Old Jack never liked Joe much at all, especially when he'd started seeing Violet, and now, he seemed to hate him with a passion... what with Joe abandoning Jack's bastard grandkid and all.
If Jack hadn't already been seated, he would have needed to grab a chair.
He kept managing to forget that little detail. And then it would come back at the most inopportune moments. Like now, sitting at his dead-- maybe twice dead mother's table in the middle of her mouldered kitchen, talking to the inspector about as many murders as he could think about in a night.
Now would be a good time to find a stash of his mom's booze, but it seemed to be gone. All of it.
He looked levelly at the Inspector.
He didn't spend all those long years doing Special Ops for the British Army without learning a thing or two.
He just didn't think he would need his military training now, in his rinky dink home town.