Dying Eyes by Ryan Casey

for a little drive that evening, Robert? Stretch your legs?”
    Robert’s mouth dangled open. He snapped it shut and licked his lips.
    “McDone, seriously‌–‌Price does not look happy.”
    “Shut it, Cassy. Just for one second, shut it.” He took a deep breath and turned to Luther. “So did you?”
    Robert leaned back and folded his arms. “Detective Sergeant, you’ve got this all wrong. If you’d done your research, you’d learn that we have five BetterLives branded cars, and I wasn’t in any of them that night.”
    Brian paused. His heart thumped faster as Price’s footsteps grew closer. “Five cars? Who drives them?”
    “Well, whoever’s on the rota that evening. Look, if I can help put you in the direction of someone in our department, or if you’re suspecting someone, or…‌Ah. I see what this is about now. You think it’s me? You think I have some…‌You think I’m involved in this in some way?”
    Brian gritted his teeth. “How can I see that rota?”
    The door swung open. Cassy lowered her head as Price barged through. His face was redder than Brian had ever seen it, as if he was on the verge of bursting. He walked over to Luther and shook his hand before whispering something in his ear. Then he turned back to Brian.
    “A little chat. My office. Now.”
    Luther straightened his tie as Brian reluctantly followed Price towards his office. He‌–‌and the rest of the department, judging by the way they avoided eye contact with him‌–‌could tell it wasn’t good news.
    When Price was angry, he wasn’t afraid to let people know about it. When he was furious, he’d give people the silent treatment. The tension would build in the air to a point where the guilty party just had to say something.
    And then the grilling would commence.
    Price poured himself a glass of Diet Coke and swished it around his mouth before looking up at Brian.
    “Detective Inspector, I‌–‌”
    “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, Brian?”
    Brian stared at the floor, hands behind his back. “I thought you wanted me to investigate the Robert Luther lead?”
    Price almost choked on his Diet Coke and reached for a tissue in which to spit. “I said to investigate the fucking lead , not go storming into a charity speech like something off BBC-fucking-Four. Not to mention gatecrashing a public event like that without an official arrest warrant. And you wonder why the police department gets such a bloody bad rep these days?”
    Foolishness settled in his gut. Maybe he had been a bit hasty.
    “Detective Inspector, with the facts we knew at the time, with regards to the vehicle and‌–‌”
    “You didn’t know jack bloody shit, son!” He almost knocked over his half-empty can. “You saw a bloody picture of Robert Luther getting out of a bloody black car in a magazine, and you assume it’s the murder vehicle?”
    McDone cleared his throat again. “You said it was a BetterLives car.”
    Price slapped a blown-up photograph of a black car, barely visible in the dim glow of the street lamp, onto the table.
    “That’s the only shot we have of a black car on CCTV, just minutes before Nicola Watson’s supposed death. What’s that look like to you?”
    McDone studied the picture. “The black BetterLives car, from the magazine‌–‌”
    “Wrong‌–‌there’s no fucking BetterLives logo in sight, McDone.” He shoved the magazine cutting of the BetterLives car next to the CCTV photo. “The logo is on the left -hand side of this magazine photo. See any logo on this car? Didn’t think so. The smack-head from Foster got it wrong, didn’t he?”
    McDone slumped back in his chair. All his energy drained out of his body, Price feasting on it like a hungry lion.
    “You’d better bloody sulk. First you go gallivanting off on a personal call when we’re about to chat to an eyewitness, then you go dragging DS Emerson down and breaking the rules at a bloody major media event. Do you have any