The Guardian meets the author of the bestseller The Day of the Jackal as it is about to open as a film
Frederick Forsyth dies aged 86
9 June 1973
At the end of most journalistic rainbows stands Freddie Forsyth, hugging a large pot of gold. A pot spilling over almost without effort. It’s a remarkable tale; one which (apart from confirming that there is a Father Christmas) tells you a lot about modern publishing and the demise of hoary, leather-bound gents making genteel fortunes between trips to the Reform Club.
Operatively our story begins in January 1970. Forsyth, ex-Eastern Daily Press cub reporter, ex-RAF pilot, ex-Reuter man in Paris and Berlin, acrimonious ex-BBC correspondent in Biafra, was also becoming an ex-freelance. No commissions, dwindling cash. Thus, wanting other employment, he finally sat down in a series of hotel rooms and – through 35 days flat – wrote a thriller idly planned seven years before on the French reporting stint.
