Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn was among 45 MPs who signed an early day motion in 2002 – back when he when was a little-known MP – backing defiant former M.E.N. crime reporter Steve Panter, who had refused to bow to a judge’s demand that he reveal the source of his exclusive in which he named a prime suspect of the IRA bombing of Manchester in 1996. That backing was crucial in dissuading the Attorney General from charging Panter, who feared an establishment backlash would end in his being jailed for contempt of court. This is his story.
A journalist ‘protects the identity of sources who supply information in confidence and material gathered in the course of her/his work’. National Union of Journalists (Code of Conduct, clause 7).
I had always believed that betrayal was a sin.
Betray your friends and you lose them. Betray your country in time of war and you may lose your life. Betray your sources as a journalist, you lose your reputation, the trust of your contacts, your newspaper and the industry is irreparably damaged – but the public is the ultimate loser.
If sources do not come forward to blow the whistle on cover-ups by authorities like government or indeed the police, then we are left with propaganda and massaged press releases spun by growingly sophisticated PR machines.
When I set out to discover the truth about the inquiry into the Manchester bombing, I came to realise that it was going to be hidden from the public.
I was more determined than ever to reveal the truth, because that should be the purpose of a journalist, to act as public watchdog, to make a difference and to challenge authority in the public interest when it is justified.
I underestimated the backlash, although I understood the police would have to launch a molehunt. Hell hath no fury like authority caught with its trousers down.
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I also failed to take into account the might of the judiciary which can rule that a journalist’s ethic of protecting a source, underwritten by two codes of practice and employers’ expectations, can be worthless. A judge has the power to jail journalists for contempt if they refuse an instruction from the court to reveal their sources.
This is where a judge effectively rules that betrayal is in the interests of justice. I begged to differ in court and it placed my freedom under threat.
I shall always believe I acted in the public interest and the interests of my profession and my contacts.
Chasing the tale
My first job at the Manchester Evening News was as a district reporter in Bolton and Bury, where working alone, I was required to deliver stories every day to the newsdesk. I soon discovered there was no greater thrill in journalism than to produce an exclusive story under a page one byline.
I never lost that sensation over 25 years at the M.E.N. From 1990-2000, I received 12 awards for news journalism. I had always taken pride in giving M.E.N. readers that extra, undisclosed detail from a story than they would not read anywhere else.
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I became a story getter and I put that mainly down to those early days of lone digging in the fertile news ground of the district office. But exposing the reality does come at a price. You may win admirers and contacts who become personal friends. You also make enemies. As a crime reporter you depend on relationships with contacts who trust you, both on the right and wrong sides of the law.
Many of my police contacts recognised I was doing a job and that many stories were justified. However, some senior officers often disagreed, believing that something I thought should be public knowledge about a publicly-funded service was ‘an internal matter’. They launched at least one molehunt against me.
Any crime, health, or other specialist reporter, covets their patch. They instinctively want to be there when the big story breaks.
The day the IRA bomb was triggered, I had just arrived in Menorca on a family holiday. I had promised my wife I would switch off work for a fortnight and not read any newspapers, but as I walked past a newsagent the day after I saw the headlines.
My heart sank.
I was given a choice by my wife: stay there, or go back and cover the story. I stayed. I couldn’t afford the divorce. But as I lay by the pool for another 12 long days, I vowed I would eventually write the story that mattered.
However, I was under no illusion that the chief constable would hand me a press release on the outcome of the investigation into the IRA bombing of Manchester. I would have to chase the tale.
I didn’t bargain for the sting it had in store.
Towards the end of 1996, I was being given hints by certain police officers that the bomb investigation was going surprisingly well.
Around January 1997, one officer met me in a pub in Salford for a routine lunch and told me that suspects had been identified, but there were "big politics” involved. He wouldn’t expand on it and left. I had to know more.
The following month, Bernard Rees, the man in charge of the bomb inquiry had his retirement function in south Manchester and I went along.
Now, when I was invited to functions, sometimes police officers I knew well would make for the fire escape rather than risk being seen talking to me ‘in public’. In fact, I’m quite proud never to have been invited to the annual CID Dinner at Greater Manchester HQ. “If I invite you, they’ll think I’m your bloody informant,” said one of my informants.
