Chapter 1

Thursday, late November, Glasgow’s west end

Dominic Lynch, entrepreneur, philanthropist, and figure of interest to the Inland Revenue and local press, stared a fuck me at the name flashing on his phone.  He cut the engine and let it ring for as long as he dared.  The last few seconds of freedom.  Then thumbed the screen to connect.

“How you doin’,” he said, voice flat, a pointless prayer that this might be a social call.

“You alone?” she said, straight in.

“Aye.  No’ for long.  I’m picking up my daughter.  We’ve got a meeting with the lawyer.  What’s up?”

He turned to stare at the reflection of his white Range Rover in the window of the tattoo parlour.  Above, thin green letters spelled Deadman Tattoos and evil eyes looked down on the filth of the street.  Dione was inside choosing her next design, a celebration for the news they’d been waiting on - were technically still waiting on.

 And now this. 

“You’re needed.  Next week.  Our Jordan’s going to be leaving home. Needs a place to stay.  You understand me.”

Jordan who was ten years into a twenty-year sentence for murder.

“Mo, it cannae be me, no’ the noo.  I’ve got a big deal just landed.  There’s gonnae be the press and that.  And then I’m back and forward to Florida.  I’ll no’ be around.”  He shouldn’t be giving her a story, it was weak, and she sniffed weakness and culled it.

“Those cunts the Duffys,” she hissed, “they need to be shoved back in the shite they crawled out of.  Jordan’ll deal with it – and you’ll help him.”

“If it was any other time.” He squeezed his jaw and what was left of his rabid adoration of this woman - all she stood for, all she had done for him.  “I really wish I could help.”

“Aladdin.  Your wish is my command.  Keep your phone on.  There won’t be much notice.”

Inside Deadman Tattoos, Dione saved the date of her next appointment in her phone and stared onto the street.  There he was, right on time.

“Well?” she beamed at him as soon as her arse hit the leather.  He didn’t turn round.  She pulled out her phone, dumped her bag in the back.  “Has he phoned yet?”

She flicked to WhatsApp to see if Beau had checked the photos of tattoos she’d sent him.  Scrolled back through them herself.  Definitely the daisy chain.  Not the roses.  She’d paid a deposit for both, but so what, soon she was going to be taking showers in Champagne.

Dominic was still looking out the side window.  As if he hadn’t heard her.

“You alright?” 

She fastened her seatbelt, turned on the heated seat.

He turned a sickening stare. 

“Dad, don’t tell me…”

But then the phone boomed out in the car.  Barry, said the screen.  His crooked lawyer.  He straightened his shoulders, jaw up he pressed the green accept button.

“What you got then Barry?”

“Congratulations,” said Barry, all foghorn baritone.  “It got passed.”

She mouthed a ‘hey,’ punched his iron arm, imagined the daisies just above the rim of a backless sequin dress.

“Did you get that?” said Barry into the silence.

“Aye.  I’m listening,” said Dominic.

“So.  You now have permission to develop twenty acres of prime coastline including construction of a luxury spa and outward bound centre for disadvantaged young people.  With the proviso that you provide fifteen local jobs at the Real Living Wage and upgrade the community centre.”

“Anyone try to get in the way?”

Trust him to focus on the negative.

“A few God botherers and some Guardian readers.  Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“Any loose ends?”

“Everything’s been sorted.”

She typed a WhatsApp to Beau.  Guess who’s got a new job??? XXX

“Press?”

“As expected.”

“That wee cunt from the Record?”

“Move along.  Nothing to see here.  The press release has been issued.  They’ll be printing your invitation to the palace as we speak.”

“Cannae wait,” he said.  ‘Good work Barry.”

Good work Barry right enough.  This was epic.  This was the start of the rest of her life.  No more squeezing out hearts on TikTok.  Pretending to care about his kitchen and flat rental business.  His boxing gyms.  The clients at the Spa would be international.  The Beckhams!  So what if it was the back of beyond - even better to have long weekends partying.  She checked if Beau was online yet.  He knew she was waiting on this. He better not have racked up lines without her.

