The case of the missing thumbprint

The "Hyde Park bomber" has become a landmark for British justice, reports Bob Woffinden

Scant attention was devoted last month to the successful outcome of the appeal of Danny McNamee, known as the "Hyde Park bomber". In publicity terms, McNamee was doubly disadvantaged: not only was the judgment overshadowed by pre-Christmas festivities, it was also given on a day when the news agenda was focused on Baghdad. With Britain and the US dropping so many bombs on Iraq, who was interested in a man who, we belatedly learnt, hadn't bombed anyone at all?

Yet the judgment was of immense importance, for it offered yet another proof of how catastrophically flawed the British justice can be; and because the appeal judges fundamentally restated the legal position with regard to appeals.

McNamee had supposedly manufactured the bomb that exploded in July 1982, killing four soldiers and seven horses.

The Crown's case rested on three fingerprints: one each on short lengths of insulating tape in two caches of explosives-making equipment discovered in Pangbourne and Salcey forests, and a thumbprint on a Duracell battery recovered from the debris after a controlled explosion in Kensington.

As a result, the Crown argued that the "artwork" used in the manufacture of circuit boards found in these locations was so similar that they were all made by "the same original master". This, they asserted, was McNamee. This evidence, together with all the emotive associations of the Hyde Park bombing, added up to a formidable case.

From the outset, McNamee's defence was that, although he was at a loss to explain the thumbprint, there was an innocent explanation for the first two fingerprints. After graduating from Queen's University, Belfast, he was employed by Kimballs in Dundalk, making circuits for gaming machines. If bomb-making had been going on, he was unaware of it. The judge, however, claimed that "two prints . . . could have an innocent explanation; but three prints is beyond coincidence."

The appeal judges noted that the case which they heard in 1998 was very different to that presented to the jury in 1987. It certainly was. The Crown now had to concede that they were unable to say that McNamee was "the Hyde Park bomber" or that he was responsible for the manufacture of the circuit boards. The critical thumbprint, found on the Kensington bomb, also disappeared. A print is supposed to have 16 identifying features, yet of the 14 fingerprint experts called to this appeal, none could now find more than 11 characteristics.

The judges further remarked on the extraordinary amount of relevant material that was not disclosed in 1987. They referred to two "detailed and impressive" reports on the caches of explosives prepared by the anti-terrorist branch of New Scotland Yard. They wrote that, with regard to the cache of explosives found in Pangbourne forest, "the evidence against the bomb-making team of Hughes, Ellis, Leonard and McGuire is overwhelming". The second report said that "Moyna and Harford [are] clearly . . . responsible for the production of the majority of the bomb components found in Salcey forest".

The names are all those of known terrorists. While they were in top-secret reports, McNamee's name was conspicuous by its absence. The defence didn't realise this, however, as no one was thoughtful enough to pass on such vital information. Nor had anyone from the prosecution side bothered to inform them that, although they had found a solitary fingerprint of McNamee's in the Pangbourne forest cache, they had found 24 identified as those of Desmond Ellis, a leading bomb-maker.

Despite all this, the judges still held to the view that McNamee might be guilty. They may have been influenced by a public interest immunity (PII) hearing at the very start of the appeal. One member of McNamee's team explained that the material appeared to consist of "really objectionable low-grade gossip, with the RUC saying they had sightings of McNamee on dates when he was actually in prison". This "evidence" was unchallenged and unchallengeable. (The use in British courts of PII hearings is on the agenda for the European Court, on the grounds that it breaches the right to a fair and public hearing.)

The judges' perspective could have presented serious difficulties for McNamee. One of the provisions of the 1995 Criminal Appeal Act was to change the grounds on which appeals would be allowed from "unsafe and unsatisfactory" simply to "unsafe". Had parliament, in introducing the change, intended a fundamental shift in the court's approach?

The answer, initially determined in the appeal of R v Chalkley and Jeffries, was the latter: appeals were allowed only if judges were convinced the whole case was "unsafe".

Yet McNamee's defence team (headed by the solicitor Gareth Pierce and the QC Michael Mansfield) succeeded in persuading the judges that, for the previous two years, the appeal court had been frustrating the wishes of parliament. The judges conceded, in effect, that the Chalkley and Jeffries judgment was too sweeping and that a real test for an appeal should be "[where] the impact of the fresh evidence on a case is not conclusive, but is such as to render the verdict of the jury unsafe because a tribunal of fact might . . . be left with a reasonable doubt as to guilt".

The appeal means a big step forward for all future appellants. Immediate beneficiaries were Michael O'Brien, Ellis Sherwood and Darren Hall, convicted in the so-called Cardiff newsagent case. Their case was referred to appeal, and the three were released on bail in time for Christmas.

This article first appeared in the 08 January 1999 issue of the New Statesman, Stuff the millennium

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State