MORE Follow the events of the day as they unfolded, on our 'live blog' of June 15, 1996
The trick was to turn up for some functions on the back of a general invitation that I innocently took to include me as well.
In reality, I liked the vast majority of cops I knew, and I think most liked me. When the beer began to take effect, inhibitions evaporated and the choicest tip-offs were imparted. Bernard Rees’ farewell function was no exception.
“Bloody hell, who invited you?” said plain-talking Bernard. “You did,” I reassured him. “Did I b******s,” he laughed and bought me a pint. It was at that function that more emerged about the Manchester bomb and the event was something I would be quizzed about, five years later in a court of law.
The bomb investigation team was there, along with guests from the security services and the Metropolitan Police anti-terrorism branch.
A senior Met officer made a glowing retirement speech for Bernard Rees and proceeded to congratulate the Manchester team for its successful investigation, or words to that effect. He made a few more remarks, later described in court as indiscreet. In fairness to him, he did not know there was a cat among the pigeons – a reporter.
I was never going to quote him. That would have been underhand and disrespectful to Bernard Rees, but I could not ignore the essence of what he said either. Police officers later described how I was seen “animatedly” talking to Metropolitan officers.
I was given a lift home by a detective who was going my way, Superintendent Bill Kerr, a CID boss. I knew I had the makings of a major scoop and I made the mistake of telling Bill I was onto something. He “grassed” me the following day to Special Branch, but I understood why he felt compelled to do that.
Soon, I received a phone call from a senior officer asking me what, if anything, I intended to write. I told him all I intended to publish but not all I knew.
There were more scoops in the pipeline, but more digging was needed. I had a name of a prime suspect, but I needed to see it in black and white. One day later, the first story was on page one of the M.E.N. headlined: POLICE KNOW IDENTITIES OF BOMBERS. A file of evidence was to go to the Crown Prosecution Service. It was a major story because people in general believed the inquiry had gone nowhere.
I agreed to leave out some material, because this was an ongoing inquiry. My golden rule – and that of the editor at the time Paul Horrocks, himself a former crime reporter – was to never knowingly publish anything that might damage a criminal investigation.
The same principle would have applied to the ultimate bomb story published later, except that we knew from impeccable sources that the bomb investigation had effectively come to an end.
I had dealt with Special Branch over the years on investigations about terrorism and animal rights activists. And for the record, there were other stories that I had agreed not to reveal, after pleas by Special Branch.
I can reveal here how police believed they identified a team of terrorists who left firebombs in Manchester city centre shops on Saturday, December 7, 1991. Ten incendiaries were left in major stores like Boots, which was seriously damaged. The later Warrington town centre waste bin bombs of March 20, 1993, and the IRA bomb in Manchester in 1996, exploded on Saturdays.
Ten days after the 1991 firebombs, police issued grainy CCTV pictures of two suspects walking through Boots with rucksacks on their backs.
The following year, Special Branch, in conjunction with police in Belfast and Dublin, were given names of men they believed were the firebombers and said to be members of the lesser known Irish National Liberation Army (INLA). The public was not told of the breakthrough, for sound operational reasons. When I was eventually tipped-off, I was given names and the area in which the men lived.
My scoop was postponed when I was asked by Special Branch not to run it. They were hoping the men would fly back one day from Dublin when they would be arrested on British soil. They should not be made aware of the fact they had been pinpointed.
I felt obliged to co-operate at that time, and the truth was never published, until now.
The situation was replicated with the bomb story. “Hold off until we can make an arrest,” they asked. I believe they never intended to arrest anyone.
I endeavoured throughout 1997 and 1998 to collect more information about who the police had identified as their suspects for the 1996 bomb and how they had done it. I did not ask every day, because consistent questions would have been counterproductive. I made gradual inroads whilst pursuing other everyday crime stories.
Then something happened that was to put me firmly on the trail of the information that resulted in the M.E.N. page one story headlined: WE NAME MANCHESTER BOMB SUSPECT. It was a story that would ultimately end my role as an effective crime reporter.
I received a telephone call at my office from an anonymous informant who was going to put my reputation as a trustworthy journalist to the test.
