Chapter 21

East End Mercenary

e was christened Brian Ernest Walter Pawley, but to his many friends and contemporaries he has never been known as anything other than ‘Ernie’, which is the way he will be referred to throughout this narrative. Now, at seventy years of age, Ernie still looks tough enough to punch holes through a brick wall; it was his physical fitness, strong constitution and resolve which saved his life, over thirty years ago – and the skill of the surgeons and the love and support of his family. All that, plus a generous indulgence of good luck.

It all happened because of an investigation which, if it had been allowed to run its course, would probably have culminated in a ticking-off for the perpetrator and the warning, ‘Don’t do that, again’. But the enquiry did not come to a satisfactory conclusion. It ended abruptly with one detective escaping death in a fusillade of bullets, another lying grievously wounded and close to death, and the man responsible, very definitely dead. And it all happened on Saturday, 11 March 1978, when Detective Constable Ernie Pawley wanted a day off.

Ernie had only been at Stoke Newington police station for two months; prior to that, he had been attached to the Yard’s Serious Crime Squad for three and a half years, during which time he had been commended by the commissioner, the Director of Public Prosecutions, judges at the Old Bailey and the bench at Norwich Magistrates’ Court in three cases, for his role in breaking up gangs of international criminals, as well as some home-grown ones. But when the Squad was not actively engaged in carrying out observations on criminals or arresting them, they had every weekend off. Not so at divisional police stations, which demanded a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week cover by CID officers, especially a busy East End station like Stoke Newington. So when on the morning of 11 March Ernie phoned in to see if he could have a day off, it was curtly refused.

Grumpily getting dressed and putting on an old pair of shoes, thirty-seven-year-old Ernie kissed goodbye to his wife Val, and their three children, Neil, fourteen, Colin, ten and Sarah, eight. He then left their home in Romford and made his way to the insalubrious streets of Stoke Newington, where he was seen by Detective Chief Inspector Don Gibson, who informed him of a curious incident. That morning, a concerned father had arrived at the police station and told the officers that the previous day, his daughter aged nine and her friend, a girl aged eight, had gone to the local swimming pool where they had met a man named ‘Alan’, who had taken them to his flat ‘somewhere near the children’s hospital in Hackney’. The girls had travelled there in his car, which was red and had the part-registration number ‘TUU’. It also had what the girls described as ‘a loose boot’. In the flat he had shown the girls some guns he possessed and had given them some trinkets and, in the father’s words, ‘fifty bob [£2.50] each’. There had been absolutely no allegation of sexual impropriety, but ‘Alan’ had asked that the girls meet him at the swimming baths again the following day, Saturday.

The girl’s father repeated this odd story to Ernie, who asked him to bring both girls to the police station to verify it, and this was done. “Take Russ Dunlop with you,” said DCI Gibson, indicating a new detective constable. Booking out the CID car, Ernie, Dunlop, the father and the two girls drove out of the station in the direction of Hackney Road and the (now closed) children’s hospital. As Ernie stopped at a set of traffic lights, across the junction amongst the oncoming traffic was a red car bearing the part-registration number ‘TUU’. “Is that the man driving that red car over there?”asked Ernie, and both girls immediately replied, “Yes”.

Ernie turned the CID car round, and as the red car moved off he followed it into a side street and stopped some distance behind it. Both officers got out of their car, walked over to the red car and introduced themselves to its occupant. Possibly thinking he had illegally parked, the man, whose name was Alan Murphy, replied, “Oh, I’m only going to the shops.” In his early forties, Murphy was five feet six tall and very well built – he had enormously thick arms – and he was quite relaxed and unconcerned about being questioned by the two detectives. As Dunlop checked the boot of Murphy’s car and discovered that it was indeed loose as the girls had described, so Ernie said casually, “I understand you’ve got some guns at home, Alan?”

“Yes,” agreed Murphy, “but I have got a certificate for them.”

