WHEN the news came in about Rod Hills' death, the first reaction in the newsroom was one of shock. But as more details emerged, and we learnt his body had been found in a flat in one of the worst boroughs of Leeds, the tragedy acquired a sense of terrible inevitability.

Even to outsiders, it was clear his was a life derailed. Rod Hills' fight against seedy and serious criminal allegations was largely successful. But although he won most of his court battles, he seemed to have lost so much more: his status, his dignity, his way.

The bullish, arrogant, powerful city leader diminished before our eyes. In his last few appearances in the Evening Press, he looked tired and old. Rumours circled him like vultures.

Usually when discussing the foreshortened life of a public figure, we hear talk of their "inner demons". Clich has it that the same characteristics which drove Mr X to the top led directly to his downfall. That seems too easy to me. Does anyone not have inner demons? Doesn't every human being deserve to be considered more complex than that?

I had only a passing, professional acquaintance with Rod Hills, and so I cannot speculate about his private life or private thoughts. It is for the coroner to find cause of death; the rest of us can reflect on a sad end to an accomplished life, and think of his family.

I would also set down an observation from my own field: Rod Hills produced some cracking news stories. Forget about the more lurid tales of late, I am talking about his combative council days. His powerful grip on York politics, combined with the sort of plain speaking which should have endeared him to Yorkshire folk, ensured some inflammatory rows.

Who else would have upset the china teacups of the York Civic Trust by accusing this previously revered conservation group of being hijacked by a right-wing "planning mafia"? What top politician today would abandon pretence and reveal they actively despised another, as Rod did when called upon to comment on the then Tory MP Conal Gregory?

Is there left another Labour man or woman who would risk the wrath of the gathered clergy, military chiefs and other distinguished guests by addressing them all as "comrades"? And then boycott the subsequent mayor-making dinner, condemning it as a junket at the taxpayers' expense? Not even Ken Livingstone, who is almost part of the establishment these days.

Like Ken, time seemed to mellow Coun Hills. It was noticeable that the man who regularly used his Guildhall podium to berate Tory governments remained quiet on the failures of Tony Blair's New Labour administration. But he still had enough of the socialist firebrand in him to accuse the wealthy private school St Peter's of attempted blackmail over a planning application in 2001.

The councillor was equally resolute about his clothes. No designer suits or Paul Smith shirts for Rod Hills: leather jacket, open collar was his uniform. When Peter Mandelson remoulded Labour in his own moisturised image, Coun Hills scorned this triumph of image over ideology.

Rod Hills was far from a journalist's dream contact: he was hard to get to know, and could be bluff to the point of rudeness. But in these days of colourless, conformist politicians, he was often refreshingly off message.

And we kept voting for him. Perhaps there is a lesson there for a Prime Minister who has spent the last six years seeking to be all things to all men, and who now satisfies so few of us.

Updated: 11:05 Wednesday, July 30, 2003