The informant had information about the Manchester bomb. Be patient and don’t ask questions of anyone. That was it. The person rang off. It was the summer of 1998.
About a month later, the informant rang back and expressed satisfaction that I had not been asking questions. Soon, a series of calls came over several weeks, always through the M.E.N. switchboard, never to my direct line.
There was a constant drip of information about the Manchester bomb inquiry. I was not to question anything. If I did ask questions my informant could find out, and nothing else would be forthcoming.
I never understood the motive behind the instruction. But not being able to cross-check information meant the caller may have been a hoaxer, or someone trying to put me off the real story.
Nevertheless, there was some evident authenticity – the name of a man who was of interest to the police bomb team, a name I had heard before.
There was also reference to the police discovery of a London IRA cell – something I could, and did, check without making local phone calls. Eventually, my friendly ‘deep throat’ ceased to call.
By the end of 1998, I was sufficiently experienced to know that I had a scoop – to say the least.
IRA bomb Manchester
I knew that the police had identified suspects in the bombing of 1996 and, astonishingly, were not going to arrest any of them for questioning. There was a suspicion amongst some police connected to the inquiry that politics were involved and the decision to lock away the investigation file “stamped” No Action was partly to avoid rocking the boat in Northern Ireland where there were plans to get the peace process back on track.
I firmly believe to this day that if people had been killed by the Manchester bomb, suspects would have at least been questioned.
Despite all I had learned, there had been little verification. I gauged that what I had initially been told at Bernard Rees’ retirement function two years before, was authentic because I knew those who were telling me and trusted them. The anonymous caller I had never identified, and I had agreed not to cross-check information I was being given.
I knew that no responsible newspaper would publish what I had without more positive fact-checking.
I knew my bomb investigation story would offend some people, and there would be no support for me from anywhere if I got it wrong. I had to verify the finer detail to have any chance of publication of the full story. This would mean seeing it on paper from an authentic, trustworthy source.
In many crime stories, I could cross-check facts with the police press office or well-placed senior officers, but this was too huge a story to run by the press office.
I had put a plan in motion to access the detail of the police inquiry. I knew there were people who were disappointed that the investigation was at a frustrating end. I put out feelers. I met people I knew to assess their stance. I probed for openings. My investigations took me twice to Ireland having travelled through Manchester Airport under a false name.
A colleague booked my ticket on her credit card and with no passport checks, I was able to travel undetected. I knew that Special Branch would probably recognise my name as they checked passenger manifests, so a bogus identity was the solution. I had a feeling that it would soon leak out that I was asking questions, albeit in confidence.
For ethical reasons, I cannot say why I went to Ireland, nor can I reveal who I spoke to in confidence about the inquiry.
However, I can touch on my meeting with one man who apparently was an author of the police report that contained the explosive story of the investigation that became a damp squib. The fact we met came out later in a court of law, so is in the public domain.
Gordon Mutch was a detective chief inspector in Special Branch and in charge of the Irish Desk. I had met him sporadically as our paths crossed over 20 years. I liked him. He was always affable and was shrewd enough to realise, like the more politically aware police bosses, that reporters had their uses.
I had learned that the disillusioned often made fruitful contacts for political journalists, and the same applied to the crime beat. I had been told that Mutch was one of those inside the bomb investigation unhappy that it had ended with no arrests.
I figured that if he was angry, he might provide the final pieces in the jigsaw. In addition he had a key role in drawing up the case on paper.
I couldn’t just ring him out of the blue, invite him out for a pint and suggest he bring his ‘Top Secret’ file along. I would have to lure him to a meeting on a believable ruse and spend several hours with him. I came up with an idea that could make an alternative profitable project, even if the bomb information was not forthcoming.
I had co-authored a book called Innocents, a true-life account of how Stefan Kiszko was wrongly convicted and jailed for 16 years for a child murder. I knew through someone I had met during my earlier inquiries that Mutch had written the final bomb report and was also doing a fresh and secret inquiry into Myra Hindley and the Moors Murders of the early 1960s.
Mutch had been at the core of the sensational return of Hindley to Saddleworth Moor in 1987 when the investigation re-opened and the body of Pauline Reade found.
