Three Verdicts

Title Page

Donald R Findlay QC

Three Verdicts

NEIL WILSON PUBLISHING • GLASGOW • SCOTLAND

Chapter One

James Muirhead QC was sitting on a carver in counsel’s retiring room in the High Court of Justiciary in Glasgow, his feet up on the imposing oak table which occupied the centre of the room. It had been there for more years than anyone could remember and mourners would have sat around it in its former life as a wake table, no doubt partaking of a glass or two while extolling (or otherwise) the virtues of the departed. Generations of Scots advocates had worn grooves into its polished surface with the heels of their shoes while waiting for juries to return. It had seen many a celebration and more than its fair share of post-trial wakes.

Muirhead had just filled his pipe and was in the process of raising his lighter when the buzzer sounded to announce that the jury was ready to return its verdict. He lowered the flame to the rim of the pipe and stared at his junior counsel, Donald Anderson, through a spiral of bluegrey smoke. He took the pipe from his mouth, cupping the rosebriar bowl in the palm of his right hand and characteristically stroked his greying moustache.

‘Just so,’ was the only comment he made.

‘Must have a chance.’ Anderson’s observation was as much a question as it was a statement.

‘Well, we’re about to find out.’

Muirhead pulled on his silk gown and turned to the cheval mirror to don his horsehair wig. His face was showing obvious signs of the strain which the case had imposed. It did not get any easier. He tugged at his constricting waistcoat and frowned. He needed a smaller body or a larger suit.

‘Donald?’

‘Yes, James.’

‘Do you think I’m overweight?’

‘What?’

‘Do you think I’m…’

‘I heard you. How heavy are you?’

‘Thirteen and a half…well, fourteen stones. But it’s six feet of solid muscle.’

‘Then you’re too fat.’

‘Thank you for your moral support.’

‘James, can we just go and get the verdict? No point in prolonging the evil hour, is there?’

Anderson took his colleague’s grunt as an indication of assent.

Muirhead was in his mid-forties and had been at the Scottish Bar for over twenty years. He was generally regarded as being the best defence counsel of his generation. His formidable reputation was based largely on his enthusiasm for battle. A ferocious cross-examiner, he would fight a client’s case to the bitter end, often in the face of apparently insurmountable odds – and seemingly overwhelming evidence. His many celebrated bust-ups with judges were the stuff of tabloid legend, his cases covered assiduously by the press. He had once remarked at a dinner party that judges were like children. ‘You mean they should be seen and not heard?’, a guest had enquired. ‘No. They should respect their betters and be regularly smacked to keep them in order,’ Muirhead had replied.

In today’s trial, he and the judge, Lord Cowden, had crossed swords more than once. When a police officer was proved to be particularly recalcitrant in the face of persistent interrogation, the judge had sought to come to his rescue, remarking, ‘The man has answered your question, Mr Muirhead.’

‘Then,’ came the instant rejoinder, ‘your Lordship’s hearing is indeed more acute than that of myself or any of the members of the jury, because we do not seem to have heard it – yet.’

The thinly muffled chortling of the jury made Lord Cowden realise that this was one round he was not going to win.

But now the verdict awaited, and Muirhead steeled himself the few tense minutes which would decide his client’s fate. He hated this moment. He always had. The trial of Her Majesty’s Advocate against Charles Gallagher was about to come to an end.

There are few things in life more dramatic than the end of a murder trial. The speed of events can catch the uninitiated completely unaware. A jury returns – a verdict is delivered. Murder brings a mandatory life sentence with the prospect of nothing more than many years in prison to look forward to. An acquittal and moments later the former accused leaves the building to find his family and freedom awaiting him.

Muirhead had witnessed this play within a play many times. Each time he disliked it a little more. It was the part of the trial he had no control over. Given the choice, he would avoid it. Such an option was never available. If the verdict went against him, he would have to go down to the white-tiled cells below the court and explain to the client why it had all gone so badly wrong. Words of comfort. Platitudes. However well intentioned. Think about an appeal. Take one day at a time. Not the end of the world. Life goes on.

