‘Shut the fuck up and keep quiet,’ he shouted.
I could see that he was in a blind panic, stumbling over his words, perspiring profusely as though he had indeed come across an IRA arms dump and that I was an armed terrorist.
I tried again. ‘Let me show you, let me prove to you that they’re only replicas,’ I suggested.
‘Don’t fuckin’ come that with us,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait until the experts get here. They know what’s what.’
I started to laugh, unable to control myself as I witnessed the officers rushing around my flat in a panic searching for more weapons and ammo. I shrugged my shoulders. If they wouldn’t listen to my explanation then, I felt, fuck ‘em, let them show their senior officers how stupid they were. In fact, I had the weapons and the ammo as protection just in case the IRA had come bursting into my flat but I couldn’t tell the police the real reason.
Though nobody listened, or appeared to take the slightest notice of anything I said at first, I did in fact manage to say a few words once they quietened down a little and their panic subsided. I explained that I collected such replicas. But they were still all on edge and I could tell they were too nervous to pay attention to what I was saying. When one of the officers finally found the courage to kneel down and examine the sacks containing the guns and ammo the man in charge yelled, ‘What the fuck are you doing? . . . Get back . . . get back . . . don’t move . . . they might be booby-trapped . . . we know what these IRA bastards are like.’ After the specialist officers had arrived at the house and checked the weapons they were put in clear plastic bags and taken downstairs. A number of neighbours had turned out to see what was happening, wondering why four police cars had arrived at my flat with their sirens screaming, bringing attention to this quiet backwater which had never seen such police activity. They witnessed me leaving, handcuffed to a police officer, while other officers walked out holding the guns and ammo in the plastic bags. That night my neighbours were left in no doubt that in fact I was an IRA gunman and my flat an IRA arms dump. Eventually, when I was allowed to explain things in the police station the arms expert and others inspected the life-like weapons more closely. Despite the fact that they appeared to believe they were harmless replicas the decision was nevertheless taken to have them sent to the forensic arms headquarters in Huntingdon. Despite proving the weapons were only replicas the police detained me in a cell for a full four hours. I could hardly contain myself from laughing out loud at the reaction of the officers that day. Eventually I was released without charge and driven home. I had to be taken home by the police because, despite producing papers proving the Ford Orion was my property, the police decided they wanted to double-check the vehicle because they still weren’t certain the vehicle had not been stolen. In fact they kept the car for four days before saying I could collect it. But, I noted, they never apologised for the inconvenience they caused me nor did they apologise for doubting my word. It seemed to me the police were taking every opportunity they could to harass me. A few weeks later my replicas and the ammo were returned to me. But it wasn’t the end of the matter. Some months later I was in the kitchen of my flat on the first floor of a terraced house in Northumberland when I was disturbed by a heavy ‘thud, thud, thud’ on the back door below. After a few minutes the thumping began again and I looked out of the window to see two men, dressed in everyday civilian clothes, standing by the door. ‘What do you want?’ I shouted, fearing that these could indeed be IRA gunmen. They somehow seemed shady, standing with their heads down as if not wanting to be recognised.
‘Are you Martin Ashe?’ one shouted.
‘Who wants to know?’ I called back, for I didn’t recognise either man.
‘We’re police officers; we want to talk to you,’ he said.
‘Have you any identification?’ I called down.
‘Yes,’ he said, and produced his police warrant card, showing it to me as I was leaning out of the window. I looked down and they seemed genuine enough but I wasn’t absolutely certain. I decided that they were probably not IRA gunmen and went down to check their ID’s more closely.
‘We’re from Cumbria Police,’ one explained, showing me his police ID, ‘and we understand from Northumbria Police that you own an AK47 assault rifle and ammunition.’
‘That’s not true,’ I replied, ‘but I do own a replica AK.’
He continued. ‘Well, recently there has been a bank robbery at Windermere and the robbers were carrying an AK47. We’re checking everyone in the north of England who is known to own such a weapon.’
