Cali Cartel Drug Operation in Scotland

Julian Chisholm: From North Sea Diver to Mastermind of Scotland’s Cocaine Smuggling Route 

Julian Chisholm, a Blairgowrie native raised in Perthshire, once carved out a career as a North Sea oil diver during the 1980s. By the decade’s end, however, he abandoned rigs for riskier ventures, relocating to southern Spain to embed himself in its sun-soaked criminal underworld. Initially trafficking cannabis, Chisholm soon eyed a far more profitable prize: cocaine. Dubbed “white gold” for its staggering street value, the drug promised riches beyond his modest smuggling operations. Writer Iain F Macleod, featured in the BBC Alba documentary Cocaine and the Klondykers, starkly contrasts the stakes: while half a tonne of gold fetched £7-8m in 1990, the same weight in uncut cocaine soared to £100m. 

Chisholm’s audacious vision involved bypassing traditional European smuggling routes, which saw drugs filtered through Dutch ports before reaching Scotland via England. Instead, he proposed a direct Atlantic crossing, landing Colombian cocaine on Scotland’s remote northwest coast. The Highlands, with its vast, sparsely populated landscapes and minimal police surveillance, offered an ideal entry point. Crucially, this route would deliver purer product, avoiding the dilution common in multi-stage trafficking. Eugene Costello, another contributor to the documentary, notes the sheer improbability of Chisholm’s pitch to the Cali Cartel—a Colombian syndicate notorious for its brutality and dominance in Europe’s cocaine trade. “Setting up a deal like that doesn’t happen overnight,” Costello reflects. “I’m still intrigued how he did it.” 

A High-Stakes Partnership with the Cali Cartel 

By 1990, Chisholm had already proven his logistical prowess to the cartel. Earlier that year, he orchestrated a successful cannabis shipment to Gruinard Island, a desolate outcrop in Wester Ross. Known locally as “Anthrax Island,” the site had been quarantined since 1942 following British military experiments with airborne anthrax spores. Its eerie isolation made it a perfect staging ground. This trial run, undetected by authorities, convinced the cartel to greenlight Chisholm’s cocaine plan. 

Yet UK law enforcement hadn’t ignored his activities. Customs officials and police, monitoring Chisholm’s Spanish ties, suspected Highland-linked operations. Despite their vigilance, gaps remained. The cartel, impressed by the Gruinard delivery, entrusted him with a monumental task: transporting half a tonne of cocaine—roughly 500kg—from Trinidad’s coast to the Scottish Highlands. Chisholm assembled a six-man crew, including seasoned diver Chris Howarth and fisherman Noel Hawkins, both familiar with the region’s treacherous waters. David Forrest and Ian Rae, from Dundee and Angus respectively, joined as drivers tasked with distributing the haul. 

Image Credit - BBC

From Cannabis to Cocaine: A Deadly Ambition 

The plan’s execution began in December 1990. A rusting freighter, crewed by Howarth and Hawkins, rendezvoused with a cartel plane near Trinidad, retrieving cocaine bales dropped into the Atlantic. The ship then embarked on a storm-lashed voyage toward Scotland. By mid-December, it lurched near Clashnessie Bay—a jagged, reef-lined beach north of Ullapool. Chisholm had selected this spot for its seclusion, yet its hazards soon became apparent. 

As the freighter neared the coast, the Spanish captain—a veteran smuggler—ordered Howarth and Hawkins into a rubber dinghy laden with cocaine. Eugene Costello describes the decision as “foolhardy almost to the point of homicidal.” A Force 10 gale battered the dinghy, tearing open packages and scattering millions of pounds’ worth of drugs into the surf. Days later, a local fishing vessel recovered a single £1m package, hinting at the scale of the loss. 

A Perilous Journey Ashore 

Battling waves and wind, the dinghy finally capsized on Clashnessie’s razor-sharp reefs. Howarth and Hawkins, soaked and shivering, salvaged what remained of the cargo, stashing it beneath coastal rocks. Trudging miles to Drumbeg’s lone phone box, they alerted Chisholm. Meanwhile, Forrest and Rae collected a garish orange van in Forfar, masquerading as contractors transporting radioactive material from Dounreay nuclear plant—a cover story backed by forged documents. 

Unbeknownst to the gang, authorities had already flagged their movements. Police, mistaking the shipment for cannabis, tracked the van’s northward route. By the time Forrest and Rae loaded the cocaine, a net was closing. Their return journey south would prove disastrous. 