“Well, let’s go home and check it then,” said Ernie, to which Murphy, with the calm he had exhibited all through this brief meeting, replied, “Certainly, let’s go.”

At no time had Ernie mentioned what the girls had said, nor had Murphy seen them, because the CID car had been parked some little distance away. So now, telling Dunlop to accompany Murphy in his car, Ernie went back to the CID car and followed the two men in the red car to 81 Goldsmith’s Row, Bethnal Green, E2, a three-storey block of flats in a short street just off Hackney Road, between Queensbridge Road and Mare Street. Leaving the father and the two girls in the police car, Ernie walked over to Murphy and Dunlop and the three men walked up to Flat 4, situated on the first floor of the premises. The atmosphere between the three men was completely affable, but this was about to change dramatically. Murphy had told Ernie that he worked as a driver, which was true. What he had not told him was that he had also worked as a mercenary in Africa and six years previously had taken part in an abortive coup to overthrow Equatorial Guinea’s dictator. Murphy was, in fact, a borderline psychotic, he was indeed in possession of firearms, he had killed a lot of people in Africa and now, here in England, he was about to try to add two more to the list.

The flat – or rather, bedsit – was unremarkable; there was a bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a table and chairs and at the back, a door leading to the kitchen. Murphy, a member of a gun club, handed Dunlop a firearms certificate and then from under the bed took a briefcase, from which he produced a large black handgun. Dunlop confirmed that that was one of the guns mentioned in the certificate, and Ernie commented, “Surely you shouldn’t have this gun here, you should keep it at your club.” Murphy agreed but said he had brought it home for cleaning. In a corner of the room by the chest of drawers Ernie noticed a long metal object, four feet in length, with a diameter of about two and a half inches at one end, tapering down to one inch at the other. He picked it up; it was very heavy, and when he asked Murphy what it was, he was told that it was an antique air rifle. Ernie kept hold of it for a little longer, examining it because he had never seen a weapon like it before, before putting it down on a chair by the wardrobe. It was the wardrobe which Dunlop was searching in Murphy’s presence, so Ernie walked into the kitchen where he picked up one of several red plastic boxes containing empty shells. As he went to open it, Murphy called out, “Be careful how you open them or they’ll all fall out,” and that was just what happened. As Ernie bent down and picked up the shells, he noticed a lot of equipment in the kitchen; when he asked the purpose of it, Murphy replied, “Making bullets,” and then asked Ernie what was going to happen to him. Ernie explained what the little girls had said, in detail, and Murphy replied, “Oh, you found out about the girls, then?” adding, “but I never touched them.”

“In view of the allegations made by the girls and the fact that you have that gun in the briefcase that you shouldn’t have here,” said Ernie, “I want you to come to Stoke Newington police station with us to clear it all up.” Murphy, as unconcerned as ever, replied, “OK, I’ll come down with you.”

Ernie looked down, saw a metal tool box underneath the table and said, “We’re going to have another quick look round before we go.” Bending down, he pulled the box out, opened it and saw a Mauser self-loading pistol lying on top. Then, before he could ask any questions about it, he heard Murphy say, very quietly, “That’s enough.”

Ernie looked up. The shocking sight that confronted him was his colleague Russ Dunlop, a thirty-one-year-old married man with two children, on his knees with Murphy behind him, staring fixedly at Ernie and holding a handgun with both hands, his knees slightly bent, forcing the barrel of the gun into the nape of Dunlop’s neck. As calmly as he could in such a situation, Ernie said, “Don’t be silly, let me sit down and we can talk about this.” But as he went to sit on one of the chairs, Murphy replied, “Shut up and stay where you are.”

Murphy now turned the gun one-handed from Dunlop to Ernie, pointing it at his chest from a distance of three feet. Although matters were now moving very quickly indeed, Ernie, who had been a police-authorised shot for the past eight years, and a marksman, spotted that the gun that Murphy was holding was a short-barrelled .38 revolver. Bullets were in the chamber, and there was no visible obstruction in the barrel to suggest that this was an imitation firearm. Moreover, although this did not become apparent until much later, it was not the weapon which Murphy had produced from the briefcase. It had been in his possession the entire time.