I looked at them and shook my head. ‘Come and inspect the AK if you want,’ I said, and explained what had happened when officers from Northumbria thought they had discovered an IRA arms dump in my bedroom. The officers inspected the weapons but were still sceptical. They demanded I tell them where I was on the day of the Windermere robbery and I told them I was with a girlfriend, a Customs and Excise officer. The detectives asked for her phone number and while I stayed in the room one phoned checking the details I had supplied to them. Only when they were satisfied that I had told the truth did they apologise for troubling me and left. I sighed with relief but I was also angry at the treatment I was receiving at the hands of the local police. But those incidents were nothing compared to what I was to discover. I had been led to understand by both the Belfast Special Branch and the Northumbria SB that when I was relocated to Blyth my previous names, official documents, even my life history would be eradicated and I would henceforth be known only as Martin David Ashe. I was informed that for all intents and purposes the person known as Martin McGartland would cease to exist. But somehow, someone had decided to resurrect my former name and surreptitiously make it known by inserting it on police computer files, the DVLA computer and to officers of the Crown Prosecution Service. I would learn later that within months of my secret arrival in England many police officers, court officials, as well as anyone with access to police files or the DVLA computer knew that Martin McGartland, one of the IRA’s prime targets for execution, was alive and well and living in Blyth, Northumberland. I could not believe that the insertion of my former identity on those files was a mere accident. Someone or some Government agency, or even some police force, had to be responsible for such an action. It seemed to me that I was being set up for the IRA to discover my new identity and my new address. But why? I determined to discover what precisely was on my police computer files that warranted such continued interest in my affairs by the Northumbria Police. I wanted to find out if by examining my computer files I could ascertain why I was being targeted by the local police force. And, if possible, I wanted to discover who had taken that decision to have me targeted. My suspicions had first been aroused during one of my many appearances before local magistrates on the dozens of motoring offences I was accused of by the Northumbria Police motor patrol unit. During one such court appearance in 1995, before North Tyneside Magistrates, both my solicitor Paul Dodds and myself happened to look over the shoulder of the Crown Prosecution Service lawyer. We both read on his files that my two names, Ashe and McGartland, were prominently displayed for all to read on the very front of his files. This would have meant that anyone dealing with the paperwork concerning the dozens of alleged motoring offences brought against me would have been aware of my real identity which the Special Branch in Belfast and the authorities in England had been at great pains to keep secret. There and then Paul Dodds approached the CPS lawyer, Mr Stuart Michie, and asked him to explain why my two names were on the file he had brought to court. Mr Michie was taken aback by our concern and said that he had no idea how my two names had come to be displayed on the files. I told him that I had never, but never, told anyone that I was known by any other name than Martin David Ashe. Even Paul Dodds, my own solicitor, had never known, until a short time ago, that I was anyone but Martin David Ashe! As a result, Paul Dodds wrote on my behalf to John Stephens, then Northumbria Chief Constable, asking for a meeting to discuss what to me was a very serio
us matter. Within days, Chief Superintendent Gordon Hay, head of Northumbria Police Complaints and Discipline, contacted my solicitor and a meeting was arranged. At that meeting, Superintendent Hay assured Mr Dodds that the ‘offending alias’ (McGartland) would be removed immediately from police files. But there would be worse to follow. I had discovered from a friend of a friend that my two identities were also on the Northumbria Police computer file and had been for years. This news came as total surprise to me but, at that stage, I had no proof. I could not believe that the name McGartland would be included in the file on Ashe. I told my solicitor what I had learned and, as a result, he wrote again to the Chief Constable demanding full details of any intelligence held referring to me on the Northumbria force’s intelligence computer file. Superintendent Hay wrote back informing him that the offending material concerning my two identities – McGartland and Ashe – had indeed been filed on the Northumbria Police computer but had been removed from all computer files in August 1995. It seemed extraordinary that Superintendent Hay should report that my file had been removed from the computer exactly one week after solicitor’s original letter demanding the files be forwarded to him. But I still had my doubts. In August 1995 my solicitor, Paul Dodds, had written to the Data Protection Officer of the Northumbria Police demanding that all the files concerning me, under the name Martin David Ashe, be sent to his office. I had been advised that the Northumbria Police were legally bound to hand over those files as part of an individual’s Subject Access’ rights. But the Northumbria Police wrote disingenuous replies which gave no reason why the Data Protection Officer was refusing to forward full copies of my computer file. Three months later, the Data Protection Officer for Northumbria Police sent to my solicitor what she claimed was a full copy of all that had been included on my file in the police computer. There were just six pages. Now I was even more suspicious. I knew that the six pages could not possibly be a comprehensive account of my file, simply because of the unbelievable number of times I had been stopped by traffic police, arrested, taken to police stations for other offences, and, as a result, had ended up in court on countless occasions. I urged my solicitor to continue to press the Data Protection Officer for a complete and full copy