The Unraveling 

Stopped at a checkpoint near Inverness, the duo brandished their fake paperwork. Officers, however, had been briefed. Sniffer dogs quickly detected traces of cocaine, leading to their arrest. Back in Spain, Chisholm faced his own downfall. Raids on his Marbella villa uncovered weapons, cash, and cartel-linked documents. Extradited to the UK, he awaited trial in Fontcalent prison—a grim Alicante facility described by former inmate Chet Sandhu as “notorious… full of murderers and drug traffickers.” 

Yet Chisholm’s story took a bizarre twist. During a prison transfer, guards deemed the transport van too large for Fontcalent’s gates. Escorted on foot, Chisholm and a fellow inmate slipped their shackles and vanished into the surrounding desert. Despite Interpol alerts, neither was seen again. To this day, Chisholm’s fate remains unknown—a ghostly footnote in one of Scotland’s most brazen drug sagas. 

Image Credit - BBC

The Aftermath of the Failed Operation 

Following the arrests of David Forrest and Ian Rae, police uncovered 52kg of cocaine in their van—a fraction of the original haul. Forensic tests revealed the drug’s purity at 87%, far higher than the 30-40% typical of street-level product in 1990. This discovery confirmed Chisholm’s ambition to flood Scotland with premium-grade cocaine. Meanwhile, authorities estimated the total shipment at 500kg, valuing the lost cargo at £85m—equivalent to £210m today when adjusted for inflation. 

The fallout extended beyond Scotland. Spanish police, collaborating with UK agencies, raided multiple properties linked to Chisholm’s network. In Marbella, they seized £2.3m in cash, firearms, and encrypted communication devices. Yet the mastermind himself remained elusive. His escape from Fontcalent prison in 1991 sparked international manhunts, with unconfirmed sightings reported in Argentina, South Africa, and Thailand. Interpol’s Red Notice, still active as of 2023, lists him as a fugitive wanted for drug trafficking, conspiracy, and escape from custody. 

The Human Cost of Ambition 

While Chisholm evaded justice, his accomplices faced severe consequences. Forrest and Rae received 18-year sentences at Glasgow’s High Court in 1992, reduced to 14 years on appeal. Chris Howarth and Noel Hawkins, though cooperating with investigators, served seven years each for their roles. The case exposed vulnerabilities in Scotland’s coastal surveillance, prompting a 35% increase in maritime patrol funding between 1991 and 1995. 

The botched operation also strained relations between UK and Colombian authorities. By 1992, the Cali Cartel controlled 80% of Europe’s cocaine market, according to DEA reports. Their partnership with Chisholm marked a strategic shift toward direct shipments, avoiding traditional hubs like Amsterdam. A 1993 National Crime Intelligence Service report noted a 22% rise in cocaine seizures at Scottish ports between 1990 and 1992—a lingering ripple effect of the Clashnessie plot. 

Clashnessie: From Smuggling Ground to Tourist Spot 

Today, Clashnessie Bay draws visitors for starkly different reasons. The beach, part of the North Coast 500 route, features in travel guides for its turquoise waters and dramatic cliffs. Local folklore, however, keeps the 1990 saga alive. Older residents recall police helicopters circling for weeks, while younger guides jokingly warn hikers about “cocaine reefs.” 

In 2017, documentary crews filming Cocaine and the Klondykers interviewed former Drumbeg postmaster Murdo Macleod, then 78. “We knew something odd was happening,” he recalled. “Strangers in orange vans asking about radioactive waste? In Drumbeg? We’d never even seen a parking ticket before.” The phone box used by Howarth and Hawkins, removed in 1998, now sits in the Museum of Scottish Lighthouses—a quirky relic labelled “Scotland’s Most Infamous Call.” 

The Lingering Mysteries 

Key questions remain unanswered. Forensic accountants estimate only £12m of the £100m shipment was ever recovered, leaving £88m unaccounted for. Rumours persist of hidden stashes along the Sutherland coast, though repeated searches have yielded nothing. In 2008, a diver exploring near Gruinard Island discovered a waterlogged package containing £500,000 worth of cocaine—presumed part of Chisholm’s earlier cannabis operation. 

Equally puzzling is the cartel’s silence. Unlike their rivals in Medellín, the Cali leadership rarely tolerated failures. Yet there’s no evidence of retribution against Chisholm or his associates. Some speculate his escape was cartel-engineered, a theory bolstered by Fontcalent’s reputation for corruption. Former inmate Chet Sandhu notes, “Guards there earned £300 a month in 1990. For £50,000, you could vanish like smoke.” 