“So that’s it then,” she said. “Amazing.  You’ve pulled it off.”

Not ‘we’, not yet. 

A grunt as he swung out into the traffic.

“You don’t seem very happy about it,” she said to the side of his granite face.  He swerved onto the expressway, ignoring the horn that someone sounded, luckily for them.

“Dad," she said, again, irritation building in her chest at his heavy mood.  This was meant to be their big day, so why did he look as if he’d been given a death sentence.  “I don’t get it, I thought this was our early Christmas present?”

He shifted in his seat, breathed out a big poor me sigh.

“And women are supposed to have the mood swings?  You were wired this morning.” 

Still nothing. Maybe he was having second thoughts.  The image of his PA Beth flashed into her head.  She’d better not have stuck her nose in. 

“‘Sake,’” she said, even more impatiently.

The slice of his hand through the air as he jerked it from the steering wheel silenced her completely.  Just a few inches but enough.

“Do not push me Dione.  OK?  I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Rigid against the seat, her palms burned, as they always did when he got like this.  Even worse now he was off the drink.  At least when he was pished there was an up before there was a down.

Arsehole, she thought, scrunching herself at the edge of the seat, away from him.  But she knew the drill.  Legs crossed, face turned to the stare out of the window at the pavement.  Silence, time, guilt, gain.  It always worked.

The Range Rover lurched forward as he tried to catch the lights, but the car in front braked and she was jerked back in the seat.  Dominic swore, let out another of those long slow breaths through his teeth.  Never a good sign.  Wordlessly, she reached for her phone, saw a message from Beau.  Just in time, she thought, ignoring it.  She’d go out with the girls tonight.  He needed a lesson.  He might be able to get them into the cool clubs with his other DJ pals, but she could get them into everywhere else.  

There were plenty of other guys out there.  Guys who could walk along the beach with her, plan an empire, share her dreams, share her bed.  He wasn’t even that good in bed. 

Uncle Frank’s biceps and summer holiday eyes swam unbidden into view.   Pervert.  Paedo.

“Dee.”

Dad’s voice growled through her dream using her pet name. Melting already.  His hand, meaty and solid patted her arm.

“Watch it,” she scowled, jerking it away.

“Oh come on.”

“Come on what?  You’re the one who’s all sugar and shite.”

“I’m just letting it sink in OK?”

“Lights,’ she said, as the traffic lights shifted to green.  “And can you move it cause I’m going out tonight…”

“What am I - your taxi service?”

“I never asked you to pick me up.  It was your idea to get Barry to call, supposed to be our big news. Remember?”

He put his foot down and the car raced along Great Western Road, free and clear.  He’d catch the next set of lights at green and they’d be round the corner and outside the house in thirty seconds or less.  She touched her teeth together to check her overbite, glanced at him to check his. 

“Look we’ve only got it through Planning,” he said, as they stopped outside the red sandstone villa. “That’s just the start of it.'

He turned off the engine, made no move to get out.  They sat staring out at the November mist under streetlights.  So what was his big downer?  This was the project he’d been planning for years.  One-up on the lodges and fish farm that his pals owned.  Luxury Spa on the shores of one of the most scenic places in Scotland, accessible, lucrative.  Hers.  She could totally do this.  She’d had more spas than hot dinners.  How hard could it be? And she could build on it - open more.  A chain of them.  Everything danced inside her waiting on him to just tell her it was hers.  Her phone lit up.  Beau calling.  She stabbed ‘Laterz’

The house was in darkness, neglected.  Mum’s car wasn’t there, and she hadn’t been at the pub either.  What was she up to these days?  Worse than a teenager - never off her phone and obsessed with the gym.  The tree in the front garden drooped yellowy in the darkness.  A new For Sale sign had appeared across the road.  She tried to remember who lived there.

“Have you seen that?  Are you going to buy it?” she asked, nodding to the sign.  Lubricating conversation with property talk usually worked.