Murphy now pushed the gun barrel back into Dunlop’s neck, forcing his head forwards, and Ernie, desperately trying to defuse the situation, again said, “Don’t be silly – these are only small matters,” but Murphy replied, “Shut up – I’m going to kill you both.” His calm manner had now deserted him, and as Ernie looked at him he knew immediately that this was no hysterical outburst. As he told me, over thirty years later, “I knew negotiations were out!” He had faced dangerous men before, and he realized at that moment that Murphy meant exactly what he said and that unless immediate action was taken he was about to witness his companion’s execution.

Forced to his knees, Dunlop could do nothing to save himself, so Ernie took the initiative, leaping at Murphy, seizing hold of his wrist and pushing the gun away from Dunlop’s neck. Although this took Murphy by surprise, his reactions were extremely quick and he turned the gun towards Ernie’s chest. Even though Ernie was exceptionally strong and fit, he was no match for Murphy, a bodybuilder who could actually press porters’ trolleys above his head; so although Ernie was pushing with all his strength, slowly but steadily the gun in Murphy’s rock-solid grip moved across Ernie’s chest area until it reached the heart region – then Murphy pulled the trigger.

“I felt as though I had been hit on the chest with a sledgehammer,” said Ernie. As he continued to hang on to Murphy, he could actually feel the bullet burning its way through his body, so he shouted to Dunlop, “Get out, and get some help!” As Dunlop ran to the door, Murphy suddenly wrenched his arms from Ernie’s grasp and fired a shot at Dunlop, fortunately missing him; as Murphy ran after him Ernie punched the gunman to try to knock him off balance and give Dunlop a chance of escaping, before he himself crashed to the floor. There came the sound of another shot fired in Dunlop’s direction. Ernie was now on his hands and knees and experiencing great difficulty breathing, so he rolled on to his right side in the hope that this might assist him to breathe more easily. Initially, as he later told me, “I was thinking of Val and the kids”, and his second thought was, “I don’t want to finish in some shitty flat in the East End,” because now he believed he was dying.

Murphy now came back into the room and fired a random shot at Ernie, which missed; then, squatting down in front of Ernie, Murphy ejected the empty bullet cases from the gun and began reloading it, saying chillingly, “You’re dead, anyway.”

Believing that Russ Dunlop was either dead or wounded – in fact, the bullet had narrowly missed Dunlop, who had fallen down the stairs – Ernie suddenly noticed the antique airgun, and to prevent any other police officer who might enter the flat being killed or incapacitated, with a tremendous effort grabbed hold of the airgun with both hands and jumped to his feet. Murphy was taken by surprise, but he also got to his feet, still holding the gun. Ernie smashed the airgun across Murphy’s forearms and the revolver went spinning across the room. But the struggle was by no means over; Murphy with or without a weapon still posed an enormous threat, and Ernie struck him across the arms and body to stop Murphy attacking him, before Murphy grabbed hold of the air rifle. Ernie managed to snatch the weapon back from Murphy’s grasp before hitting him across the face with it and seeing blood start to run from his nose and mouth. Still hitting any available part of Murphy’s body, Ernie finally knocked him face down on to a chair and continued to hit him across the head and neck as hard as he could; he only stopped when he was too weak to continue. Ernie believed – wrongly, as it turned out – that Murphy was dead; but he had one more task to accomplish. He had to drag Murphy out of the room and down the stairs, to prove to any police officers who arrived that it would be safe to enter the bedsit. He tried to lift Murphy but he was too heavy; he left the flat to look for Dunlop but was unable to find him, and as he did so he fell down the stairs. Staggering to the front door of the premises, he all but collided with Jim Campbell, a bank messenger who was passing by, and told him, “I’ve been shot – can you help me?” before collapsing in the street.

