How a British Town Cleaned Up the Legacy of the ‘Suffolk Strangler’

November 6, 2018 Off By Francisco Garcia

It's quiet on London Road. It usually is now. There's little to distinguish it from any other residential artery in the country on the unseasonably warm autumn afternoon that I arrive in Ipswich. All the usual faces and semi-domestic sights; the carriages and daytime strollers, the rows of neat semi-detached houses and well-kept front lawns.

Things were different here in 2006. This was the heart of the town's red-light district, a site of regional notoriety which was soon to face what felt like the entire world's appalled attention. On Monday, October 30, that same year, 19-year-old Tania Nicol went missing, having last been seen on foot at 11 PM, striding past the Sainsbury's garage at the bottom of the road. Two weeks later, on November 14, 25-year-old Gemma Adams was reported missing by her worried partner at 2:55 AM, having failed to return home or check in with the usual phone call.

On Saturday, December 2, 2006, a naked body was discovered by a member of the public in a brook flowing through Hintlesham, a well-to-do village five miles outside of Ipswich. It was soon formally identified as being that of Gemma Adams. Six days later, Tania Nicol's was found by divers at Copdock Mill, just off London Road.

It took four days for three more women to be discovered. Paula Clennell, Annette Nicholls, and Anneli Alderton. The grizzly details of their deaths are not important to relate. They were murdered because they were involved in sex work on London Road. Tania was the youngest at 19, Annette the oldest, at 29.

This is no unsolved mystery. They were killed by Steve Wright, a twice-married, bankrupt, failed pub landlord, and ex-forklift truck driver with a penchant for golf and catastrophic gambling losses. The 49-year-old was well-known on London Road, where he lived, and drove a blue Ford Mondeo—one of the details that precipitated his capture on December 19, 2006—an unremarkable, pathetic figure, now serving a whole life sentence at HM Prison Long Lartin.

"PLEASE TAKE AWAY FREE!!"

For Brian Tobin and Alan Caton, the demise of street-based sex work stands as the most worthwhile legacy for the women who died in Ipswich. "How they hated it," Brian says, "how they loathed doing what they did. And now when I see three or four of the women occasionally, they pop in with their kids, they can't believe that they... that that's what they used to do."

A few years ago, a decision was taken. No more interviews with the survivors, aside from Jade Reynolds, who still campaigns in Ipswich on addiction treatment and awareness. The 35-year-old has spoken about Iceni and the daily support she received in her darkest days. "God bless them," she told the Ipswich Star in 2016, "they were there with me daily. They did an amazing job for us girls. I'm healthy. I'm clean. I've got a wedding to look forward to. Life is 100 percent better than it was ten years ago."

Of the 32 women Iceni worked with in the slow, difficult time after the killings, Tobin says they still know the whereabouts of all but two.

To some of the women it has meant a fresh start in places untainted by all the trauma, all the memories of lost friends and the dark, painful nights of a different time. Others have stayed. They have done what works, for them. But life is seldom a fairytale. "Some of them still struggle with addiction and may well do for the rest of their lives," says Brian.

Last month, it was reported that Kerry Samain had died as the result of an overdose. The 39-year-old had been reported lost—though was later found—at the time of the killings in 2006. She was well-known to Iceni, with Tobin quoted in a BBC report remembering her as "tortured but lovely… [it's] tremendously sad. She had some fantastic times and some terrible times, but she was lovely to have on the premises."

Ipswich was changed forever by those events 12 years ago. In what world could it have been otherwise? A small market town with the world's glare fixed on its underbelly over the course of a few long, nightmarish months. "Street prostitution" has been almost entirely consigned to the recent past, communities have altered and regrouped, life has settled back into a recognizable groove.

But no one from those days has forgotten. It's doubtful they ever will. There will always be scrutiny and unwelcome anniversaries. If the collective memory of a place exists, then its horrors form part of its inheritance, though not entirely. There are always other things to recall, too. Tania Nicol's father, Jim spoke to that at a press conference on December 13, 2006:

"They can't take away our memories. They can't take away our love, our fortitude, our courage. Grieve for our daughters but not unnecessarily. Live your lives through our departed daughters, as they would want to see us getting on with our lives and not going around with our heads bowed down. A time for sadness and a time for gladness. A gladness that they belong to us. A gladness of the happy times we shared. The joy they brought to us. A thankfulness that they are now at peace."

Sign up for our newsletter to get the best of VICE delivered to your inbox daily.