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Obituary: Dee Dee Warwick

SHE came from the noble tradition of black gospel choirs, praising the Lord in swaying rhythms and swelling harmonies. It made brilliant stars of her elder sister, their aunt and cousin. Read

Obituary: Pat Moss-Carlsson

HORSES, cars, speed and the desire for female recognition ran in her blood. Read

Obituary: Levi Stubbs

NAMES matter, of course, and the change from Stubbles to Stubbs was a cool one, but nothing should detract from the fact that his was one of the greatest voices of the 20th century. Read

Obituary: Bill Flagg

HE WAS the farmer’s boy from apple country who saw the work of God in many places – from the Argentinian pampas to the streets of Liverpool. Read

Obituary: Rita Murphy

SHE was a mother of old Scotland Road, a grand matriarch, who believed in family, church, education and better times ahead, though her kindly eyes could, when the moment called, wither an improper idea with a single glance at the man whose lips had released it. Read

Obituary: Russ Hamilton

HIS life was like a rock and roll song – a handsome holiday camp Redcoat yearned for his lost love and wrote lonely ballads, which made him a huge star on both sides of the Atlantic. Read

Obituary: Peter Copley

HE HAD the chilled smile of an undertaker reading a tax bill, which could, with a barely perceptible stretch of the lips, become the supercilious face of British officialdom confronted by unexpected or over-excited behaviour. Read

Obituary: Bob Friend

HE BELONGED to the glorious line of journalists who enjoyed a good lunch before telling the world what it needed to know. Read

Obituary: Ted Briggs

IT WAS an act of old English courtesy. The boy was on board the mighty Hood, pride of the Royal Navy, as she entered her death throes. Read

Obituary: Boris Yefimov

HE WAS dangled between two tyrants, neither of whom bubbled with fun. The first he had to ridicule, the second he had to obey. Read

Obituary: NevilleWillasey

YOU didn’t need a photograph to remember his face. Maybe that wasn’t what a photographer wanted to hear, but it was true of this man, who made his living taking the pictures, which formed our history. Read

Obituary: Nick Reynolds

THEY were so clean-cut that the American dream seemed to shine from their polished faces. Any apple-baking momma would have been proud to have one as a son-in-law. Read

Obituary: Marie Roberts

SHE knew the jugglers and tumblers and costumed chimps, the harlequins, the elephants on stools, the tamed lions, high-wire walk- ers and painted ponies, in the grand old days when a clown could miss his cue and everyone would gasp be- cause it was true entertain- ment – and people would nudge each other in the seats around the ring and say: “You know that girl in the se- quins hanging onto the rope with her teeth, wasn’t she selling ice creams before?” Read

Obituary: Dame Maeve Fort

SHE was Britain’s most successful female diplomat, a charming woman of verve and style, who travelled widely, but found her natural habitat in good shops. Read

Obituary: John Bown

THE front page of the Diocese of Winchester Clergy Noticeboard, in February, 2005, noted that the Right Reverend James Jones, Bishop of Liverpool, was to deliver a Lent Lecture on the Icon of God. Read

Obituary: Jimmy Sirrel

HE WAS a footballer from another time zone – thick hair parted in the middle, aeronautical ears, the bulbous nose of a music-hall comic and a bony, unsunned chest between wide, jagged elbows. Read

Obituary: Paul Newman

IN these days of instant celebrity the term 'Legend' is an overused one. But once in a while one comes across a true icon who eclipses the flashy celebrities du jour the way a flawless diamond outshines a glass bead. Paul Newman was such a star. Read

Obituary: Celia Gregory

NINETY-FIVE per cent of the world’s population had been wiped out before she became a household face. Read

Obituary: William Woodruff

HE was born on straw spread over a pallet in a room by a cotton mill, where his mother was back at her weaving post two days later Read

Obituary: James Crumley

IN AMERICA, there is a trail of bruised glasses, screwed-up hopes, broken shaving mirrors, yearning women and empty bar-stools, left in the shadows by writers, inevitably described as “hardboiled” by critics, who often tried to imitate their style, but could never quite do it. Read

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