It was a bright autumn day two years ago when I last met Duncan Campbell (1944-2025), who has sadly died at 80. We were gathered at Westminster Abbey for a service. It was one of those rare occasions that brought together old friends and public figures whose lives had, in different ways, shaped the cultural and political fabric of Britain.
Duncan arrived quietly, walking with a calm presence and characteristic understatement. He had that alert look of someone who had seen more than most, but still approached the world with curiosity rather than cynicism.
After the service, we sat down for what would turn out to be his final recorded conversation. What follows is drawn from that afternoon. A candid and often witty reflection on a lifetime in journalism.
“You know,” he said with a faint smile, “I never planned to write about crime for this long. I just followed the stories no one else wanted to touch. And there were plenty of those.”
He paused, then added, “I was lucky to have the freedom to dig. That’s rare. These days, there’s more speed than depth. And depth is where the real story is.”
When I asked what had changed most in his years reporting on crime and policing, he didn’t hesitate.
“The problem isn’t just the police. It’s the machinery around them. You can’t fix the engine by polishing the bonnet. And don’t get me started on the tabloids.”
He gave a dry laugh, the kind that suggested experience rather than bitterness.
Talk turned to the city he knew so intimately.
“I’ve walked more of this city than most taxi drivers. From Soho to Southall. Every street’s got a story, and half of them are unsolved.”
I asked if he had ever seriously considered retirement.
“Retirement? I’ve been threatening to do that for years. But then someone tips you off about a bent copper or a dodgy case file, and suddenly you’re back at the desk.”
As we wrapped up, I asked how he hoped his work would be remembered.
“If anything I wrote made someone question the official version of events just once, then I’ve done my job.”
He gave one last piece of advice, almost as an afterthought.
“I always told new reporters: if you’re going to dig, wear good shoes. And never trust anyone who says ‘off the record’ twice in one sentence.”
That moment captured so much of what made Duncan stand out. His clarity. His moral compass. His humour. His relentless pursuit of truth without ever losing sight of the human stories beneath it all.
Duncan’s passing marks the end of an era in British journalism. He gave voice to those who had none, challenged authority when it mattered most, and remained, to the end, a reporter in the truest sense.
I’m grateful to have shared that final conversation with him.
Amirreza Tayebi is the author of A Very British Revolution
