Page 132 of Playing By Ear

“You’ll love the answer.” Perry leaned in. “When you verbally abuse a ref, when you’re in their face, spitting mad, calling them every name in the book?”

“Yeah?” Fergus asked.

“We rather like it.”

“No!” they all shouted, laughing.

John pointed his fork at Perry. “So refs are masochists rather than sadists. My mind is officially blown.”

“It’s not the abuse per se we love,” Perry said. “There’s delicious fun in not reacting to wild ravings. If I become a pure rock, then the player’s frustration bounces off me and back onto him. The angrier he becomes, the angrier he becomes. And that, my friends, is referee heaven.”

He offered them his most sinister smile, and they all laughed again—even Jamie, though he’d rarely felt less jolly.

The conversation turned to pro football—Leicester City were on the verge of beating 500-1 odds to win the English Premier League—and then to the new version of the FIFA video game. Jamie worried the topic would exclude Perry, but Perry opined on the value of various footballers to an in-game team.

“Talking of video games,” Jamie said as he collected their cake plates, “Perry’s got Mortal Kombat on PS3, and I dare anyone to challenge him.”

“That’s a blast from the past,” John exclaimed. “I used to beat my big brother senseless in that game.”

“Youse go and get your nostalgia on,” Jamie said, “while I do the washing-up.”

Evan stood first, picking up his plate. “I’ll help you.”

Jamie’s pulse lurched. Maybe Evan had findings to report.

Perry stood and beckoned the others to follow. “Also, Fergus, I need some decorating advice on the living room.”

“Your bank account may regret that,” John said as their voices faded.

Only Ben lingered at the kitchen threshold. “You two need a hand?”

“No.” Evan kissed him. “Thank you.”

Ben gave a knowing nod. “Got it.”

Okay, Evan definitely had findings to report.

They cleared the table in silence, the clink of dessert plates and brandy glasses a tenor counterpoint to the dull thud of Jamie’s boot against the hardwood floor. It was easier to walk now, thanks to Fergus’s loan of a lift for Jamie’s opposite foot.

He started filling the sink with hot soapy water. “I take it there’s a reason you wanted me alone?”

“Aye. I’ve got results on those two individuals. I’ll email you a copy of my report, of course, but I thought it best if I told you in person first.”

“Hang on.” Jamie went to the kitchen door to make sure no one could hear them.

“Finish him!” Ben was shouting. “Finish him!”

“Oi!” John called out. “Why do you keep hitting me with sand grenades?”

“So I can hear where you are,” Perry said.

Jamie shut the kitchen door and turned back to Evan. “They’re well occupied.”

Evan pulled his phone from his pocket and swiped the screen a few times. “Richard Malcolm MacKray, commonly known as Ritchie. Born the fifteenth of January 1977, to Michael and Frances MacKray.” He spelled the surname. “Michael, known as ‘Mick’ or ‘Mickey,’ was the twin brother of Martin MacKray, and the two of them started a North East Glasgow crime organization, which Martin still runs. Martin adopted Ritchie after the early deaths of Frances and Michael, caused by leukemia and a previously undiagnosed cardiac condition, respectively.”

“Right.” So far, no revelations.

“One odd thing. You gave me Richard MacKray’s death date, but there’s no death certificate on record. So he’s either still alive or the authorities are meant to think he is.”