Leaving the retiring room he walked slowly and deliberately along the corridor towards the entrance to the court. Each time he made this journey he was acutely aware of his surroundings. He was about to enter the famous (some would say infamous) North Court of the Justiciary buildings opposite Glasgow Green on the south bank of the River Clyde.

The High Court may be an impressive edifice with columns flanking either side of its imposing entrance but it is not for its architectural splendour or picturesque location that it is noted, but rather the reputation of some of the more notorious visitors who have passed through its marble-floored halls. The very room from which the jury would soon emerge had been occupied in the 1950s by the men and women who had brought in the guilty verdicts which sent mass murderer Peter Manuel to meet his maker at the end of a hangman’s rope.

Muirhead paused while the last of the public filed in through the rear door.

Law courts are the last places of free entertainment. In the days of capital murder, the queues of the concerned, the curious and the ghoulish would stretch along the street outside the building, eagerly anticipating the day’s events. In recent years, murder trials had become so commonplace that they invariably attracted little public scrutiny and minimal media attention. It was not unknown for the public benches to contain a solitary bored hack and the family of the accused (the latter consisting of a pregnant girlfriend, an alcoholic father and a greetin’ mammy with a bad perm).

This case was different. The public galleries had been packed and every word had been reported in the press. A legal cause célèbre was about to reach its conclusion.

Muirhead reached the vestibule which gave access for counsel and solicitors to both the North and South courts. Looking into the courtroom, he watched the comings and goings of the pre-match warm up. The Advocate Depute and his assistant were already seated at their places in court. The Clerk of Justiciary was animatedly arranging documents on his table. Police officers were stationed at the various entrances of the court. The jury box was empty. A policeman appeared at the head of the stairs leading from the cells to the dock, followed by the accused. Charles Gallagher was nearly six feet tall with short dirty fair hair and was as thin as the proverbial rake. (His granny used to say that there wasn’t room enough between his shoulders for a pain.) He had a prominent scar which ran the length of his left cheek – a souvenir of some previous skirmish with the pond-life of Glasgow’s criminal class.

Throughout most of the trial he had shown no emotion whatsoever. After an initial outburst at a witness, he had sat implacably in the dock, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts and feelings. Now he looked drawn and deathly pale. Before he sat down, he turned to the back of the room and smiled thinly to his family in the gallery. Muirhead noticed that his hands were trembling. He was fighting to keep control – and was determined not to show it.

Muirhead nodded to the macer who headed for the jury room and then paused at the door. Donald Anderson walked straight into the court. He knew his senior’s superstition well. Muirhead would not come in for the verdict until everyone was in place and the macer had gone to collect the judge. His practice was invariable. In the far corner, opposite the dock, a door opened and, preceded by the macer, the jury began to file into their places.

There is a theory among lawyers that if jurors cannot look at the man in the dock on returning to court, then they intend to convict him. Muirhead eschewed such notions. There was no way of knowing how juries would behave. Occasionally, very occasionally, you might get a clue. Although juries are always told by judges that punishment is a matter for the court and they should not allow themselves to be influenced by the possible sentence that might be imposed, every juror knows that a guilty verdict in the High Court is likely to result in a lengthy prison sentence. Jurors who returned to their box chattering amongst themselves and appearing relaxed, were usually an encouraging sign. They know that they will not have to witness a man being sent to jail. They know that, for practical purposes, the case is already over.

Muirhead saw no such encouraging sign on this occasion. Every jury member bar one walked in, heads slightly bowed, stony-faced. Only one appeared to show any reaction at all, and Muirhead thought he saw the hint of a smile. The small prissy-looking man who took his seat at the end of the middle of the three rows had an almost perceptible air of triumph about him. The foreman, Muirhead thought … undoubtedly the foreman.

The macer passed on his way to the judge’s chambers and paused to take Muirhead aside.

‘Dour bunch, sir. Glad to see the back of them. Bet the foreman is the one who looks like Rab C. Nesbitt. Right moaning-faced bastard he’s been, sir. Speaking of which, I’m away to get his nibs.’ The macer moved on.

‘Oh no, he isn’t’, muttered Muirhead as he took a few deep breaths in an attempt to stop the churning in his stomach. Waste of time, and he knew it.

