Born in New Zealand and adopted into a family that would take him across the globe—from Hong Kong, where he picked up fluent Cantonese, to Southport on England’s Merseyside coast—Ian Grant embodied resilience and reinvention. By his early twenties, he had settled in the UK, channeling his imposing six-foot-four frame and bodybuilder’s physique into amateur boxing and door security work. Described universally as a “gentle giant,” Ian was the kind of man who rescued injured hedgehogs, lit up rooms with his quick wit, and offered a hand to anyone in need.
In the early 1990s, Ian moved to Cambridge to study, but the pull of the nightlife proved stronger. He bounced at hotspots like the LEL Club in St. Ives and various Cambridge venues, navigating a booming rave scene fueled by ecstasy, house music, and massive events like the 1992 Vision 2 festival in nearby Bourne, which drew up to 8,000 revelers under heavy security. Unemployed at the time of his death but plotting his own security firm, Ian Grant was an outsider in this insular world—loyal to his circle but unafraid to stand his ground. His boxing career had even seen him disqualified from a club after a post-bell brawl, hinting at the controlled ferocity beneath his affable exterior.
To his parents, Virginia and James, he was the “perfect son”—considerate, animal-loving, and endlessly generous. His girlfriend, twenty-one-year-old Samantha Kerslake, remembered a romance brimming with shared dreams and unshakeable trust. Yet, in Cambridge’s underbelly, where door firms clashed over turf and debts simmered amid drug-fueled parties, Ian’s straightforward nature may have made enemies. Violent incidents on the job and disruptions to rival security outfits painted a target on his back.
Tuesday, November 14th, 1995, began ordinarily enough. Ian (then twenty-four years old), his girlfriend Samantha, and a gym buddy returned to their flat in Speedwell Close, Cherry Hinton, after a shopping trip. As they unloaded bags, a “shifty” figure lingered in the shadows, watching intently. Ian confronted the stranger, who bolted toward the nearby wasteland bordering Fulbourn Hospital (now the site of a Tesco superstore). Unfazed, Ian shrugged it off and helped carry bags inside, only to step out again around eight p.m., telling Samantha he was “just popping out.”
He never returned. Shortly after midnight on November 15th, a doctor from Addenbrooke’s Hospital stumbled upon his body on the scrubby ground, a single .32-caliber bullet hole in the back of his head, execution-style, with powder burns confirming the close-range shot. Another wound marred his hand, suggesting a desperate block or struggle. Witnesses reported a white Ford Fiesta speeding away from the hospital perimeter moments after a muffled pop echoed through the night; inside were three thick-set men in bomber jackets, their faces obscured.
The hit bore hallmarks of a setup: a lure to draw Ian out, an ambush in isolation. Just two weeks prior, Samantha’s car had been torched outside their flat—a brazen warning detectives linked directly to the murder. On the night itself, that same shadowy lurker had reappeared, sealing Ian’s fate.
Cambridgeshire Police launched a murder inquiry, but the wall of silence from the nightlife fraternity proved impenetrable. No gun, no DNA, no solid evidence—only whispers of unpaid debts, turf wars, and a possible tie to Merseyside grudges Ian carried south. The case evoked parallels to other 1990s clubland killings, like the 1993 bludgeoning of bouncer Viv Graham in Newcastle or the Essex Boys’ triple murder, where security gigs masked deeper criminal webs.
By 1999, breakthroughs came: arrests of Robert Blake (aka Blake Tracy) and Jason Odell for murder and conspiracy. The duo, fixtures in Cambridge’s volatile door scene, faced trial at Norwich Crown Court in 2000. After a six-week slog, one was cleared outright; the jury deadlocked on the other. A 2001 retrial ended in acquittal for conspiracy charges. Insufficient evidence doomed the case, and it iced over.
Hope flickered in 2013. Fresh forensic evidence prompted a “significant breakthrough,” per Detective Chief Inspector Jon Hutchinson. A new team relaunched the probe, banking on shifted loyalties. An arrest followed in December 2013, but the suspect walked free without charge by April 2014. Tips from ex-criminals hinted at closure, yet the net never fully closed.
Post-trial fates underscored the era’s brutality. Blake Tracy drew twenty-two years in 2006 for attempting to murder a police dog handler. Odell, in 2013, landed a life sentence (minimum nine years) for a savage, prolonged assault on a woman in Norwich. Neither conviction touched Ian Grant’s killing.
Cambridgeshire Police still classify the case as active: a file dusted off periodically, awaiting that one crucial lead to crack it open. But as of this writing in late 2025, the killer of Ian Grant is still unknown.
Crime Immemorial 