One child’s body, that of Keith Bennett, remained undiscovered on the moor at Shiny Brook. Mutch and the deputy head of Special Branch – whose name I will not reveal – were reopening the inquiry for a second time in 1998 and had been to see Myra Hindley in jail. There was a plan being executed behind the scenes for Hindley to be taken to Saddleworth again to see if they could at last find Keith Bennett.
This was interesting, and at least had all the potential for another major story and book on the Moors Murders.
I knew Mutch was nearing retirement – and a retired police chief had been involved in my earlier book Innocents. Maybe he might be tempted by a co-written book on the Moors Murders . . . or possibly one on the Manchester bomb?
There were two bad omens. One was that he had been angry that Peter Topping, a CID boss who retired, had written a book on the 1987 Moors investigation against his team’s wishes, Mutch included. Secondly, Mutch had been asked recently by another reporter at the M.E.N. if he would supply a hitherto unreleased aerial picture of the 1996 lorry bomb actually exploding and he had refused.
I contacted Mutch and put the book idea to him. He was interested. I said that my previous publisher was already keen on the idea, which was not true, at that stage.
I thought my best chance of coaxing him to talk about the bomb would be the tried and tested method with police officers – free beer.
We both liked Skipton, about 40 miles away in Yorkshire. I booked two rooms at a hotel and I took him over in my car on February 3, 1999. We embarked on a pub crawl of the town centre.
In the very first pub, Mutch said: “If you’ve dragged me here to talk about that ******* bomb, forget it!” It was not a good start. However, I did ask about the bomb after we had discussed Myra Hindley and the book idea.
Without going into detail, he did not give me anything confidential, or anything that would help the story reach publication. But I had laid other plans. The Moors book proposition still had potential and was something I wanted to return to after the bomb story had been published.
The following morning we had a hearty breakfast and checked out. I paid the bill by credit card, something I would later regret.
Sting in the tale
Around a week later, I flew again to Dublin under an assumed name to continue research. By mid-February I had enough information and verification to write a draft of my story.
I showed it to M.E.N. editor Paul Horrocks who was delighted that at long last, we were going to be able to reveal to the public of Manchester information we were convinced it should have. It was also, in newspaper terms, a scoop. We discussed loose ends that needed to be tied-up and any legal advice we would need to take before declaring our hand to Greater Manchester Police.
It was a basic rule of journalism to give all parties involved an opportunity of reply. Reply they did, but neither Horrocks nor I anticipated the anger that would underpin their response after we made initial contact on February 17, 1999.
The editor was assured by a very senior officer to wait a couple of days and they would “do a deal”. He went into Horrocks’ office two days later and told him there would be no deal.
During subsequent meetings with police chiefs, Horrocks was eventually told that because we intended to publish details, Special Branch would make plans to arrest a prime suspect. The idea was that because Crown prosecutors had advised there was sufficient evidence to arrest him, he could be held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act for a period allowed by the Act, and questioned.
The only way he could be charged was if he was to confess and that was not going to happen. My interpretation was that this was a face-saving exercise.
GMP would issue a press statement on the man’s release along the lines of: “A man had been questioned in connection with the Manchester bombing, but had been released on grounds of insufficient evidence, or pending further inquiries.” We could then run our story and GMP’s embarrassment would be substantially reduced.
It became apparent to me that GMP was stalling for time. Six weeks had elapsed and I was becoming impatient. My instincts were right.
Unknown to me at that time, the police went to a court in York – where the Crown Prosecution Service special case unit was based – and, behind closed doors, asked a judge to grant a court order that would allow them access to all my financial affairs to see if I had paid anyone for the bomb story.
They obtained my bank account, my wife’s and all our phone bills. They set up a secret investigation into my professional and personal life from a police station near my home. No-one at the station knew what it was about.
The inquiry was headed by Detective Chief Superintendent Alan Boardman and Detective Superintendent Mick Gorrill, both of whom I knew well.
I was presumably being followed at some stage and my mobile monitored by GCHQ to see if I would make contact with anyone significant during those six weeks before publication.
They were so determined to find a pattern of incriminating phone calls that they pinpointed public telephones within a certain radius of my house and trawled thousands of dialled numbers to see if I had been contacting any police officers on the bomb inquiry.
