“The blood on the shirt, in your opinion, doctor, if the defendant had indeed murdered the victim in such a brutal fashion, slicing her face, stabbing her groin area, would you not see splatters of blood – because clearly she had bled to death? A major artery was hit; surely the blood would have left a spray mark rather than smudges?”
“If the defendant stepped aside he could easily miss the spray.” Mr Lipman looked and felt stupid. He had been asked not to delve too much into the evidence, and now he could see why. The police had wanted a quick arrest – their name was mud – and they had been accused of not doing enough to catch the killer.
He looked down in shame.
“So if the suspect, in his frenzied attack, watched carefully enough to see as to where the blood was going to squirt, he could have cleverly anticipated in which direction to move?”
Mr Lipman realised it sounded preposterous.
Mick put a gentle arm around her shoulder and walked her to a chair. Pulling up another chair he sat opposite her. “Tell me, Mary, how much do you want your daughter home safe and sound, with not a hair on her head harmed?”
Mary took a deep breath, thinking maybe he wanted sex as a payoff, and she would have done it just to save her family. “Anything Mick, anything.”
Her voice sounded so desperate that Mick smirked. He would have fun and games this afternoon. He looked her up and down. She wasn’t the feisty young teenager he nearly raped years before; she was rounder and older. He liked his girls’ young – really young. Even thirteen was too old for Mick.
He ran his hand down her face and Mary shuddered. He was disgusting: he smelt of fags and his teeth were growing a fur coat, with breath that could cook a joint of beef.