# The Ipswich Krays.



## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

Once I had completed my first year as a probationary constable, back in March, 1966, I was permitted to work my beat on my own. There wasn't any further need for me to be accompanied by a senior police constable to supervise me during my patrol. There were twenty six beats in the town, and my favourite was the dock beat... as I spent most of my off-duty hours down on the waterfront, anyway. It was because of this reason that I was given a very famous and important case to solve.
The No.2 Transit Shed on Cliff Quay had been broken into at night, and ten thousand transistor radios in bond had been stolen. There was a hole in the side of the transit shed on the riverside of the building, made in such a place that it wouldn't set off the Burgo alarm. This was obviously an inside job, I thought, or they had someone on the inside to help them.
There were several piles of forklift pallets on the riverside of the manhole that led under Cliff Quay, so no one on the other side of the River Orwell could see what was going on. The ropes had been left in place that were used to pull a large dinghy back and forwards from beneath the manhole to a thirty six foot motor launch moored alongside the quay. Anyone on the riverside of the quay would have been totally unaware of what was going on under the quay.
The C.I.D. had exhausted themselves, trying to work out who had pulled the job, but all they came up with was a wall of silence. This was the biggest criminal offence to come up around Ipswich since the Tattingstone suitcase murder, some six years before. As I was always on the waterfront of the town, they decided to give me the case to solve for them... washing their hands of the problem.
We had the launch impounded inside the Wet Dock, just inside the east pier-head of the lock-gates. I went over it with a fine tooth-comb, but this was three months after the event. I examined the two engines for their registration numbers and maker's plates, and added these to the file on the case. She had been basically stripped out for the job, and there was nothing much else left inside to give the robbers away.
Of course I knew who had done it... the main criminal gang in Ipswich. They were the Ipswich equivalent of the Krays, down in London, but without the glamour of their night clubs. They were usually responsible for lorry hijacking at truck stops, and breaking into local businesses to empty the safes... but this was something else altogether!
There was a general hub-bub in our local waterfront pub... The Steamboat Tavern... about who had pulled the job, and I even knew the name of the security guard in the pocket of the robbers who'd showed them where to break into the building without setting off the alarm. I even knew the drinker in the pub who was the dock-worker who'd stacked the forklift pallets in front of the manhole leading under Cliff Quay, which was hollow and resting on concrete piles. 
The main problem with all the evidence that I'd collected in the two weeks I was involved with the case was it was all hearsay. I knew everything there was to know about who had done the job, and there were many grins and nods towards me as I drank with some of the culprits in the pub... but I never had any solid evidence that could be used in a court of law... especially at the Crown Court level.

When I returned to England in August, 1990, after travelling all over the world with my ships, and spending three years castaway on Emily Reef after being shipwrecked in the Coral Sea, the drinkers in The Steamboat Tavern were still talking about the case and snickering behind their cupped hands. The story was still going around how the 'Ipswich Kray Gang' has set up a table in the pub, selling transistor radios. This was supposedly next to my table... so the story goes... of me setting up a table in the pub selling Dutch cigars.
This related to the largest smuggling offence detected up until then when I found the yacht loaded with seventy seven thousand Dutch cigars. It had been anchored at The Royal Harwich Yacht Club, and I was collected from my home address early in the morning to find it with my first ship, Blue Bell. The Customs and Excise launch from Harwich had spent all the previous night trying to find it in Harwich Harbour, and the Rivers Orwell and Stour... but without success. The job was given to me, as a last resort, and 'boy' were they all peeved when I found it after only twenty minutes from leaving my mooring at The Orwell Yacht Club, at Bourne Bridge.
A young Jack-the-lad... Terry Walker... had been apprehended earlier that night, after arriving at the bottom of the lane at Nacton Shore in a Zodiac inflatable dinghy. The name on the dinghy was 'Tender to Carmen of Malden', so they knew the name of the yacht... but that was all. Terry Walker had previously been arrested for stealing the Zodiac inflatable dinghy from the Duke of Edinburgh's yacht, Bloodhound, while she was anchored at the Royal Harwich Yacht Club. 
The Ipswich Krays later became respectable businessmen in the town. George was killed in an accident while trying to remove a large diesel generator from a ship on the slipway at St. Clements Shipyard in Ipswich, and 'Ron' later got dementia, and went out of general circulation. 'Reg' is still around in Ipswich, and like myself, is a pensioner. We still nod to each other in passing, a rye smile crossing our faces as we do so... remembering old times. His business is still thriving in the town, run by his family, who are completely unaware of their criminal family history, and my connection with them. All the best, Cpt Dick Brooks.


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