‘The last thing I need is any more property in the west end.  I’ll be flogging plenty to pay for this.  That’s what I’m trying to say - it’s not going to be easy.  If I don’t get a partner I’ll need to change the timeline.  Or put it on hold until the cash flow improves.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Costs are through the roof since we pulled the bid together. And Florida’s over budget an’ all.”

Who cared about Florida? That was his calamity.  No way was she going to set foot there, not with dirty old Frank and Auntie Alice round the corner. 

“You said it yourself, Dad - the rich always have money to spend on making themselves feel better.  And that market is rock solid.  One of the most beautiful places in the world.  Just down the road from the oyster bar that draws them like flies round shite.  It’s cast iron.”

All his own words.  Served back up. 
            Still nothing.  Her top teeth touched her lower ones.  Her acrylics made arcs in the palm of her hand. 

“And plus.  It’s me,” she said nudging him.  "You couldn’t give me a better leg up.  This is my scene Dad – I’m all over it – and you know I won’t let you down.”

He’d shifted round now to look at her, but the interior lights slowly faded out and they were in darkness.  All she could see was the gleam of his curls, his pride and joy - still black as coal, even in his forties.  The one part of him she’d been quite happy to fall heir to.

“You need to manage your expectations Dee.  This might be too much for you just starting out.  I’ve asked Beth to gather some…”

“What the fuck Dad.  You promised.”

“Would you let me finish?” he barked back. 

She faced the street, arms folded over her chest, palms tingling again.  Beth.  Even the sound of her name got on her nerves.  Like an apology.  Like sorry for being sick over your brown shoes.

“We’ve not even got the drawings finished.  Is the first thing. There’s a ton of work that needs to happen between now and even laying the slab.  So if you want this you need to learn to walk before you can run.  Right now you don’t even know what you don’t know.  OK?”

That wasn’t a complete put-down so she let it slide, like the drizzle running down the windscreen.  Tried to remember if she’d packed her thigh length boots.  Living with this pair of old farts while the new place got finished was turning out to be a complete pain.  She’d have been as well moving in with Beau and his autistic flatmate.  Why couldn’t Dad just have handed her the keys to the flat at Westbourne?  It had all been arranged - and then he had to change it at the last minute.  It’ll be great to have you at home instead kiddo. 

“You’re going to need to do the hard yards.  Full days in the Warehouse, not swanning in and out, disappearing when you get bored.  I’m serious.”

“So if I do that it’s a deal.”

"It’s more than that.  It’s listening to me and to Beth.  Not running your motor mouth.  This is time and money – major investment.”

"I’ve got all the time in the world for this.  It’s everything.  It’s got Dee Lynch written all over it.  Come on Dad.  Is it a go-er?  Are we on?”

His long exhale and drummed fingers on the steering wheel were more than enough.

“Ya dancer Dad.  Total legend. You’re the OG.”

“I never said anything…”

‘Aye but you never said no.’

“You’re unbelievable.”

But he had a smile in his voice.  She’d done it.

She spun round and grabbed him round the neck, kissed his spicy cheek.  Cackled through the growl of his appreciation.  He loved that she was as ballsy as he was.  She was Dominic Lynch’s daughter and she was un-fucking-touchable.

“We are going to totally clean up Dad.  I promise.”

“Just take your time.  OK?”

But she was out on the street, swinging her Neverfull over her shoulder, tossing back her long black curls in the misty rain, feeling the fresh air on her face and the iron gate in her palm as it swung open.  Five strides and she was at the steps, storm doors open to the Art Deco stained glass.  She slid her key in the lock as the door caught on mail lying on the mat.

“Where’s Mum?  I’m bursting to tell her.”

She turned around but he was still in the car.  Back on the phone. The interior had lit up again and for a moment the call connected through the speakers and a woman’s voice reverberated.  Female.  But not Mum.  Not boring Beth.  Harsh tones.  Irish. 

And the look that he flashed her in the second before he rescued the call was chilling.  She turned away before she could see any more, pushed the door over the leaflets and letters, went inside.