Uniformed officers were running towards him, having been summoned by Russ Dunlop, who recalled, “When I got back to the flat after raising the alarm, Ernie was sitting on the pavement, leaning against the wall with blood pouring out of him.” In addition, people were spilling out of the pub opposite; one of the clientele brought a large glass of scotch over, saying, “Come on mate, drink this.” It was obviously done with the best of intentions, but it was too much for Ernie, who groaned, “Oh, fuck off!”

With Ernie now being rushed by ambulance to St Leonard’s hospital, Hackney, police ringed the flats and marksmen took up position. After an hour, Inspector Eric Lister from Bethnal Green police station heard a shot from within the premises, and Sergeant Alexander Moir from the Yard’s D11 Firearms Unit led the way into the flat. There he found the lifeless body of Murphy. Moir later told the inquest, “His face was bloodstained and there was a hole in his chest and vest, apparently caused by a gunshot. There were four weapons around his body on the floor.” The pathologist, Dr Peter Venezis, said that in his opinion the gunshot which had killed Murphy was self-inflicted.

Murphy’s landlord, John Delaney, told reporters, “He was a nice person – respectable, shy and a bit of a loner,” and added, “I just can’t understand how this situation developed.”

Neither could anybody else.

But now, in St Leonard’s hospital, Ernie was fighting for his life. During its journey through his body, Murphy’s bullet had bounced off his ribs, punched a 2cm hole his diaphragm, penetrated his gut and shaved off part of his pancreas, before lodging in his back by his spine. Professor Staunton had been summoned; he had treated soldiers for gunshot wounds in Northern Ireland and was an authority on this type of injury. Meanwhile, Ernie lay flat on his back as one nurse cut away his bloody clothing and another removed his shoes. One of the shoes – the old pair which Ernie had put on that morning – had a hole in the sole; the nurse held it up to show the doctor, and to Ernie’s discomfort he rolled his eyes, as if to say, “Poor soul!”

But this was a small piece of humour in a fraught situation. Professor Staunton operated successfully, but because of the dirt, debris and fragments of clothing which the bullet had dragged with it, septicaemia set in. In addition, it was thought possible that some of Murphy’s fellow mercenaries might wish to take revenge, and armed police officers were placed around Ernie’s room. The guards were lifted when the Private Military Company which had recruited Murphy was contacted by Detective Chief Inspector Gibson, who was assured that no such action would even be contemplated.

The police rallied round as they always do in such an emergency. Detective Constable John Fowler, a friend of Ernie’s from the Serious Crime Squad, volunteered to chauffeur Val Pawley to and from the hospital, and during those days of intensive care, newspaper photographs showed a frightened-looking Val by Ernie’s bedside, together with a concerned-looking Russ Dunlop. ‘The Suicide Siege’, reported the News of the World, the day after the shooting, with the subheading, ‘Gunman shoots hero detective’; and fellow police officers praised Ernie’s courage, none more so than Russ Dunlop.

Six weeks had passed and the septicaemia was getting worse, with the poison having to be drained several times a day; then arbitrary action was taken by David Powis OBE, QPM, the Yard’s highly controversial Deputy Assistant Commissioner, who ordered Ernie’s removal to St Thomas’ hospital. If Powis thought Ernie was not getting the best medical attention then he was wrong, because Ernie and his family were perfectly happy with the treatment he was receiving. No doubt Powis believed that he was doing this from the best of motives, but it caused resentment among Ernie’s CID contemporaries (who for the most part loathed Powis) and probably ruffled a few feathers amongst the staff at St Leonard’s, as well. Powis had a dislike of being addressed as ‘Guv’ (a usual form of address from a junior officer to those of and above the rank of inspector), since he thought it disrespectful, and this was matched by his dislike of seeing CID officers without jacket or tie, the sight of which was sufficient to have the offender sent back to uniform. Not that Ernie will have a bad word said about Powis who, he says, treated him with nothing but kindness. No respecter of persons (Ernie addressed his colleagues, male and female, as ‘Babe’) he recalled, much later on when he was posted to Romford, seeing Powis walk into the CID office. Ernie was without a tie and he nodded to Powis. “Morning, Guv,” he said. The office collectively held its breath, until Powis smiled. “Ah, Ernie,” he said. “Fancy some lunch?”