They work on the theory that if you suspect you are a target you do not risk your home phone and instead use public phones nearby.
Then there was the question of the house being bugged. Far fetched? I don’t think so. Paranoia? A little. However, I knew through contacts in criminal intelligence over the years that locked houses were entered and searched without owners realising anything had happened.
Of course, all this made my job as crime correspondent untenable at that time because my contacts knew I was under investigation and they were not going to risk the telephones.
Watch: New footage shows the dramatic build-up and the aftermath of the 1996 bomb
Under arrest
Paul Horrocks boldly decided to publish after six weeks of negotiation with the police hierarchy. The planned arrest of the named prime suspect was not going to happen. If it did, it could be months, even years, ahead.
On the day of publication, there was one outstanding journalistic duty I had to fulfil. I had to contact the named suspect, in fairness to him, to inform him of the plan to publish that day and ask him for his response. It turned out to be a surreal experience.
Special Branch had claimed they would try to arrest him in those six weeks of stand-off with the police hierarchy. They were waiting for him to come back to the mainland. They said he was out of British jurisdiction in that time, in the Republic.
However, he had a home in Northern Ireland. I picked up the telephone in the office, dialled 192 and asked directory inquiries for his number. To my surprise, they found it and I rang the man, who answered the phone.
I explained why I was calling. He was polite and said he would call me back later. Soon after, a woman called and asked me to fax our story to her at a number over the border into Ireland. It was in an area where the police had focused much of their bomb inquiry. The editor agreed with that course. We had no response at that point.
We published four pages of revelations six weeks after the police had asked for time to arrest their man. Two days later, the man ‘went public’ and issued strong denials. He said he was nowhere near Manchester at the time of the bomb. His lawyer, said the allegations were false and could put his client’s life in danger. He had only ever been to Manchester to watch football.
Editor Horrocks issued a statement saying he stood by the story.
The story meant that Greater Manchester Police was inundated with questions from the media, but would not comment on the M.E.N. revelations about a prime suspect.
Politicians began to ask questions, including Manchester Blackley MP Graham Stringer. He sent questions about the police investigation and decision not to make an arrest to the government’s top lawyer, the Attorney General, whose office was consulted by Crown lawyers before they effectively advised against an arrest. Stringer proved a strong supporter of Paul Horrocks’ decision to publish and would remain so throughout the coming months of fallout from the story and my arrest.
Stringer smelled the involvement of politics in the legal process and declared: “There were 200 people injured and they are entitled to know if there has been any political interference because of the peace process in Northern Ireland.”
The row raged on until July, 2002, when the Attorney General had to decide whether I should be charged with a serious criminal offence and potentially be jailed.
Three years of tense stand-off had not been anticipated by the M.E.N. and its editor when the paper went to press with the bomb scoop. A few weeks of heat, maybe, but not three years of it.
Police arrest their suspects
Detective Chief Superintendent Alan Boardman and his team beavered away in their secret incident room. They would build a circumstantial case against Gordon Mutch and me.
On June 28, 1999, police went into the Special Branch office and arrested Gordon Mutch. They took him to Astley Bridge police station in Bolton, where he was cautioned and questioned about alleged unauthorised disclosure of information. They held him for two days during which time they adopted an interesting tactic and made contact with me at the M.E.N.
Chief Superintendent Boardman said he had Mutch in custody and he needed to know whether or not Mutch had been the source for my story. Had they got the wrong person?
I told Boardman certain things could not be discussed – like sources of information – and I would help at the appropriate time. Boardman revealed they had been to a judge and obtained material personal to me and claimed there was a connection to Mutch.
Boardman wrote to editor Horrocks: “It is my considered view that Mr Panter could either prove or disprove the involvement of the officer in this case. I would urge you to reconsider your position as a matter of urgency.”
The pressure was intensifying. This was powerful material. Boardman was targeting my conscience.
Bound by my code of ethics and following legal advice, I rejected an invitation to be interviewed by Boardman, as a potential material witness.
Paul Horrocks replied: “Confidentiality of journalistic sources is itself a matter of the highest public importance and in this case we do not believe it should be overridden.” However, the letter did go further and stated, on my behalf, that “Mutch was not, to my knowledge, the source of the information” for the original article. I countersigned the letter.
