Crime Immemorial

At fifty-three years old, Alan was a family man at the peak of his success. Married to Barbara, with whom he shared a deep partnership in running the pubs, he was described by loved ones as a moral compass in a sometimes chaotic world. His son, Adam, idolized his father, recalling a man who balanced toughness with tenderness, always prioritizing family above all. Under Alan’s stewardship, the Clydesdale thrived without major incidents, a testament to his ability to command respect through fairness rather than fear.

The evening of Tuesday, July 16th, 1991, began like any other at the Clydesdale. The pub was winding down after a typical summer crowd, with Alan behind the bar, chatting amiably with regulars. But beneath the surface of normalcy simmered resentment from an incident the previous week. Alan had barred a group of rowdy men from the premises after they caused a disturbance, a decision that, while routine for him, would prove fatally provocative.

Around closing time, between eleven p.m. and midnight, chaos erupted. A gang of armed men, estimated at four to six individuals, stormed the pub. Witnesses later recounted a scene of terror: the intruders, wielding machetes and possibly other weapons, dragged Alan Brooks from behind the bar. He was frog-marched through the door and into the dimly lit car park, where the group unleashed a frenzied attack. Alan was stabbed multiple times in the chest and abdomen, the wounds so severe that he collapsed in a pool of his own blood. Despite frantic efforts by staff and patrons to intervene, the assailants fled into the night, vanishing before police arrived.

Paramedics rushed Alan to nearby Whipps Cross Hospital, but the damage was irreparable. He was pronounced dead shortly after arrival, leaving behind a stunned community and a family in ruins. The attack, believed to be a deliberate act of retaliation for barring the troublemakers, exposed the underbelly of gang activity encroaching on suburban Essex in the early 1990s, a time when organized crime groups were increasingly bold in settling scores.

The Metropolitan Police launched an investigation, spurred by the presence of multiple eyewitnesses inside the pub who had glimpsed the attackers’ faces and clothing. Initial leads pointed to local gang affiliations, with whispers of involvement from groups operating in East London and Essex. Sketches of suspects were circulated, and appeals for information flooded local media. Yet, despite the wealth of potential testimony, no arrests were made in the immediate aftermath.

Years dragged on with frustrating inertia. In 2000, a suspect was detained in connection with an unrelated crime, raising hopes of a breakthrough. Interrogations and forensic reviews followed, but the lead evaporated without charges. Critics, including the Brooks family, pointed to investigative lapses—overburdened detectives, reluctance from fearful witnesses, and the passage of time eroding memories—as key barriers. “There were people who saw what happened, but fear silenced them,” noted ex-detective Peter Bleksley, who later championed the case.

By 2006, marking the fifteenth anniversary, the file had gathered dust, classified as unsolved. Bleksley, a former Scotland Yard operative known for high-profile cases, joined forces with the family to urge a formal review. He argued that advancements in DNA analysis and witness protection could revive the probe. The Met Police acknowledged the renewed push but offered no timeline for action.

Media coverage kept the case alive, while community vigils and online forums preserved Alan’s memory. Yet, as of 2025, the savage slaying is still unsolved.

The Clydesdale Pub, the site of the tragedy, has mirrored the case’s stagnation. Once a bustling hub, it struggled post-murder, changing hands and names before closing permanently. In October 2025, plans surfaced to demolish the site for fifteen new affordable homes, a development that stirred mixed emotions. Local councilors approved the proposal, citing housing needs in Loughton’s growing population, but not without nods to its haunted history.