Page 62 of An Angel's Share
“But you don’t. With respect, you don’t know that at all. And property companies like Rookwood don’t sell land unless it is vastly overpriced. They’re happy to sit on it forever, and wait.”
“With respect to you, Jonno, you don’t know that either.” Liam tries to jab at me, countering me with my counter.
“Yes. But Liam, I haven’t spent time on a plan that is not set in stone and in fact will costO’Clerysmoney, especially in the short term, rather than increase revenue from the off.Money you, as the finance director, should know the company does not have.”
“We do have the money,” Patrick chips in, cocky as hell.
I hear Aoife practically growl in the back of her throat. And she really needs to stop doing that. My cock thinks she’s calling his name.
“We don’t have the money for that, Patrick.” Aoife’s starting to lose her patience with him. “I know we will save money on salaries and houses, but it would nowhere near cover that cost. It’s millions, and we are just clinging on in the black. I really don’t want to post a loss.”
“We won’t make a loss. We have a large influx of money due in, around four million in fact. Am I right, Liam?” Chief imbecile nods his head, confident of himself.
Marshall and Aoife look perplexed, but Dermot’s head drops, and so too does Seamus’s. In fact, he’s practically cringing in embarrassment. What the hell is this?
“Four million, from where? I’ve looked through invoices, but there isn’t anything on that scale?” Aoife contradicts. “Certainly not in the short term.”
Patrick puffs his chest out. He can hardly contain himself, he’s so fucking proud of himself. “Well, you may not think I’ve done an amazing job at this company”—he practically points at Aoife, preening—“but the Irish Board of International Trade does. We have won their accolades for the past four years, and this will be our fifth year as winners of the highest grossing exports of an Irish company.”
Silence descends on the room as Patrick prattles on into the void. “We have received a minimum of five hundred thousand euro. That was year one, every other year has been a million, and this year it will be two. As we’ve won it consecutively, we also get another two million euros. Andthe trophy to keep.” He waits for the pats on the back to start, looking bemused and confused when it doesn’t.
“Are you saying that the million in profit for the past few years hasn't actually been profit? It’s been winnings from the International Trade Board?” Aoife is trying to clarify what she knows is the truth.
“Winning, earnings, profit. All the same thing.” He brushes her off.
“Who exactly are you exporting to, to get an award of that magnitude? Is it a collective or is it a country? What?” I ask the dreaded question. Seamus has his eyes closed, clearly praying for something.
“America. The New York Whiskey Company, of course.” Patrick beams at Aoife. “Your amazing idea, Aoife, we set it all up. Just as you told us to. And it’s worked like a charm.”
My heart sinks to my boots. This is where the fraud is. This is where the thief is hiding. And she set it all up. She is the signatory on everything.
I hold in my despair and go for chilling accuracy. “So let me get this right. You’ve won millions of Euros for exporting to yourselves? Surely the Trade Board would not think that is right?” I need the cold clarity. But, oh God, I don’t want it.
“Well they don’t know it’s us. No one will. The company trades out of the Isle of Man, through a subsidiary in the states. None of it links back to us. Untraceable. Again, genius, Aoife. That doctorate came in handy.” He actually looks proud of her. She looks shell-shocked.
I carry on with my questions. “How do you know you’ve won? When is the winner announced?”
Liam looks smug at this point. Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m asking all the wrong questions.
“We have a relative on the inside of the Trade Board. He lets us know the tally and we simply invoice for more casks.Sending them on freight so we can prove they’ve left the country.”
Fraud, they’re committing fraud. And insider trading.
“Where do you store them if you aren’t actually selling them?” My heart rate is picking up. Please don’t say California.
“California,” states Patrick.
Fuck. I can’t look at Marshall.
“Well, if we actually send them,” sniggers Chris, the head of export.
I swing my head around to him. This cannot be happening. “Excuse me?”
“Well, as we own the company, we just invoice for them. We don’t send them all. Why should we? Are we going to tell ourselves off? We can do what we want. And Patrick set up an international sea freight company to ensure we controlled outflow.” He shrugs, they’ve obviously been doing this for a while. They’re totally desensitised to the level of fraud, deceit, and dishonesty.
“That California warehouse will be chock a block,” I add in to see who bites.
“Was it, Aoife?” My head swings around to her as Liam asks her. She has gone bright red, her cheeks competing with her dress. Please, no.