Resigned, Muirhead walked into court, going over in his mind the events which had brought him here. The death of Kevin Boyle, late and largely unlamented son of Hugh Boyle, one of the last of Glasgow’s oldstyle gangsters, had presented him with his most testing professional challenge ever – and had nearly made him crack in the process.

On a dark, damp night the East End of Glasgow presents a series of depressing vistas. What town planners had intended as gardens are now barren areas long since devoid of any form of vegetation. All that grows and proliferates are the discarded remnants of rusting cars. Occasional wooden posts mark the boundaries of these once green places. The wooden fences have long since been broken up and used as weapons by local youths in the gang fights which feature as part of Friday and Saturday night’s entertainment.

In many areas there hangs a tangible air of menace. Strangers are not welcome. (This covers a broad category of people, including the rent man and the police in particular. Any police car visiting the area will be crewed by three officers – two to carry out the inquiry and a third to keep a careful watch on the car itself.)

The Springfield housing scheme was one such place, a microcosm of the whole of the East End; a close-knit community where every resident appeared in some way to be related to everyone else. This was Boyle territory.

Hugh Boyle had embarked upon a career in crime in the 1940s. It was one which was to be visited with considerable success. Born in the notorious Gorbals in Glasgow where poverty, violence and intense family loyalties co-existed side by side, he was one of seven children and had more aunts, uncles and cousins than he could count, let alone remember. Gangs were a way of life in the Gorbals and membership was obligatory.

Each gang had its own territory and boundaries were jealously and zealously guarded. Every weekend, rival gangs would meet in what would sometimes prove to be mortal combat on Glasgow Green in the shadow of the High Court. Most members bore the scars of battle. The favoured weapon was the cut-throat razor which was often wielded with a breathtaking degree of speed and dexterity. An opponent’s cheek could be laid bare to the bone before he knew he had been cut.

In the 1950s, the High Court Judge Lord Carmont decided he would try to remove the razor from the streets of Glasgow. He began handing out longer and longer prison sentences to gang members who appeared before him. Slowly the message sank home. Razors were put away in drawers, never to reappear.

Unfortunately, most gang members still felt it necessary to carry a weapon of some description. After all, a man was naked without one. The knife came to replace the razor. Unfortunately, while the razor could maim, the knife would kill, and while Lord Carmont’s sentencing contributed greatly to an improvement in the aesthetic appearance of Glasgow’s citizens, it was a significant factor in bringing to many an untimely end.

Hugh Boyle joined the ‘Young Cumbie’, the youth section of one of the Gorbals’ most notorious gangs. It was named after Cumberland Street, the location of its headquarters.

He took part in his fair share of battles, picked up the obligatory scar and could wield both razor and knife with the best of them. However, he swiftly realised that all this violence for the sake of it was ultimately pointless. He had no intention of ending up like so many of his predecessors – in prison or hopelessly alcoholic. His fighting prowess brought him admiration, but it was his intelligence that earned him respect. When he was seventeen he graduated to the Cumbie itself and quickly established himself as a natural leader. He stopped carrying a personal weapon, preferring the company and moral support of two heavily armed body guards. He also improved the gang’s finances. Raiding parties were sent around town to relieve the middle classes of their property, houses were broken into, and pedestrians parted from their wallets and handbags.

Hugh Boyle then discovered the magic of credit. People’s greed was often far greater than their means, and Boyle was nothing if not generous. He would allow them to incur debts which they could then pay up, with a rate of interest he arbitrarily determined. The unwary (and there was an abundance of them) were trapped. They found themselves having to borrow money in order to meet the weekly instalments. Boyle readily supplied this need and thereby entered the profession of banking. This proved even more lucrative as, realistically the debt had very little chance of being repaid. Occasionally some defaulters would need a gentle reminder.

Boyle found himself growing ever more powerful and more wealthy. He came to appreciate that people were dispensable. His henchmen had no great personal aspirations and were quite content with the money he regularly put their way. It enabled them to have a good bevvy and keep the wife quiet (if not exactly sweet). The foot soldiers, however, regularly fell foul of the law. Despite deals by the police, being a grass in the Gorbals was as good as signing your own death warrant. The police knew of Boyle’s activities, but they could prove nothing. A combination of loyalty and terror made a powerful opponent.

