Patrick was happy with the news. They were coining it in, making real money, getting a fantastic return for their initial investments, and that was only because of Michael Flynn. He had the foresight to see the opportunities that Spain and Portugal had to offer long before anyone else. He had been adamant about investing not just money, but their time and effort, into the new ventures. He had insisted, from the start, that they needed to not just make their mark but, more importantly, they needed to ensure that they put their own people in the key positions ready for the future.
It was already paying off big time – plus they had guaranteed for themselves the foothold that ensured that anyone else who might feel the need to invest out there had no other option but to talk to them first. Patrick Costello knew that this lad had sewn up Spain and the surrounding areas. He had also done it legally.
‘The Spanish don’t give a fuck about anything, Michael, they just want people to bring their money out there. Tourism has already fucked the economy. They are far too reliant on it already, just as you predicted. Whole communities are now dependent on the hotel industry. You were right about that, mate. I bow down to you, you’re a fucking genius, son. But I always knew that, didn’t I?’
Michael accepted the man’s praise as his due. He loved Patrick Costello; he had been very good to him, and Michael had made sure that he had earned not only his trust, but also his respect. That was why knowing that Patrick still felt the need to spy on him rankled. It offended him and his sense of loyalty. But he couldn’t say a word – that would be tantamount to mutiny.
Michael could never admit to Patrick that he was aware of it. His position in the Costello family gave him not just a serious earn, but also guaranteed him a place in the London underworld that he could never have occupied without Patrick Costello taking him under his wing and giving him his personal attention. He could never, ever forget that; he would always be grateful for the man’s interest in him, and the opportunities he had been afforded because of it.
‘Listen, Patrick, I think we should go and have a couple of drinks, a bit of lunch, and discuss a few business opportunities that I think might be in our interests.’
Patrick Costello was more than game. He always enjoyed listening to the lad’s ideas – Michael Flynn had the knack of sniffing out an earn before anyone else. But, more than that, Patrick Costello genuinely enjoyed his company. ‘Lead the way, my son. I’m up for all that.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Declan Costello woke up with a blinding hangover. He opened his eyes warily – the sunlight was already giving him gyp. He squinted his eyes and attempted to look at his watch, but it was a pointless exercise. He brought his right arm as close to his face as possible – all he could see was a blur. His watch was a solid gold Rolex, with a gold face and gold numerals. He could see fuck-all, let alone the time.
He looked around him groggily; he recognised the bedroom at least. It was the boudoir of one Samantha Harker. He had found himself here on more than one occasion and, in his defence, he had never remembered actually arriving. He pulled himself up in bed and, putting the pillows behind his back, he leant into them, using the headboard as a backrest. He could smell himself – a mixture of sweat, alcohol and Samantha Harker. He scrabbled around on the bedside table and, as he knew he would, he found his cigarettes and lighter. He lit a Benson & Hedges, and pulled the smoke into his lungs lazily.
The room was actually very clean. Samantha was a good housekeeper – he remembered that from past experience. Her flat was spotless, and quite well decorated, considering.
She was a nice enough girl and a game bird. Great pair of tits, and not bad-looking. She was very young though.
He felt a sudden flush of shame wash over him – he was old enough to be her father. She was the only girl that made him feel like this. Yet here he was, once more in her bed. He closed his eyes in annoyance.
He could hear her moving about in the kitchen. Her flat was so small, it was like being in a fucking envelope. The bedroom door opened a few minutes later, and Samantha came into the room, smiling that big smile of hers, and bringing him a mug of tea. Her little girl was, as always, hot on her heels. The child was like a miniature of her mum. She had the same blue eyes, the same thick blond hair, and the same wide smile. She stood at the end of the bed, and he could sense her watching him.
‘Here you are, Declan, a nice cup of tea.’
He took the steaming mug of tea carefully. Samantha always acted as if he didn’t owe her anything, and why wouldn’t she? He owed her fuck-all.
Samantha sat on the bed beside him. She was devoid of make-up, and her dressing gown hid the killer body that he knew so well. ‘What a great night again! Honestly, Declan, I really did enjoy myself.’