Revenge Read online

  Nowadays, as he tried to explain to his wife, he could only manage one or the other – the fucking or the fighting. Unfortunately for him, his Carmel was a born arguer, and she loved nothing more than a knock-down, drag-out fight on a regular basis. It had been nearly three in the morning before she had finally let him sleep and, the worst thing was, he still didn’t know what the fuck they had been arguing about. He had to smile though, she was a game old bird, there was no doubting that. She never ceased to surprise him. She could pick a row with a deaf mute if the fancy took her. That had been what had attracted him to her deep down. Sure, she was a smashing-looking bird and good in the kip, but the fact she had never been in awe of him had stood her in good stead once upon a time. He had respected her for that. Now, he hated that she needed to have a tear-up on a regular basis; to prove that he still loved her he had to fight with her. He loved her as much as he was capable of loving anyone, but that didn’t stop her getting on his nerves. Her constant need for attention was wearing thin – the dramatics that had once been so exciting were draining him.

  As the mother of his children, Carmel would always have a hold on his affection. His daughters were not exactly kids to be proud of, though. They were such a disappointment to him, even though he loved them dearly. They were both lazy, lacking in intelligence, and unable to understand the concept of hard work, let alone the importance of actually getting a job. He had trusted her with the girls, and couldn’t help feeling she had failed them.

  He sighed, deciding not to think about any of that now – it already took up too much time, and it was a pointless exercise.

  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.

  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 wh
y 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.’

  He smiled, unsure what to say to her.

  Samantha looked closely at the man she had spent the night with on more than one occasion and seeing the way he was acting – as if his being in her bed was something to be ashamed of – she felt the burning anger that only humiliation could bring. He was the only man she had ever allowed into her home, into her bed, since she had given birth to her daughter. She had felt such an affinity with him from their first meeting, she had truly believed they had made a genuine connection. He was much older than her, but that didn’t bother her at all. She had been attracted to his personality, his strength, and his kindness. She had felt all of that straightaway. She had also felt a deep physical attraction to him that she had never felt for anyone else before. He had sought her out after their first meeting; she had never once looked for him – she had too much pride in herself for that. He had pursued her, as she had known he would. Now he was suddenly acting like she was beneath him, and that hurt.

  She opened her arms, and pulled her little daughter on to her lap, hugging the child to her. Declan watched her warily. He could feel the atmosphere changing, knew that he was naked, and had no option but to wait for his opportunity to get his kecks on, and run like the fucking wind as far away as humanly possible.

  Samantha looked into his eyes for long moments. She was still hugging her little daughter tightly, and he could see how the child enjoyed her mother’s embrace, and how much affection there was between them.

  ‘Listen, Declan, I don’t like you treating me like this. You act like this has never happened before, but it has – many times. I’ve fallen in love with you, Declan, I think you already know that. But I will not let anyone treat me like a whore. If you don’t want to see me again, then you can fuck off, OK?’

  Declan wanted to hold her, tell her it was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. ‘You could be my daughter, Sam. I’m far too old for you. I’m trying to be the good guy here.’

  Samantha smiled sadly. ‘Well, it’s a pity you didn’t think about that before we got so involved. It’s OK to sleep with me in secret, then? Thanks a bunch, Declan. You know where the door is.’ She stood up and, with as much dignity as she could muster, she carried her daughter out of the room.

  Declan lay there in Samantha Harker’s bed, wishing with all his might that he was anywhere else in the world. He could hear Samantha in the kitchen, chatting away to her little girl, pretending that everything was fine, but beneath the love he could hear in her voice for her child, there was a deep abiding sadness.

  Declan Costello had never felt so guilty about anything in his whole entire life.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Carmel Costello watched her two daughters with growing irritation. They argued constantly with each other and with her. They treated her like she was no more than a servant. Assumpta, the eldest, had become her nemesis; she would argue that black was white if it meant going against her own mother. Gabriella, too, would gladly pick a fight with her own fingernails – she was as spoilt as her older sister, and even more inclined to argue just for the sheer hell of it.

  Patrick always tried to insinuate that they took after her! As far as she was concerned, they were their father’s daughters. They were completely spoilt – they had never once had to do anything for themselves, and they never were going to do anything for themselves. She had given them everything they had wanted, and they repaid her by demanding that she give them even more. To be fair, she had used them to make Patrick do whatever she had wanted him to do. The girls had been her bargaining chips, her way of making him toe the line, and he had done everything she had asked of him.

  Now the girls were completely out of her control. They were both without a conscience, without any moral compasses whatever. They were as spoilt as she was but, unlike her, they didn’t have the brain capacity to understand that it took more than a temper tantrum to get what they wanted from a man like their father.

  Patrick was disappointed in the girls and she was as disappointed in them as he was. The girls’ education had cost a small fortune, and they didn’t have a single qualification between them. She had been so sure that they would both be achievers, would both make their parents proud of them. It had never occurred to her that they would end up no better than if they had been brought up on a council estate. She had assumed the fact they went to a very expensive private school would have at least guaranteed them a place in society, would have given them something that could have helped them to get on in life. But it had been a waste of time and a waste of money.

  She was also becoming aware that her husband saw these daughters of his as the product of
her machinations, her insistence that he let her sort it all out, because he was incapable of understanding the economics of a female’s education. But she was not to blame – it was her daughters who had failed them both, who had not understood that they were in a position to make something of themselves, who had both left a very expensive education with no more than a backward glance, and nothing whatsoever to show for any of it. Even she had read more books than they had, and that was saying something. She had simply assumed the school would see to everything they needed for a decent education – they were getting paid enough money after all. It had never occurred to her that the school would take the money and run.

  Patrick saw his daughters as no more than the spoilt brats they were. He was absolutely right about that, of course. Now she had to break the news to him that Assumpta was pregnant. She was losing him, she knew that much; he already saw her as the architect of everything that had gone wrong with the family. This could be the final straw.

  The girls were still at it. It was amazing really to see them in action. When they were fighting they really didn’t have any care for anyone else around them.

  ‘Assumpta, shut up for five fucking minutes and talk to me, will you?’

  The girls both looked at their mother with abject shock at her words.

  ‘Your father is going to go fucking ballistic when he finds out you are in the club. So, if I were you, darling, I would think long and hard about his reaction to your news. I would also make sure that the father is on hand, or at least give him a name. By Christ, I never thought that I would look at you two and feel such shame!’