He glanced around his new offices; they were a bit over the top for his tastes, if he was being honest, but it was all about top show these days. He resented weighing out for it; he had eventually bowed to Michael’s wishes, as he had known he would. The boy was more often right than wrong. But it still galled him – he paid more for these offices a year than he had paid for his first house. It was fucking mental but he accepted that to be seen as legitimate, they needed to look legitimate. That meant they actually had to run everything from the offices from which they ran the more legitimate businesses. It was sensible, but it was also against his natural inclinations. The fact that the businesses they ran from here were all very lucrative made no difference to him; Patrick was a born thief which was never going to change as long as he had a hole in his arse. He would always crave the illicit pound. He could have had a legal earn if he had chosen that route in life, but where was the real fucking profit for anyone with that old shite? Paying fucking tax for a start, employing accountants, and all the other old fanny that would have entailed.
This wasn’t a country that had ever encouraged free enterprise. As soon as a profit was made, the government slaughtered you with taxes, and then they taxed your workforce to boot! The whole fucking concept of tax went against his beliefs. Nevertheless, Patrick was a realist, and Michael was right about making sure the legit businesses were seen to pay the taxes required of them and, more to the point, visibly profitable enough to explain away the cars they drove and the homes they lived in. It was a different world now; it was hard to launder the dead money – it needed to be absorbed into real businesses and, he had to admit, the lad had a knack for doing that. Times had changed all right, but he still bitterly resented every penny that he paid out to the government.
Michael breezed into the offices and, seeing Patrick Costello’s dark countenance, he laughed loudly. ‘For fuck’s sake, Pat, you look fucking knackered, mate. Sorry I’m late. Traffic.’
Patrick smiled despite himself; only Michael would have the front to say that to him. ‘Don’t start me off. Carmel had the urge for a fucking all-nighter. If any man had a fucking reason to find a new bird, it’s me.’
Michael had heard it all before. Patrick had always been very vocal about his wife’s ability to fight him on a whim, and at any hour of the day or night, by all accounts. It sounded so tiring to Michael – he could never have lived a life like Patrick and Carmel Costello. She was a raving nutbag, and that was being nice about her. But she was not a woman who endeared herself to the people around her. She was arrogant for starters. She looked down her nose at basically everyone around her, and she treated the people who worked for Patrick and Declan with such obvious disdain that it was impossible for them not to see it. He would never have tied himself to a woman like Carmel, he knew that much. She had delivered Patrick’s children with the minimum of fuss, but that was as far as her usefulness had gone. That Patrick was not as enamoured of his wife – or her tantrums – as he had once been, was more than evident lately. But Michael knew better than to give an opinion either way. That was the easiest way to destroy a good friendship, and the easiest way to get himself killed. Women like Carmel were inclined to cause as much trouble as possible if they felt they were being ousted from their position.
‘Well, that’s your business, mate.’
Patrick laughed once more. He was well aware that Michael loathed his Carmel, and always had. She had that effect on most people. The only person his Carmel had ever liked was Josephine Flynn, and that was only because poor Josephine actually liked his wife.
‘You’re a diplomat, Michael. So, tell me, how is everything going?’
Michael was all business suddenly, glad to be away from the personal – and the dangerous. ‘Well, it’s good news about the mortgage businesses. I told you they would be a lucrative earn, and they are. Serious money is coming in now, Patrick, and best of all, it’s being encouraged by the government. Buying your own house is available to everyone these days, and our brokers are doing well. It’s such an easy fucking earn. It’s also a good way of laundering money, Pat. Buying a house for cash and then remortgaging it, means the money from the mortgage company can then be put into legitimate bank accounts. It can be moved about, buying and selling other properties, for example, investing it into businesses, clubs, whatever. I’ve been moving a lot of the money into Spain, investing in the property market in Marbella and Benidorm. The good thing about Spain is there’s no extradition so, for a lot of our investors, that’s a fucking added bonus. They can get out there easily – it’s a lot closer than South America, put it that way.’
Patrick Costello already knew everything that Michael was telling him. It rankled with Michael that, after all this time, Patrick Costello should still feel the need to keep an eye on him. But he would never change; Michael had no choice but to accept it. All of that aside, Patrick Costello still trusted him more than he had ever trusted anyone. It was just the nature of the beast.