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.’