book. ‘Did you try to find Hannah Martin?’ she then asked.
I replied I had, then explained, ‘She seems to have vanished. Lots of people remember her, but nobody knows where she went or what happened to her after the trial. There were times when I wondered if she really existed.’
‘She was certainly very much involved in it,’ the woman told me, ‘but the drugs and smuggling affair was only one of many parts of her life.’
‘Then she must be some remarkable lady,’ I answered. By now, I was desperate to learn more. ‘You obviously know her.’
‘In a way, yes, but I can promise you Hannah Martin’s story is an incredible one. Would you like to hear it?’
‘Of course, but who are you?’
‘I’m Hannah Martin’s daughter, something of which I’m very proud. I think we should meet because I would like to tell you about my mother.’
ONE
DANCE CRAZY
Hannah Martin loved to dance, but then so did most in the west of Scotland. In Glasgow especially they were dancing potty and she among the most fervent. If Hannah had had her way, she would have danced seven nights a week, which was possible thanks to the abundance of dance halls the city had to offer. Some even opened at lunchtime. Slow and quick foxtrots, paso dobles, waltzes; each step, each movement was second nature to her. And not only the female pattern: if men were too shy to ask, or if there was
a temporary shortage caused by their being late, as they drank courage down their throats or had to work overtime at their jobs, then Hannah would simply dance with a girlfriend, the pair taking it in turn to lead or be led.
Dancing was Hannah’s escape from unhappy memories and a wearisome home life with her parents, Jessie and Malcolm. Maybe it was all she needed because while the occasional one of her more adventurous friends looked for a liqueur to end their night’s menu of twists, turns, left changes and promenades, a nightcap of sexual dalliance by allowing a fondle or maybe more in a dark place or quiet street before heading homewards, sex didn’t seem to especially interest her. Hannah was a good girl, saving the joys her body would offer for Mr Right, if and when he appeared. Like many others, a kiss on the doorstep was as much as she expected to give or receive.
Pals even thought her naive about the subject of sex, but then this was the 1960s, the Swinging ’60s, as they would be remembered. In today’s uninhibited society, the term ‘swinger’ has come to mean a man or woman keen to experiment with a variety of partners, but the ’60s swung because the music made people want to do just that – swing your partner around the dance hall, or if there was no one to hold nearby just swing yourself. Rock and roll had arrived and, as it established itself, the music encouraged the rise of bands that would ultimately cause the demise of ballroom dancing. The television boom was taking off, bringing with it a change in lifestyle, so instead of bouncing about on their feet some now preferred putting them up to watch others make the effort. The dance hall era, when floors would be packed each night of the week, was on the cusp of decline. The goggle box made groups like the Rolling Stones and Manfred Mann into household names, instantly available at the push of a button, and their concerts money-spinning sell-outs, encouraging hall owners to ponder whether they ought to change direction and fill their arenas with seats. This was the dilemma that would come to venues such as Glasgow’s Majestic Ballroom, the Locarno, the Dennistoun Palais, the Plaza, St Andrews Halls, the F and F Palais de Danse, the West End Ballroom and the best-known and much-loved Barrowland Ballroom in the city’s east end.
Like the city and its inhabitants, the Barrowland had learned to fight its way through troubled times. It was set in the heart of the Barras, an area in the city centre that had been given its name because it was to there that hawkers and peddlers would push their barrows, packed with any and every conceivable item that would fit into them. Many would first have trundled Steptoe-like along the avenues to the west of the city where the rich and middle classes had their homes, offering to relieve these benefactors of their old clothing, pots and pans that were showing signs of wear, bedding that had become thin and marked, and even scratched or broken furniture. At the Barras, they would seek to out-shout others selling similar wares. Their presence would attract the poor by the thousand, each desperate to pick up a bargain for a few pennies or less. As time passed, more and more barrows squeezed in, and as competition for space intensified fighting between rival traders became commonplace, often leading to the police being called in, though usually disputes could be settled amicably.
Inevitably, the market spread and as it did so policeman’s daughter Margaret McIver spotted the potential. Having started with a single barrow selling fruit and vegetables, she and her husband, James, built up their business until they opened a covered market at the Barras. Being able to shop and sell under a roof guaranteed the Barras would flourish even further. Margaret showed her gratitude to those who took space by laying on a free dance each Christmas. Frustrated one year by learning to her horror that someone else had already booked her usual venue, she demonstrated her determination not to be outdone by building her very own dance hall.
Opened in 1934, it was initially rented out to others but soon, realising from the growing headcount of paying customers that laying on dancing was the equivalent to being granted a licence to print money, Margaret formed a resident band, Billy McGregor and the Gaybirds, and sat back as the cash poured in. The Barrowland became a haven for servicemen calling at the Clyde from a plethora of countries during the Second World War and even rated a mention during a traitorous broadcast by Irish-American William Joyce, the German mouthpiece best known as Lord Haw-Haw, who was hanged for treason in 1946.