He had married a local girl, indeed she was the local beauty. In those days, mixed marriages were frowned upon but the fact that Annie was a Protestant and he was a good Catholic (well, a Catholic anyway) bothered Hugh not at all. The hard man discovered he had a soft spot. He doted on Annie. He worshipped her. She was everything he was not, soft, gentle, and cultured. Hugh’s reading was confined to the back pages of newspapers. Annie regularly had her nose in a book by James Joyce or Jane Austen (whoever they might be). She dragged him out to concerts – classical music no less – and the Art Gallery. Hugh accepted his lot gracefully; after all, he loved her.

As time passed, Boyle grew weary of the Gorbals. When the Springfield scheme was built in the mid-sixties, he became one of its first residents, thanks to a generous donation to a local housing official. He was followed by his many relatives and they quickly took over the whole area.

His criminal empire relocated to the heart of the East End and Boyle continued to prosper. Nothing happened in the area without his say so. He also discovered the value of banks, or rather bank managers, not all of whom were upstanding members of the community. One or two liked more of the good things in life than their salary could pay for. Boyle happily made up the difference and in return acquired a series of accounts in a range of fictitious names with equally fictitious addresses.

Boyle’s success continued to be based on the money-lending business. He also provided a consultancy service for those who wished to be more adventurous and seek a quick return on investment by robbing a bank or security van. He would supply men and material for a decent percentage of the take. If the turn went bad, Boyle could afford to walk away and put it all down to experience. The risks were virtually nonexistent.

Only twice did he find himself in court. The only crime of which he was ever convicted was driving a vehicle while under the influence of alcohol. He lost his licence for twelve months and had to pay a modest fine. Paying his lawyer’s bill proved more of a burden. He would probably have got away with it altogether but for the fact that the vehicle he collided with when driving home from the pub had a blue flashing light on its roof.

In 1986 real trouble caught up with him for the one and only time. His son, Kevin, staggered home one night with blood pouring from wounds in his head and arm. He had been out making some collections when the unthinkable happened and he was mugged. Normally, members of the Boyle family did not go about unaccompanied, but the size of Kevin’s brain did not match the rest of his physical stature and he liked to strut about on his own playing the part of a hard man. In the East End he was untouchable, but when he strode into a pub in the centre of town and began flashing his money around, he was asking for trouble – and it came looking for him.

On leaving the pub the hapless Kevin was set upon by two youths who hit him on the head with a hammer, stabbed him in the arm and dragged him into a nearby lane, where he was robbed and abandoned like a sack of rubbish. In fact his injuries were not as severe as they had first appeared, but when he arrived home he was mindful that he would have to explain to his father the loss of the three grand. His performance was a bit hammy, but he gave a passable portrayal of the wounded hero.

Hugh Boyle was in a fury. He would have quite cheerfully strangled Kevin for being so stupid. On one hand, his son’s injuries would quickly heal. On the other hand, a member of his family, his eldest son, no less, had been publicly humiliated. This was unacceptable. His reputation was at stake. No one laid a hand on a Boyle – not unless they had Hugh’s express permission.

Unsurprisingly, the matter was never reported to the police but Boyle allowed some discreet inquiries to be carried out. One name was mentioned. Despite a plethora of offers from his lieutenants, Hugh decided this was a personal matter and as such should receive his personal attention.

Bobby Houliston, small-time crook and short-time local legend, was sitting in the corner of the crowded Tavern Bar in Glasgow’s Duke Street, surrounded by many new friends whose admiration and adoration he had secured thanks to the large quantities of drink he had purchased (paid for with Hugh Boyle’s money). Had he been facing the door of the bar he might have realised that the silence which descended on the pub ought to have caused him some concern.

‘Whit’s up? Has some fucker just died?’

Prophetic words.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder and began to speak. Hugh Boyle prevented him from doing so by filling Bobby’s open mouth with four bullets fired from a revolver. No one would ever know what Bobby’s last meditation on earth might have been. It should have been ‘Fuck me!’ After swallowing the four bullets, Bobby was well and truly fucked.

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