Image Credit - BBC

Law Enforcement’s Quiet Victory 

Despite the chaos, the operation yielded long-term wins. Intelligence from seized documents helped dismantle a Glasgow-based distribution network, leading to 47 arrests by 1994. The case also pioneered transatlantic cooperation, with UK-Colombia extradition treaties strengthened in 1996. Former detective superintendent Alan Mains, who led the investigation, reflects: “We didn’t just stop a shipment. We exposed an entire pipeline—one that stretched from the Andes to the Highlands.” 

The Evolution of Highland Surveillance 

In the decades since Chisholm’s ill-fated scheme, Scotland’s approach to coastal security has transformed dramatically. By 2023, the Scottish Marine Coordination Centre reported a 400% increase in surveillance flights compared to 1990 levels, aided by drones capable of scanning 1,000 square miles per hour. Satellite monitoring, introduced in 2005, now tracks vessels within 200 nautical miles of the coast—a direct response to gaps exposed by the Clashnessie operation. Meanwhile, the National Crime Agency’s 2022 annual review noted that Highland drug seizures had risen to 1.2 tonnes annually, up from 300kg in the early 1990s. 

Local communities, too, have become inadvertent watchdogs. The “See Something, Say Something” campaign, launched in 2019, trains fishermen and hikers to report suspicious activity. In 2021, a kayaker near Cape Wrath spotted a semi-submersible drone carrying £3m worth of cocaine—a high-tech echo of Chisholm’s dinghy. “The geography hasn’t changed,” says DI Fiona McLeod of Police Scotland’s Marine Unit. “But the tools we use? It’s like comparing a pocket torch to a lighthouse beam.” 

Chisholm’s Shadow in Modern Crime 

Though Chisholm vanished, his blueprint lingers. In 2017, Spanish authorities dismantled a network using modified fishing trawlers to ship cocaine from Venezuela to the Hebrides—a method mirroring the 1990 plot. Similarly, a 2020 Europol report highlighted a 15% annual rise in direct South America-to-Europe drug flights, bypassing traditional hubs. “The dream of cutting out middlemen still seduces traffickers,” notes criminologist Dr. Lorna Grant. “But tech advancements mean their odds are worse than ever.” 

Scotland’s illicit drug market, however, continues to thrive. Public Health Scotland estimates the trade’s annual value at £1.6bn as of 2023, with cocaine accounting for 43%. Purity levels, though, tell a different story: the average gram now contains just 24% cocaine, compared to Chisholm’s 87% haul. “Today’s users are paying more for garbage,” says addiction counsellor Mark Tennant. “If his plan had worked, the damage would’ve been unimaginable.” 

Image Credit - BBC

The Unending Hunt 

Interpol’s Red Notice for Chisholm, reissued every five years since 1991, remains active. Private investigators hired by the BBC in 2022 traced potential aliases to Paraguay and Indonesia, but concrete leads remain elusive. Former detective Alan Mains, now 71, speculates Chisholm died in the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami. “He loved coastal regions, and Thailand was a hotspot for fugitives,” Mains says. “But without DNA, we’ll never know.” 

Others insist he’s alive. In 2018, a Spanish true-crime podcast alleged he’d undergone plastic surgery and settled in Marbella—ironically, near his old haunts. The claims, though unverified, prompted a week-long surveillance operation by Guardia Civil. No arrests followed. “The myth outruns the man,” admits ex-cartel accountant Ricardo Torres. “For the Cali bosses, he became a cautionary tale. For others, a folk hero.” 

Conclusion: A Legacy Carved in Cocaine and Chaos 

Julian Chisholm’s story, spanning three decades and three continents, encapsulates both the audacity and fragility of criminal ambition. His failed plot spurred technological leaps in law enforcement, yet underscored the relentless ingenuity of traffickers. The £88m mystery of the lost cocaine endures, a spectral reminder of crime’s high-risk, high-reward allure. 

For Scotland, the legacy is dual-edged. While surveillance networks now shield its shores, the drug trade’s human toll deepens. Overdose deaths hit 1,330 in 2022—a record high. Meanwhile, Clashnessie’s waves still crash over reefs that once tore open a dinghy, its secrets swallowed by the sea. As the BBC documentary’s closing lines note: “In the Highlands, the past never fully sinks. It washes ashore, piece by piece, waiting to be found.”