IT was a Monday lunchtime much like this one when the phone rang.

Jill Dando had been attacked outside her house and was feared dead.

I noticed my hand shaking. Exactly seven days earlier, almost to the minute, I’d met Jill and spoken to her for a forthcoming feature.

The tape of what was now one of her very last interviews was sitting on the desk beside that phone, still to be transcribed.

A little while later came the newsflash confirming Jill’s death