Back now to St Thomas’ hospital, where Ernie received care just as good as he had at St Leonard’s, and where the Chief Surgeon, Mr Lloyd-Davies, was keeping a careful eye on his recovery. Slowly, Ernie recovered. Ten months after the shooting he was allowed to resume duty – light duties – with a home posting at Romford police station. He gave evidence at the Coroners’ Court of the events which led to the shooting, and the coroner, Dr Douglas Chambers, congratulated Ernie on his actions and returned the verdict that Murphy had taken his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed. Nor was the coroner’s the only congratulation forthcoming; the commissioner commended both Ernie and Dunlop for their courage (with Ernie receiving a high commendation) on 25 August 1978, and three months later Ernie was awarded £30 from the Bow Street Reward Fund.

And seventeen months after the shooting, the London Gazette announced that Ernie would be awarded the George Medal. “It was a day I will remember for the rest of my life,” said Ernie, after receiving the medal from the Queen, adding, “it was a nice touch to be taken to the Palace by Rolls. It certainly beat travelling up on public transport!” Ernie received a scroll of honour after being voted one of ‘The Men of the Year’ and attending a luncheon at the Savoy Hotel – and then it was back to work.

Slowly Ernie’s health improved, so much so that by March 1981, just three years after the near-fatal shooting, he was posted to the prestigious No. 9 Regional Crime Squad; for the next eight years he saw some of the toughest police work in Britain, going up against gangs of professional lorry thieves, armed robbers, warehousebreakers and receivers, as well as running informants and making arrests.

One such arrest, involving a seven-handed gang of lorry thieves, was recalled by former Detective Chief Inspector Peter Connor. At the subsequent trial Ernie was in the witness box giving evidence of the arrest, and it was put to him in no uncertain terms in cross-examination that after he had confronted one of the lorry thieves he had turned and run away. Ernie simply denied the scurrilous allegation, but the defence barrister persisted in his accusation. Peter Connor, sitting behind the prosecuting counsel, scribbled a note and passed it to him, watched as the barrister read it and saw a smile creep across his face. When the defence barrister’s vilification of Ernie ended, the prosecuting counsel got to his feet to re-examine Ernie.

“Tell me, Mr Pawley,” asked the barrister, “has your courage ever been brought into question before?” Ernie stated that it had not.

“Have you ever been commended in the past?”enquired the barrister, and Ernie agreed that this had been indeed the case.

“Has your courage ever been the subject of any kind of award?” asked the barrister, almost casually, and Connor kept his eyes on the defence barrister who by now had realized that he had committed a gaffe of staggering proportions and appeared to be sliding further and further down into his seat, especially when Ernie agreed that it had.

Delivering his coup de grâce, the barrister asked mildly, “Was that award the George Medal for Gallantry?” and as Ernie nodded, the jury burst into laughter; this was probably a contributory factor to the conviction of the entire gang who, as Connor put it, “Went down like a stack of bricks,” adding, “These moments come only too seldom in a detective’s life!”

But by January 1989 the strain of his injuries was starting to tell, and Ernie was medically discharged with just over twenty-nine years’ service. He was re-employed as a civilian, still working for the Regional Crime Squad but now as the office manager ensuring that the wheels of the organisation ran smoothly, until he retired altogether.

In retirement, Ernie, now with five grandchildren, is affectionately remembered by his contemporaries, many of whom – and I am one of them – were surprised that his actions did not merit the award of the George Cross. His biggest admirer is Russ Dunlop, who described Ernie to me as being quite simply, “The bravest of men and one to whom I owe my life.”