Page 133 of Playing By Ear

Ah. This had been Jamie’s biggest question about Ritchie: Was he officially dead or alive? He couldn’t exactly waltz into his father’s office asking for a death certificate. “Anything else?”

“That’s the official bit.” Evan set his phone down and picked up a tea towel, along with a wet dinner plate from the dish drainer. “Word on the street at one level is that Richard was banished for disloyalty and now lives abroad.”

“Okay.”

“I checked several countries’ records searching for evidence of Richard MacKray: credit cards, car registrations, marriage certificates, passports. I found nothing, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there. People flee to those places because they want to disappear.”

“Any other theories on the grapevine?”

“Some say Martin MacKray killed his nephew for disloyalty. And by ‘killed’ I don’t mean he ordered him killed. They say he did it himself.” He took another plate. “Which is rather extraordinary.”

“Why?” Jamie pretended to wonder.

“Gangsters at that level rarely do the dirty work themselves. They’ve got people for that. This was the first time in several years Martin MacKray was rumored to have directly killed someone.”

Well, that piqued Jamie’s curiosity. “Who was he rumored to have killed before?”

“Hang on.” Evan put down the towel and picked up his phone. “Hamish ‘The Hamster’ McBain, Douglas ‘Oogy Dougie’ Fraser, and Gary ‘The Face’ Flanagan. All during the mid- to late nineties, when MacKray was consolidating his power.”

Jamie stiffened at the names: friends of the family as well as firm members. The Hamster, a burly blond Highlander, had given Jamie a 50p piece for each song he learned when he was first starting guitar. Hamish’s death had devastated the entire MacKray family, including Jamie’s father—or so it had seemed at the time.

Had all these men been disloyal, or just inconvenient obstacles to greater profit? Did it matter?

“MacKray was questioned about the Flanagan murder, but the case never went to trial, either due to lack of evidence or police corruption.” Evan sighed. “Sadly, that’s how these things go. Usually the only justice these ‘godfathers’ face is that of the street. If MacKray maintains his grip on power as deftly as ever, he’ll likely die a free man. A free old man.”

Jamie gave a short cough so his voice wouldn’t quaver at the thought of his father never seeing sixty. “What do people say of MacKray lately?”

“Depends who you ask. All agree he’s pulled back from the organization in the last several months and handed most of the management to his daughter and son-in-law, Belinda and Stuart Wilkie.” He set down the phone and took another wet plate. “There’s a theory Martin MacKray’s in poor health, but the man’s only fifty-seven.”

“Fifty-six.” Fucking hell, he’d said that out loud. He was so bad at this.

Evan silently dried the plate, not looking at him.

Jamie gave a slight cough. “Erm, so, what about the other name I gave you?”

“Alice MacKray.” Evan picked up his phone again. “Born Alice Anna Robinson on the fourth of September 1960. Died the thirty-first of July 1990, which matches the date you gave me. Cause of death: blunt force trauma, struck by bus as a pedestrian. The ensuing inquest ruled it an accident.”

Jamie closed his eyes. So she hadn’t been pushed. Thank God for that.

“It was investigated as a possible suicide—and even homicide, given her husband’s notoriety—but witnesses said she stepped in front of the bus to retrieve something she’d dropped. Her infant son was there, a child called—” Evan cleared his throat, looking deeply uncomfortable. “A child called James, who was twelve months old at the time of his mother’s death. She was pushing his pram on the outer edge of the pavement when she rushed out into the bus lane.”

Jamie kept rinsing, long past the point of banishing suds. “Anything else on her?”

“She’s buried at Riddrie Park Cemetery in Provanpark. Survived by her husband, Martin, the infant, James, and an older child, Belinda.”

“And what do—erm, what’s the word on the street? About Alice.”

“She wasn’t involved in the business, but wives tend not to be. Word on the street says…” Evan softened his voice. “She was a lovely human being.”

Jamie folded his lips between his teeth and looked out the wee window above the sink, though there was nothing to see but a neighbor’s dark kitchen window. He wanted to ask Evan at what age a baby could toss a toy, but feared the answer.

“Anything else?” was all he could croak out.

“One interesting image.” Evan touched his phone screen, then swiped several times. “I found a mug shot of Martin MacKray from 1986, when he would’ve been our age. Would you like to see?”

Jamie dried his hands, then took Evan’s phone, the chocolate and brandy rising as one acidic medley in his gullet.

He’d never seen this photo before, but it felt familiar, because it was the dead spit of the face he saw in the mirror. Here was his own jawline, set in iron instead of mere bone. His own blue eyes, but wily and dangerous. His own beard, but redder and rugged.