My daughter watched in terror as a hitman threw acid in my face ... In this horrifying and gripping account, a leading investigative journalist tells how a gangland hit trapped him in the nightmare of Scotland's broken justice system

PROPPED up in bed with a book and cup of tea, my slow start to the Christmas holidays was disturbed by the chime of the doorbell. As my ten-year-old daughter dozed upstairs, I opened the front door to the unremarkable sight of a postman who produced a Royal Mail delivery card with a mumbled instruction for me to sign.

Bare-footed and in pyjamas, I began to scrawl my name when a shock of liquid splashed onto my face and right eye. The postman lunged into the hall with a knife in hand, but in the melee he dropped the blade.

My instincts took over and I wrestled him back outside where we crashed down hard onto the driveway. My daughter appeared, momentarily froze in confused terror, then dashed to neighbours who called 999.

By now, I was on top and jabbed punches as the 'postman' struggled to escape by shedding his Royal Mail jacket and bag.

My face was stinging from the liquid and I felt it burning my flesh close to my eye. I later learned it was sulphuric acid and I shouted at a bewildered neighbour to fetch a basin of water in order to try to rinse off the liquid.

As a journalist who investigates all types of criminal - organised and disorganised, suited and shell-suited - I realised quickly this attempt to maim or kill me must be payback for doing my job.

Two police officers arrived and dragged away my attacker, who I later discovered to be William 'Basil' Burns, an underworld thug-for-hire from Paisley with a life spent inflicting violence, mostly using firearms.

The gangland hit was over in around 15 minutes. But the frenetic blur of that winter morning and its immediate aftermath was just the beginning.

WHILE my physical injuries would fully heal in time, longer lasting pain was caused by my fight for justice. What followed was a protracted period of weary and painful stasis, of being a victim trapped inside Scotland's justice system.

Once Burns had been removed by police, I took time to reassure my daughter I was okay and ensure she was in safe hands before being escorted into an ambulance and told to lie back as it screamed through morning rush hour to reach hospital in just six minutes.

At A&E, medics poured countless litres of cool, sterile water directly onto my eyeball and I suppressed the urge to flinch at the unnatural sensation, knowing it was vital if I wanted my sight to be saved.

That day and the next - Christmas Eve - were spent in hospitals where medical specialists examined the burns to my face and scarring to my cornea but gave little away about exactly how much damage had been done. It would take another six months before my eye was completely healed.

My daughter and I returned home on Christmas Eve to a dark, cold house, trying hard to conjure some festive magic and warmth.

The walls in the hallway were streaked with acid which had burned holes in the radiator's enamel paint.

A Christmas tree and other decorations, dripping with the thick brown liquid, were dropped by fingertip into bin bags.

While the usual traditions were defiantly observed, it was anything like a normal Christmas. Over dinner, my family tried to make things as festive as possible as I looked back at them through my half-shut right eye, swollen and scarlet from the acid, which had also caused ugly cartoon-like splash marks across my face.

During these first 24 hours at home - and between making sure my daughter had the best Christmas Day possible - I was able to use my contacts to learn the identity of the millionaire crime boss who had hired Burns.

But it quickly became apparent that Police Scotland and the Crown Office had little interest in bringing him to justice. Their attitude seemed to be that, with Burns in custody and no one dead, why bother?

That frustration was an early indicator of what was to come. Burns was arrested at the scene, while dressed as a postman and wearing latex gloves. With numerous independent and credible witnesses, his easy prosecution could have concluded within months.

Yet, instead of taking advantage of this open goal, the Crown Office embarked on a tedious and unnecessary 18-month saga, perhaps partly due to the mañana culture of 'churn' that contaminates our courts, in which simple matters are kicked into the long grass in perpetuity to the profit of lawyers and the detriment of victims and witnesses.

However, the biggest cause of delay was the Crown's decision to simultaneously prosecute Burns for another crime.

Six weeks after the acid attack, he was charged with the shooting outside a primary school of Ross Sherlock, an associate of the Daniel crime gang.

As a gangster, Sherlock was never going to point the finger of blame in court. My inquiries established that there was not enough evidence to charge Burns for that crime in isolation, causing the Crown to piggyback a flimsy gangland shooting case on my open-and-shut case.

This unnecessary complication caused the slow wheels of justice to become further jammed and more than a year passed before the trial date - which also happened to be my birthday.

After hours stuck in a drab room at the High Court in Glasgow, I was sent home with an instruction to return the next morning.

That evening, two police officers came to my door to deliver a message from the Crown telling me not to attend next day after all. However, in the morning I received a panicked phone call from the Crown asking why I was not at court!

While this mild farce was in itself inconsequential, it captures the everyday incompetence of wasted resources, misinformation and occasional dishonesty that characterised my dealings with the Crown. As insurance against untruths, I insisted that all future communication should be conducted by email.

Finally, I was able to give evidence against Burns, and after several hours in the witness box I was relieved to step down, job done.

Next, my daughter's taped CID interview was played on the court's video screens. Tears welled in my eyes as she chatted naturally about the wholly unnatural events she had been exposed to, although I had to stifle a snigger when she dehumanised my attacker by calling him 'this thing'.

Occasional flashes of rage caused me to daydream about what damage I could inflict if I pounced on Burns as he sat in the dock just feet away from me.

