‘I’m looking for Bruno Faulkner. Any idea where he might be? I can’t get a reply.’

The West Indian chuckled. ‘Sunday’s his brick smashing day.’

‘Come again?’

‘Karate, man. He goes to the Kardon Judo Centre every Sunday morning for a workout. Of course if he can’t find any bricks to smash he’d just as soon smash people.’ He tapped his head. ‘Nutty as a fruit cake. He don’t need the stuff, man. He’s already there.’

‘Thanks for the information,’ Miller said. ‘See you sometime.’

‘The original wild man from Borneo,’ the West Indian called as he went down the stairs. ‘That the best you Western European civilization cats can do? The day is coming, man! The day is coming!’

From the sound of it, he was on the stuff himself, but Miller had other fish to fry and he got into the Mini-Cooper and drove away quickly.

Miller himself had been an ardent student of both judo and karate for several years. A brown belt in both, only the pressure of work had prevented him from progressing further. Although he did most of his own training at the police club, he was familiar with the Kardon Judo Centre and knew Bert King, the senior instructor, well.

There were two dojos and King was in the first supervising free practice with half a dozen young schoolboys. He was a small, shrunken man with a yellowing, parchment-like skin and a head that seemed too large for the rest of him. He was a fourth Dan in both judo and aikido and incredible in action on the mat as Miller knew to his cost.

King came across, all smiles. ‘Hello, Sergeant Miller. Not seen you around much lately.’

‘Never have the time, Bert,’ Miller said. ‘I’m looking for a man called Faulkner. Is he here?’

King’s smile slipped a little, but he nodded. ‘Next door.’

‘You don’t think much of him?’ Miller demanded, quick to seize any opportunity.

‘Too rough for my liking. To tell you the truth he’s been on the borderline for getting chucked out of the club for some time now. Forgets himself, that’s the trouble. Loses his temper.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘Karate – second Dan and powerful with it. He’s good at the showy stuff – smashing bricks, beams of wood and so on. His judo is nowhere. I’ll take you in. He’s on his own.’

Faulkner wore an old judogi which had obviously been washed many times and looked powerful enough as he worked out in front of the full-length mirrors at one end of the dojo, going through the interminable and ritualistic exercises without which no student can hope to attain any standard at all at karate. His kicks were one of his strongest features, very high and fast.