of all the material on police files. Finally, in July1997, two years after my solicitor first demanded copies of my file, and two months after my court appearance at Newcastle Crown Court, the Northumbria Police sent through a complete resume of my computer file. It was 25 pages long! The police file was full of inaccuracies. The brief description of me on the file recorded that I spoke with a strong Southern Irish accent, was of a violent disposition and that I was to be approached with caution because of my propensity for carrying firearms. Now I knew why the Northumbria Police had been so reticent in sending me the file that I was legally entitled to see. Firstly, I always spoke with a Belfast accent; secondly, I was not of a violent disposition unless aroused; and thirdly, I had never carried or used forearms in my life. What concerned me was the fact that whenever a police officer asked for my personal data file over the radio the only details they would be given would include those three damaging and inaccurate descriptions, under the headline; ‘Warning. Violent. Firearms’. That revelation made me spit with anger for it was obviously one of the reasons why I had received such close attention from Northumbria Police. What I didn’t know, and what I wanted to know, was who had been responsible for putting those warnings on my personal data file. And why? Unbelievably, that was not the end of the matter. Despite the assurances and the promises from senior police officers, my two identities were not removed from computer files. Two years later, in June 1997, I found out that my two names – Ashe and McGartland – and my address were still both on the Northumbria Police computer information system. That meant that for a further two years every time any police officer accessed the computer to check my records both my names would be automatically revealed. As a result of that cock-up five thousand police officers, who had immediate and direct access to those files, could have known that McGartland and Asher were one and the same person. And they would have known from those computer files that McGartland had been an RUC Special Branch informant working inside the IRA, who had been relocated to the north-east after his cover had been blown. As a result, an internal police enquiry was ordered to determine exactly how and why my two names had been entered into the computer. Surprisingly, after what the police described as a thorough three-month investigation, a Northumbria Police chief told me that it had been impossible to discover who had entered my name on the computer despite the fact that access can only be gained by police officers entering their own personal code.
But I was not going to accept that explanation, so I wrote to the Police Complaints Authority complaining about what had happened and asking them to investigate. Eight months later the PCA wrote to me saying, ‘It has not been possible to trace the officer responsible for placing the name on your record. This is due to a fault with the computer system at the time the information was entered.’
‘Balls,’ I thought to myself.
But the PCA also revealed that my two names – Ashe and McGartland – were still on the DVLA computer files. The files also included my home address. And, once again, I was led to understand that it had been impossible to trace the person who had put both names and addresses on the DVLA computer due to a fault. The PCA added; ‘There is no evidence to show that the name was entered maliciously or that there was any intention to place you in danger. There is also no evidence to suggest that any officer, apart from those entrusted with the information, was informed of your background.’ The Chairman of the Police Complaints Authority, Peter Moorhouse, wrote to Ronnie Campbell, my MP; ‘I have now read the investigation file . . . Northumbria Police of course acknowledges that Mr Ashe’s other identity was on the force computer. They maintain with some justification that Mr Ashe’s continued breaches of the Road Traffic Act had brought him to the notice of a number of traffic officers, one of whom accessed Mr Ashe’s name on the DVLA computer and there learned of Mr Ashe’s other identity. The officer entered the alias on the police computer with the result that when Mr Ashe requested a data protection report the entry came to light. There is nothing unusual in the fact that this item of intelligence was entered on to the computer and nothing sinister should be read into the entry.’ The letter went on to accuse me of being indiscreet and of being regularly stopped driving a car for which the owner was listed on the Police National Computer as one ‘Marty McGartland’ (sic). I was furious by the response because it was inaccurate. At no time had that car been registered under the name McGartland. Of course, the police should never have entered the name McGartland on that computer file, or any file that could be accessed by officers, giving details of both my identities, background and particulars. Indeed, the names of all British agents – giving details of their work for British Intelligence – should never under any circumstances be put on a police computer file for the same reason. To permit thousands of police officers access to such material is a serious breach of security. It is well known in the security services in Northern Ireland that the IRA send political activists to be trained as computer experts in Britain, learning how to hack into computer systems, so that they can trace names, addresses, phone numbers, social security numbers, car registration numbers etc of anyone they want to target. Instructions are issued by the Home Office to every police force in Britain ordering them to make sure that no such information is input into any police file. At first, I believed in my innocence that the instruction was simply ignored. But I began to suspect the hand of MI5 was behind this despicable act of duplicity. It seemed extraordinary that the Northumbria Police had found it impossible to trace the person or persons responsible and yet, as a result, anyone with access to those files would have been able to find exactly where I lived. But I now had to face a more pressing personal challenge, facing an open court with a jury sitting in judgement. My ordeal in Newcastle Crown Court before Judge Denis Orde began at 10