My daughter's testimony was followed by a procession of neighbours, police officers and forensic and medical experts.

The macer, whose job includes managing witnesses, then stepped outside but his shouts for Ross Sherlock to come into court to give evidence were met by silence. He had gone AWOL, forcing the trial to collapse.

After 12 months of oppressive legal tedium and inaction, we were back to square one. I could have screamed with frustration. Not only was it a costly debacle for taxpayers, immensely stressful for witnesses and inconvenient to jurors, it was entirely predictable.

I wrote to Scotland's most senior law officer, Lord Advocate James Wolffe, QC, about being stuck in a painful and unnecessary state of limbo.

Over two months later came a sniffy reply saying the collapsed trial was 'regrettable' and rejecting my request to prosecute the crimes separately.

Six months after the first trial, the circus started all over again. For the second time, my neighbours were forced to seek time off work or find childcare while forensic experts, uniformed police and CID officers were again removed from their duties. The medical witnesses were also compelled to return, causing further disruption to NHS patients.

By now, Sherlock had been apprehended and was forced to give evidence. To no one's surprise, he crucially failed to implicate Burns, and the judge duly binned the shooting charge. I barely had enough enthusiasm to mutter: 'I told you so'.

With that charge at last off the agenda, the court would, for the first time, get to hear from Burns. It quickly became clear he hoped to get off the hook with an epic defence founded on the maxim: if you're going to lie, lie big.

When Burns took to the stand in his own defence, they could have sold tickets at the door given the unintentionally comedic entertainment he provided with a cock-and-bull version of events which incredulously ended with me throwing sulphuric acid in my own face to get HIM into trouble.

I faced allegations that my evidence that some of the acid gone into my mouth was a bare-faced lie.

It was suggested a doctor who examined me said there was zero evidence of damage. A dental appointment to examine acid abrasion to the enamel on teeth was a matter of record which the prosecution did not lead because it was not considered significant.

However, this innocent omission certainly did not prove that I told a 'bare-faced lie'. It was perverse that I had to listen to this spurious claim.

I was the victim of a serious and targeted attack, ordered by a major organised criminal in which sanctity of my family home was invaded, acid was thrown in my Christmas was ruined and my daughter terrified.

So to hear this smear casually dropped in court made me seethe. Yet similar scenes are played out courts across the land every day, where the characters of innocent crime victims are subjected to baseless attacks as criminals simply make up lies.

AFTER three weeks, the case ended. While Burns's laughable defence was without a shred of credibility, it would be foolish for me to take the verdict granted. What if some of these good Glaswegian jurors believed in conspiracy theories?

When the result came, it was unanimous. Burns was found guilty of attacking me 'to the endangerment' of my life.

I was on holiday at the time and the feeling of relief as I hugged my daughter was overpowering.

Lord Matthews deferred sentencing for a month to a date when he was due to be sitting in Aberdeen, which made impractical any notion I may have had about attending to see Burns jailed. After 18 months of torture, I felt cheated at being unable to watch Burns being sent down.

Instead, news of his fate reached me via social medial with a Twitter post by the Judicial Office for Scotland which portentously announced that Burns had been given an 'extended sentence of 15 years'. I was naturally pleased.

Then I read the small print. Buried within the judge's 500-word statement was the explanation that Burns's sentence was actually 'ten years' imprisonment' followed by five years on licence.

I asked the Crown to clarify what this actually meant. Would Burns spend ten years in prison? They sheepishly admitted that he would be eligible for parole earlier. Further digging revealed he can seek freedom as early as summer 2021, four years after being sentenced.

BURNS has a lifetime record of violent crime and has demonstrated zero interest in reform. He was previously jailed for '15 years' in 2001 for the non-fatal shooting of a female security guard during an armed robbery.

He had been freed five years early on licence, having being adjudged no threat to public safety. He should still have been serving his '15 years' the day he came to my door.

Furthermore, surely the use of acid as a weapon and the targeting of a journalist ought to have been aggravating factors.

Will it take a murder, like that of brave reporter Veronica Guerin in Dublin in 1996, to jolt the authorities from their complacent attitude? The sentence was pathetic. For judicial PR spinners to then hoodwink people by tweeting that Burns received 15 years corrodes public trust more effectively than a bottle of sulphuric acid.

As a journalist, I have been long familiar with the chronic failings of Crown incompetence, indifference and laziness; of courts choked to near-standstill by churn; of leeching lawyers gorging on legal aid and of smoke-and-mirror sentencing, all presided over by an unaccountable judiciary.

Worse, still, is the casual disdain, even contempt, with which victims are often treated.

To experience it from the inside as a victim has only served to strengthen my profound belief that, for all our sakes, the creaking behemoth of Scottish justice is in need of radical reform.

How my daughter handled the ordeal of the disgusting attack and its disruptive aftermath is a source of immense pride, but I am mindful that her upbeat attitude may be largely due to the double positives of Burns being caught at the scene and my injuries being temporary.

This movie-style ending helped transform what could have been a life-changing horror story into an extraordinary tale to tell.

A 'successful' hit would undoubtedly have brought a darker ending.

Russell Findlay is an investigative journalist and author with an interest in organised crime and the Scottish justice system. His latest book, Acid Attack: A Journalist's War with Organised Crime, is to be published by Birlinn in February 2018



First published in the Scottish Daily Mail on August 26, 2017