Yesterday afternoon, as I heard the TV news anchor reporting that ‘police had launched a murder inquiry’, I could hardly believe that they were talking about my treasured friend Ann Widdecombe.
I had been horrified to learn early on Thursday that ‘the Saintly Widders’, as I’ve always affectionately called her, had been found dead ‘in a pool of blood’ in the kitchen of her beloved home in the beautiful area of Haytor, Dartmoor.
At first, I assumed that Widders, who’d been a little shaky on her pins after a fall in December, had perhaps slipped and hit her head.
But then came the
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