a.m. on 16 May 1997, when I was charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. I pleaded not guilty. The first legal arguments centred around the question as to whether the media should be permitted to cover the court case on a daily basis. The prosecution, headed by Mark Styles, argued that the hearing should be in public because there was no reason why it should not be. He contested that I was in no danger from any source and had pleaded not guilty in an effort to gain publicity for Fifty Dead Men Walking which had been published five months before. As a consequence, my defence, headed by Mr Glenn Gatland, was forced to tell the judge the reason why the press should be banned from reporting the case until after it was over. Mr Gatland explained that because the Northumbria Police had refused my application for police protection throughout the court case he feared there was a danger that IRA men intent on killing me could take the opportunity to shoot me as I entered or left the court. As I sat in court throughout that first day I wondered who it was that had persuaded the prosecution to put forward such a legal argument, all but forcing my defence lawyer to reveal my background at the very beginning of the trial. I felt suddenly lonely and unprotected, as though all the forces of the British legal system, including the police, were intent on revealing my identity and my home address. I knew that the Crown Prosecution Service would have been fully aware that the line of argument they had taken in court could only end with my two identities being revealed. As I looked round the courtroom from my position in the dock I felt a sense of desolation and hopelessness; that I was unable to take action myself that could retrieve the situation. My mind went back to that awful day in August 1991 when I lay on the sofa in that stiflingly hot flat in Twinbrook, Belfast, waiting for the IRA execution squad to arrive. I wondered what the judge could do that day to alleviate my anxieties, particularly as he too was a member of the British legal system. I realised that he too was in a difficult position. It was with a great sense of relief that after deliberation Judge Orde decreed that the public gallery should remain open and that reporters should be allowed to attend court and take notes, but that no publicity or photographs whatsoever should be permitted until after the trial was ended for fear of someone tipping off potential assassins. It wasn’t a perfect solution from my viewpoint but it was better than I had anticipated as I listened to the legal arguments put forward by the prosecution. Although I felt somewhat a fool I walked into court and left court each day wearing a hooded coat, scarf and dark glasses. The suggestion had been made by one of my old buddies in the Belfast Special Branch. He advised me to take no chances. I told the court that one of the licences in the name of Ashe had, in fact, been organised by the Special Branch. I also told them that every time I appeared before local magistrates for speeding offences I could not tell them the real reason for my speeding offence because I would have blown my cover, exposing my two identities, something which RUC Special Branch officers had advised me not to do under any circumstances. I told the judge that I had obtained the two other licences using false addresses to avoid details of my true whereabouts being held on record. I also emphasised that I never had any intention of perverting the course of justice. I was indeed fortunate that I had friends who came to my rescue during my four-day trial. Sam Cushnahan, of Families Against Intimidation and Terror, a Northern Ireland pressure group for peace, gave evidence saying that I was one of two people heading the IRA’s most-wanted list. He told the court, ‘People who are caught informing on the IRA are tortured and then murdered. As far as the IRA is concerned, it would be a great propaganda coup to murder Martin McGartland. His death would be seen as a lesson to others who infiltrate their security.’ My lawyer, Glenn Gatland, explained to the jury that each time I was stopped by police I could not explain my true identity because I feared detection from ‘moles’. He explained that throughout the early 1990s Britain’s anti-terrorist police knew an IRA cell was living and operating in the north-east targeting high-profile establishments, and would have certainly informed their IRA commanders in Belfast if they had discovered that I was living in Newcastle. I had to bite my tongue on several occasion, however, when Mr Mark Styles for the prosecution tried to play down the relevance to the case of what I and others had done on behalf of the people of Northern Ireland in risking our lives to save others. But what I found even more upsetting was Styles’ efforts to similarly question the relevance of the savage beating of my brother Joseph by an IRA punishment squad as of little consequence. In July 1996, only ten months before the court case, Joseph was left with two shattered legs, four broken ribs and two broken arms. However, I felt like shaking the hand of every member of the jury of six men and six women when they were shown photographs of the terrible beating poor Joseph had taken. They saw photographs taken shortly after his savage IRA treatment, carried out solely because I was his brother. Every member of the jury first looked at the pictures and then glanced up, a look of revulsion on their faces. Mr Styles also tried to play down the threat to my life by the IRA, stating in open court that he had spoken to a Special Branch officer outside the court who informed him that the threat against me was ‘minimal’. So I immediately asked Mr Styles and the judge to bring to bring the SB officer into court so that he could be cross-examined. Mr Styles immediately changed the subject and refused to produce the so-called SB man to the court. But on occasions there was also humour. When Sam Cushnahan was being questioned by my barrister, he was asked what his views were in relation to the threat on my life by the IRA. Cushnahan replied that, with his knowledge of the IRA, I would need to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 10
