Brian Freemantle of the Daily Express dies at 88

By ALAN FRAME

Charlie Muffin was born on the 7.29 Southampton to Waterloo. And now Brian Freemantle, who created the great anti-hero spy series while journeying each morning to the Daily Sketch, is dead at 88.

Brian, pictured, and I had been friends since we met on the Sketch in 1969. He was foreign editor and I a new boy on the subs’ bench, fresh from the Express in Manchester. When the Sketch closed two years later we followed David English to the Mail with Brian heading a growing foreign team which did more than merely report events outside our little island.

In 1975 he organised UK Babylift, rescuing 100 Vietnamese orphans from Saigon and bringing them to families here, eager to adopt. One of those babies, 18-month-old Viktoria, later christened her own son Harry after Freemantle’s middle name. She went on to be a successful actress and producer.

Shortly after the airlift, Brian said goodbye to the day job, abandoned the train and became a full-time author writing an astonishing 85 books, mostly thrillers (and very good ones at that) with sales of more than 10 million worldwide. The first, Charlie M, was described by a critic as ‘one of the best spy novels ever written’ and was made into a film with an all-star cast including Ralph Richardson, Ian Richardson and David Hemmings.

Brian and Maureen, his wife of more than 50 years, were close friends with another foreign editor who wrote books while not in the environs of EC4, our very own David Eliades. They both proved that you didn’t have to be chained to the newsroom to realise great success.

Brian leaves behind Maureen and their three daughters, Charlotte, Victoria and Emma. And many great friends and admirers plus a legion of fans of the rebel Charlie Muffin.

CHRISTOPHER WILSON writes: Two things about Brian — he became a novelist by sheer determination, getting on the train at Winchester early in the morning and writing furiously, furiously until it was time to get off at Waterloo.  On the ride home he'd revise, accumulating several finished novels without yet finding a publisher. 

 

Finally a publishing exec came round to the house and said, "Wow, this is a great yarn, Brian!  But... first-time novelist... we're never sure whether someone like you could ever produce a follow-up."

 

Brian: ‘I didn't say anything, just gave him a smile and opened my bottom drawer. There they were — half-a-dozen finished manuscripts just waiting to have a wrapper put round them.’  They were the first of his astonishing output of 88 books.

 

ALSO — Brian was a bit of a dandy. It was always Gucci shoes and Armani jeans with him, befitting his status as a best-selling author.  After a day's labours he'd usually quench his thirst in Winchester's Wykeham Arms, and one night, Maureen being away, he stayed later than usual. 

 

He told me the story a couple of days later, his face still puffy and bruised.  Apparently he'd managed to find his way home across the Cathedral Close but, faced with his front door, felt in both pockets for his front-door key.

 

Brian: ‘Unfortunately, can't think why, I lost my balance.  Hands trapped in my jeans pockets — d'you know how tight Armani jeans are? — and I fell forward into the door. Then I slid slowly down, hands still in my pockets. Blood everywhere."

 

The beautiful, long-suffering Maureen was a gifted makeup artist and next morning prior to her arrival home, he applied just about everything in her many makeup boxes to disguise the night's excesses.

 

Brian: ‘She saw straight through it. And I'd spent hours applying all that ruddy panstick.’

 

He was adorable, admirable, and just the very best fun.  And Maureen was his perfect counterpart.