Margaret died in June 1958 and three months later the hall was ravaged by fire. It was rebuilt and opened again on Christmas Eve 1960, with a capacity of 1,900, acoustics envied the world over and a sprung floor. Top bands such as those led by Johnny Dankworth, Henry Hall and Joe Loss would grace its stage, while on the floor young men and women from as far afield as Edinburgh, Fife, Ayrshire and South Lanarkshire would hop, bop, jitterbug, polka, waltz and trot the night away.
They came from many backgrounds, those dancers, from homes rich and poor, big and small, clean and dirty, happy and miserable. The doors would normally open around seven, by which time a lengthy queue would have formed, so it was essential to be there well before the doormen ushered the first couples inside. This would mean a rush for the vast majority who were working folk, with jobs that did not let them free until five or six of an evening. The solution, for many, was the public baths.
Scattered all over the city, the baths had largely begun life as wash houses, the ‘steamies’ to which women would take their dirty clothing and perhaps hire a tub or washboard, then take advantage, while they were doing the family wash, of the chance for a gossip, hence the expression ‘talk of the steamie’. If the wash houses did not already have baths for men and women installed, the Glasgow Corporation had these added and so, instead of having to catch a bus home for a wash and brush up, returning not just late but potentially to be told the hall was already full up, the Barrowland fans would make a dash for the nearest public baths, where for just a few pence they could hire towels and emerge scrubbed and fresh faced, their hair still damp, and have time for a fish supper or bridie before joining the line of eager dancers. The biggest of these baths, with 54 private cubicles, was on Harhill Street in Govan, but among the others were those on Douglas Street in Partick, Calder Street in Govanhill and Kay Street in Springburn.
During her first excursions to the Barrowland, Hannah had no such worries about getting to the dance hall on time, even though her journey from Bellshill, seven miles to the south of Glasgow, meant a couple of buses. She was still a schoolgirl at the time, although her level of attendance left much to be desired. Aged thirteen, just entering her teens and encountering young womanhood, she looked old enough to be allowed to pass in and mingle with those two or more times her age. It might have been expected that she would go dancing with her sister Isabella, three years her senior and known to everyone as Isobel (a pattern we too will adopt), but the bonds between them were not strong. In any case, the sisters had little in common. Later, Isobel would no longer be around to join Hannah on her journeys to the Barrowland.
A glitzy, brash spot, widely looked on as the liveliest dance hall in Scotland, the Barrowland was much more than merely a place in which those who were technically capable could show off their skills in public. It was almost a community centre, where the young and those disguising the ravages of time in the hope of being looked upon as young met to admire and be admired, to talk, look for a future, roll away a past.
The doormen, sometimes disparagingly referred to as bouncers, who inspected each new arrival – searching out the drunks and trouble-making deadbeats, even eyeing up a likely candidate with whom to settle an old score later on – were not charged with making moral judgements on the hundreds who passed before their gaze each night. Adulterers, thieves, liars, cheats, shoplifters and, as time would prove, even a murderer or two, would at some stage or another make their way onto the dance floor.
Occasionally, as the buses made their way to Glasgow, Hannah would watch in fascination as a married woman tugged off her wedding ring and hid it in the recesses of her handbag, even using a dab of make-up to hide the telltale pale strip of flesh left on the third finger of her left
hand. Others would wait until reaching the ladies’ cloakroom to perform this little plot of deceit. Wherever or whenever, it made no difference: the motive was the same. Of course not every married woman making a beeline for the Barrowland, leaving her husband behind or the children in the care of a babysitter, did so with the intention of ditching her moral respectability and vows of faithfulness; however, often a woman, freed from home and housework and sometimes a brutal, uncaring husband, was not going to let the little matter of a gold band spoil her chances of a frolic with a stranger that would end when it was time to dash for the last bus home. There were those who claimed that as the closing hour approached there were often to be found more couples performing in the backstreets around the Gallowgate than stepping the light fantastic in the dance hall itself.
A woman might discover herself spending most of the night in the arms of a good-looking stranger adept at finding his way around the dance floor. If he offered to walk her to her bus or her home at evening’s end, well, what could be the harm in that? Or a stop in an unlit shop doorway for a kiss, she allowing his hands a brief discovery of her body, even a sly caress of soft bare flesh at a stocking top? Who was to know? There was no need to explain to those waiting at home what had transpired. Such an innocent diversion could hardly lead to anything, could it? After all, there were lots of others about and her protector would generally seem nice, intelligent, interesting even.
Making oneself available could naturally be fraught with risks. Young men with a weekend in which to blow their week’s wages tended to first ‘tank up’ before making to the Barrowland. Bars and pubs in the area proliferated. And try as hard as they might, landlords found it impossible to prevent the old enmity between Catholics and Protestants, that continues to pervade the west of Scotland, from entering the area. The fact that the dance hall was in the east end, traditionally a Catholic stronghold, meant nothing because Protestant drinking holes abounded there too, and still do.