His staring eyes seemed shocked, almost surprised, dulled to a pale blue.
Yet he followed them out of the Black Boy pub, meek as a lamb. On the bar, there was a fiver tucked neatly under a scotch glass, flanked by the sharp black shape of a Glock 26. Hands extended patiently, he waited quietly while the sirens blared and the PC fumbled with closing the handcuffs.
Jack did not look back at where Ricky Hanson lay dead, a hole in his chest, and one neat between his open eyes.
Not once, not with all the time in the world.