That was not enough for the police and on November 23, 1999, they arrested me. I was given the choice of being arrested at home, or by appointment at Astley Bridge police station. I walked in with my solicitor. I had to turn my pockets out and give my details to the desk sergeant. I was taken to an interview room and cautioned. I was interviewed, on tape, by Supt Mick Gorrill and his sidekick, Det Insp Julian Ross.
Gorrill said: “You have been arrested on suspicion of aiding and abetting wilful misconduct in a public office.”
My solicitor Peter Belshaw told Gorrill: “My client does not wish to answer any questions put to him. He is much aggrieved at his arrest and being treated as a criminal suspect . . . particularly after he was invited to lend his services as a witness . . . he also makes the decision on the basis that he has a professional duty as a journalist to protect sources.”
Belshaw also pointed out that I had signed a letter stating Mutch was “not to my knowledge” the source of my information.
Gorrill put it to me that my statement that Mutch had not been “to my knowledge” the source was ambiguous. Belshaw replied that it was “totally translucent”.
Chief Superintendent Boardman had been listening to the interview in another room. He discussed tactics with Gorrill and Ross during a 45-minute adjournment before they resumed for another 27 minutes.
As I left the police station, under no restrictions, Gorrill said to me at the door: “We know you protect your sources, but this is different.”
“No,” I replied. “It isn’t.”
A file would be sent to the Crown Prosecution Service, following my release.
Tensions rise and relationships plummet
My arrest meant I made page one again, but this time I was the subject of the ‘splash’ story, not the author. I was on the other side of the fence for a change.
I even had to dodge a TV crew waiting outside the police station.
Editor Horrocks came out guns blazing and described my arrest as “a worrying development going to the core of press freedom and the controversial issue of not disclosing sources”.
Tensions rose and our once reasonably healthy relationship with Greater Manchester Police was on the rocks.
As politicians in the city voiced their support for me and the newspaper MP Graham Stringer came up with an incisive quote that would wound the police hierarchy.
Stringer rasped: “My constituents want to see the police dealing with real crime, not wasting their time harassing a journalist who told the people most affected by the bombing what had happened.”
Manchester councillor Pat Karney, who was also a police authority member, said he would ask the chief constable about the resources put into the inquiry into me and at what cost.
Readers also lent support with one saying: “I am sure everyone feels that it would have been better if the police concentrated more on nailing the bombers.”
My union, the National Union of Journalists, promised national support.
All this, together with a challenge issued by Paul Horrocks, proved too much for Greater Manchester Police. Horrocks said: “They have arrested our journalist for the apparently grave act of telling the people of Manchester that a strong suspect had been identified. Today we ask the chief constable and his senior colleagues: should not equal treatment be given to a suspected terrorist?”
A police press briefing was set up in which some verbal flak was fired at the M.E.N. – a statement was issued, but officers would not take questions.
Gordon Mutch was eventually charged with misconduct in a public office and faced trial at Manchester Crown Court. I was never charged with any offence after my arrest. I was never told the full reason why. However, my ordeal was far from over.
A witness on trial
After Mutch had been charged, he had to appear at Manchester Magistrates’ Court for a committal-for-trial hearing in April 2001.
Prosecution and defence were both there. The prosecution produced their big hitter, David Perry, counsel from HM Treasury in London. The defence had Peter Wright QC, a well-known and popular barrister in the north with chambers in Manchester.
The prosecution based their case largely on the evidence of my boozy night in Skipton with Mutch. I had paid for the hotel by credit card. Mutch had made calls from a public kiosk in Skipton with a phone credit card and that’s how the prosecution put us together.
If I’d paid cash, it would have made it harder for the police to investigate, but, as I was to explain later, this was not a totally covert mission. Travelling to Ireland and also obtaining the vital bomb investigation evidence had been, hence the false name.
And Mutch would not have used a traceable phone card had he just presented me with a file marked ‘Top Secret’. Would a Special Branch senior detective with 29 years’ experience really risk everything by taking a secret document of around 100 pages to a hotel in Skipton, and then leave it lying around in his room while he went out on the town, or carry it around the pubs over several hours? I don’t think so.
