‘Mind you, he looks a bit of a wild man to me. Look at the way he handled Harold at the pub.’

Morgan shrugged. ‘He’s just full of pleasant little tricks like that. Judo, aikido, karate – you name it, Bruno’s got it.’

‘Can he snap a brick in half with the edge of his hand? I saw a bloke do that once on the telly.’

‘His favourite party trick.’

She pulled away from him abruptly and pushed through the crowd to Faulkner.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ he demanded.

‘It’s fabulous. I never thought it would be anything like this.’

Faulkner turned to Marlowe who stood at his side drinking morosely. ‘There you are, Frank. Fairy tales do come true after all.’

‘Jack says you can smash a brick with the edge of your hand,’ Grace said.

‘Only when I’m on my second bottle.’

‘I saw it on television once, but I thought they’d faked it.’

Faulkner shook his head. ‘It can be done right enough. Unfortunately I don’t happen to have a brick on me right now.’

Marlowe seized his chance. ‘Come now, Bruno,’ he said, an edge of malice in his voice. ‘You mustn’t disappoint the little lady. We’ve heard a lot about your prowess at karate … a lot of talk, that is. As I remember a karate expert can snap a plank of wood as easily as a brick. Would this do?’

He indicated a hardwood chopping block on the bar and Faulkner grinned. ‘You’ve just made a bad mistake, Frank.’

He swept the board clean of fruit, balanced it across a couple of ashtrays and raised his voice theatrically. ‘Give me room, good people. Give me room.’

Those near at hand crowded round and Mary Beresford pushed her way to the front followed by Joanna who looked decidedly uncertain about the whole thing.

‘What on earth are you doing, Bruno?’

Faulkner ignored her. ‘A little bit of hush, please.’

He gave a terrible cry and his right hand swung down, splintering the block, scattering several glasses. There was a sudden gasp followed by a general buzz of conversation. Grace cried out in delight and Mary Beresford pushed forward.

‘When are you going to start acting your age?’ she demanded, her accent slipping at least forty-five years. ‘Smashing the place up like a stupid teenage lout.’

‘And why don’t you try minding your own business, you silly old cow?’

The rage in his voice, the violence in his eyes reduced the room to silence. Mary Beresford stared at him, her face very white, the visible expression one of unutterable shock.

‘How dare you,’ she whispered.

‘Another of those deathless lines of yours.’

Marlowe grabbed at his arm. ‘You can’t talk to her like that.’

Faulkner lashed out sideways without even looking, catching him in the face. Marlowe staggered back, clutching at the bar, glasses flying in every direction.