I never had another meeting with Mutch after Skipton. The next time I saw him was at Manchester Crown Court in January 2002 when I was, after all, compelled to appear as a witness under subpoena.
I had feared being called by the prosecution, but I was forced to appear by the defence, who evidently believed they needed me to say Mutch was not my source.
I had hoped that my previous statement to the police that he had not been my source “to my knowledge” might be enough, but it wasn’t.
I might have been appearing in the witness box rather than the dock, but I did feel I was also on trial when I was called two weeks into the hearing.
I had always believed that a journalist’s right to protect a source was largely impregnable, unless I had witnessed someone carrying out a heinous crime, when to help police would be undoubtedly in the public interest. I carried that with me into the witness box. After all, this case was not about national security, but establishment embarrassment. Peter Wright, for the defence, was my first inquisitor.
Wright: “Have you been the author of a number of exclusives…concerning the inner workings of Greater Manchester Police?”
Panter: “There have been some.”
Wright: “Was Gordon Mutch your source of information? Did he
provide you with that file?”
Panter: “Absolutely not.”
Wright: “Are you prepared to disclose the source of that article?”
Panter: “With respect, I am not.”
Wright: “I shall ask you the same question. Are you prepared to disclose . . ?
Panter: “Again, with respect to the court, I am not prepared to do so.”
Wright: “Who was the source? Are you prepared to tell us?”
Panter: “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Wright: “Is it the case, therefore, that you wish to exercise a right that has been granted by parliament in this regard . . . not to disclose your source?” Panter: “I wish to do so, yes.”
I had expected this hard line of questioning on sources from the prosecution, but not the defence.
I had said Mutch had not given me anything and that should have sufficed, or so I thought.
Then the cold reality set in. I believed I was being led into a trap and there was little I could do, apart from breach my code of ethics and well-meaning whistleblower in the land, or stand firm.
Wright QC was about to ask me again who was my source when the judge told him: “I am going to have to rule upon whether Mr Panter is required to answer that question.” He then asked the jury to leave the courtroom.
It was not long before the prosecution sensed blood and indicated to the judge that they too would want to ask me questions designed to identify my source.
The judge adjourned for a day of legal argument and would, the day after that, give his verdict on whether or not to overrule my right to protect my source.
While the Contempt of Court Act 1981 recognises the journalist’s right to protect a source, there is an exception if: “disclosure is necessary in the interests of justice, national security or in the prevention of disorder or crime.”
The judge, who was “surprised” that the police had not tried to prevent publication of my original story by taking legal advice about a court injunction, had to balance English law with article 10 of the European Convention, that relates to freedom of expression.
As his ruling developed, I knew that he was going against me and that there would be a demand that I reveal my source. The consequences were potentially grave.
The last time I had been inside Strangeways prison was when I became the first journalist to witness the wreckage caused by a mass riot.
I dreaded going again, especially as an inmate. My safety would be at greater risk than the average inmate’s. I was a crime reporter in the same city and my name was well-known.
My anxiety grew as Leveson reached his conclusions, with the Mutch trial jury out of court, so that it could not be prejudiced by the legal argument.
The judge considered whether it was necessary in the interests of justice for disclosure of my source – whether, without disclosure, the jury could exclude the possibility that the source was someone else, not Mutch.
“To allow the witness (Panter) to rely on Section 10 of the Contempt of Court Act, prevents a meaningful analysis of his evidence . . . I have no doubt that it is necessary in the interests of justice to require disclosure.”
The judge adjourned for what seemed like half an hour – I can’t recall exactly – to give me an opportunity of discussing my perilous position with my barrister Manuel Barca and managing editor Brian Rhodes.
I firmly believed I had performed my public duty by giving evidence openly, albeit under subpoena. I could have said nothing at all. But I had given crucial evidence that it was not Mutch and that in my view was sufficient for the jury. Mutch was on trial, no-one else.
Despite all that, I had to make up my mind. Should I disclose? Or should I uphold my journalistic ethics and refuse?
Jail was a real prospect. I would reach the crunch point when I returned to court within minutes to face cross-examination from prosecutor Perry.
As I waited for the court to reconvene, my mind was made up.
I also reflected that if I had lied at the outset and said the bomb document had arrived mysteriously in an envelope from an anonymous whistleblower, then I would not be in this dangerous situation now. It could not have been disproved and I could not have possibly been expected to reveal a mysterious source. Perry asked: “Is it your position that as a journalist, you would do everything you could to protect your source?”
Panter: “Yes.”
The judge: “Would that extend to permitting a wholly innocent man to face the risk of conviction and sentence?”
It was a bayonet of a question and I was on the back foot. This was my dread, that a wholly innocent man could be sent to jail because of a story I had written and because I was bound by professional ethics.
I eventually gave an explanation that I had hoped my original statement that Mutch was “not, to my knowledge, the source” would have sufficed.
Then it came to the crunch.
Perry: “If I ask you to answer questions about a source, are you willing to answer them?
Panter: “With respect, no I am not.”
Perry: “Who are you Mr Panter to decide whether it is in the interests of justice or not? You no longer have the cloak of journalistic privilege, because there is a greater interest than journalism in this country . . . the interests of justice. Are you willing to answer?”
Panter: “No, I am not.”
Perry: “You are not willing to provide information to us?
Panter: “Not about sources, no.”
The judge looked me in the eye from 10 feet away and asked: “You appreciate the potential consequences?” I nodded. I left court exhausted.
I was proud that I had upheld my principles in support of journalists everywhere and steadfast in my belief that I had done enough to help the jury reach a decision.
They did – and found Mutch unanimously not guilty after just three hours’ deliberation.
It was my turn next, accused of contempt of court by a high court judge.
Two key questions remain to this day: If my original story had been as damaging as the prosecution made out, why didn’t the police seek a court injunction to prevent publication? And, if my refusal to name my source(s) impeded the jury and therefore the course of justice, why didn’t the judge stop the trial?
Reporter in the dock
Sixteen days after the trial, I was in the dock. Refusal to answer questions was “classically contempt”, Mr Justice Leveson said at a hearing to decide my fate.
Would the judge deal with me himself or would he accept my barrister’s contention it should be referred to the Attorney General who would have to decide whether to send me to the Divisional Court in London accused of contempt?
Mr Justice Leveson took into account my rights under the European Convention and directed the case should go to the Attorney General. So, I had escaped prison in the short-term, but would the Attorney General commit me for trial in the Divisional Court, where I would face the possibility of imprisonment again?
I was anxious. I discovered a journalist found in contempt, had not been jailed in the UK for 30 years. They had been fined in more recent times.
However, I was concerned the authorities might try to make an example of me to deter others in the future, particularly journalists with information about terrorist attacks.
My editor was preparing to fund one of the country’s leading Queen’s Counsel to represent me if I was put on formal trial.
I was comforted by strong support from some old comrades.
I had been in the National Union of Journalists (NUJ) for 25 years and, thankfully, was up to date with my monthly subs.
The union prepared to roll tanks onto the Parliamentary lawns in support of press freedom – and mine.
I was surprised when a posse of MPs rode to my potential rescue and that of a free press, although I already had strong backing from Manchester Blackley MP Graham Stringer.
By May 2002, 45 MPs had signed the cross-party EDM. They included Brian Sedgemore, Jeremy Corbyn, Vincent Cable, Khalid Mahmood, Peter Kilfoyle, Diane Abbott, Brian Iddon and George Galloway.
The campaign launched by the union, coupled with astute legal argument by the M.E.N.’s solicitor, Peter Stone, saved my bacon.
On July 16, 2002, six months after my stance in court, Lord Goldsmith’s office wrote to Stone: “The Attorney General has considered them carefully with the assistance of advice from leading counsel . . . he has decided that contempt proceedings should not be brought against Mr Panter” . . . and . . . . “in the special circumstances of this case, the Attorney General has decided that it is not appropriate or in the public interest to proceed.”
I had been fortunate. However, the Attorney General’s decision does not mean other journalists will not be prosecuted in future for upholding their professional ethics.
I don’t regard myself as a folk hero, as many colleagues across the country have made out, but I am proud to have told a story of huge public interest and then stood firm to protect the integrity of journalism.
Sources are simply the reporter’s most prized possession and their protection is paramount.