Six child psychiatrists and three psychologists examined the boys. Interestingly, they reached identical conclusions: Michael Spargo, Ian Barker, and Reggie Arnold were of average to above-average intelligence; they were fully cognizant of the difference between right and wrong; they were well aware of the notion of personal responsibility, despite (or perhaps because of) their attempts to blame each other for John Dresser’s torture and death.
In the climate that surrounded the investigation into John Dresser’s abduction and murder, what other conclusions could have been drawn? As has already been noted, “Blood will have blood.” Yet the sheer enormity of what was done to John Dresser begged for a disinterested approach from all parties involved in the investigation, the arrest, and the trial. Without that kind of approach in these matters, we are doomed to cling to our ignorance, believing that the torture and murder of children by children is somehow normal, when no rational mind would accept this as the case.
We do not need to forgive the crime, nor do we need to excuse it. But we do need to see the reason for it so as to prevent its ever occurring again. Yet whatever the true cause was that lay at the root of the three boys’ heinous behaviour that day, it was not presented at their trial because it did not need to be presented. The police’s function was not to delve into the psychological makeup of the boys once they were arrested. Rather, their function was to make that arrest and to organise the evidence, the witnesses’ statements, and the boys’ confessions for the prosecution. For their part, the prosecution’s function was to obtain a conviction. And because any therapeutic psychological or psychiatric attention to the boys prior to their trial was forbidden by law, whatever defence could be mounted on their behalf had to rely upon their counsels’ attempts to shift blame from one boy on to another or to chip away at what testimony and evidence the CPS presented to the jury.
In the end, of course, none of this mattered. The preponderance of evidence against the three boys made the outcome of their trial ineluctable.
Abused children carry abuse forward through time. This is the unthinkable gift that keeps on giving. Study after study underscores this conclusion, yet that salient piece of information was not part of the trial of Reggie Arnold, Michael Spargo, and Ian Barker. It could not have been, based not only on criminal law but also on the thirst (we might call it “blood thirst”) for some form of justice to be handed down. Someone had to pay for what had happened to little John Dresser. The trial established guilt beyond any doubt. It was up to the judge to determine punishment.
Unlike many more socially advanced countries in which children accused of crimes are remanded into the custody of their parents, foster parents, or some sort of care pending what is usually a hearing held in camera, child criminals in the UK are placed in “secure units” designed to house them prior to facing a court of law. During their trial, the three boys daily came and went from three separate secure units-in three armed vans that had to be protected from surging crowds waiting for them at the Royal Court of Justice-and while court was in session, they sat in the company of their individual social workers inside a dock designed especially for them and built so that they could see over the side in order to watch the proceedings. They were well behaved throughout, although occasionally restless. Reggie Arnold had been given a colouring book with which to entertain himself during tedious moments; the other boys had pads of paper and pencils. Ian Barker was stoic throughout the first week, but by the end of the second week, he continually looked around the courtroom as if seeking his mother or grandmother. Michael Spargo spoke frequently to his social worker, who often had her arm around him and who allowed him to rest his head on her shoulder. Reggie Arnold cried. Frequently, as testimony was given, members of the jury observed the accused. Sworn to do their duty, they could not have helped wondering what exactly their duty was in the situation they faced.
The verdict of guilty took only four hours. The decision on punishment would take two weeks.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE PONY LAY THRASHING ON THE GROUND ON MILL LANE, which was just outside Burley. It writhed on the ground with both of its back legs broken, desperately attempting to rise and run from the group of people who gathered at the rear end of the car that had hit it. Every few moments it shrieked horribly as it arched its back and flailed its legs.
Robbie Hastings pulled over to the narrow bit of verge. He told Frank to stay, and he got out of the vehicle and into the noise: pony, conversation, cries. As he approached the scene, one of the group broke away and strode to meet him, a man in jeans, Wellingtons, and T-shirt. The jeans were worn and stained brown at the knees.
Rob recognised him from his occasional nights at the Queen’s Head. Billy Rodin, he was called, and he worked as a full-time gardener at one of the large homes along the road. Rob didn’t know which one.
“American.” Billy winced at the noise from the stallion and jerked his thumb at the rest of the group. There were four of them: two middle-aged couples. One of the women was crying, and the other had turned her back on the scene and was biting her hand. “Got confused, is what happened.”
“Wrong side of the road?”
“’Bout it, yeah. Car coming towards’m too fast round that curve.” Billy gestured the way Rob himself had come. “Startled them. They veered right instead of left and then tried to correct, and the stallion was there. Wanted to give ’em a piece of my mind, but lookit ’em, eh?”
“Where’s the other vehicle?”
“Just kept going.”
“Number plates?”
“Didn’t get ’em. I was over there.” Billy pointed towards one of the many brick walls on the lane, this one some fifty yards away.
Rob nodded and went to look at the stallion. The pony screamed. One of the two American men came towards him. He wore dark glasses and a golf shirt with a logo, Bermuda shorts, and sandals. He said, “God damn, I’m sorry. C’n I help you get him into the trailer or something?”
Rob said, “Eh?”
“The trailer. Maybe if we support his rump…?”
Rob realised that the man actually thought he’d brought the horse trailer for this poor creature on the ground in front of them, perhaps to drive him to some veterinary surgery. He shook his head. “Got to destroy him.”
“We can’t…? There’s no vet around? Oh shit. Oh damn. Did that guy tell you what happened? There was this other car and I totally blew it because-”
“He told me.” Rob squatted to take a closer look at the pony, whose eyes were rolling and from whose mouth a froth was issuing. He hated the fact that it was one of the stallions. He recognised this one since he and three others had only been moved into Rob’s area to service the mares this past year: a strong young bay with a blaze on his forehead. He should have lived more than twenty years.
“Listen, do we have to stay while you…?” the man asked. “I only want to know because Cath is upset enough and if she has to watch you kill that horse…She’s a real animal person. This pretty much ruins our vacation anyway-not to mention the front end of the car-and we only got to England three days ago.”
“Go into the village.” Rob told the man how to get there. “Wait for me at the Queen’s Head. You’ll see it on the right. I expect there’re phone calls you need to make anyway, about the car.”
“Look, how bad a trouble’re we in? C’n I make this right somehow?”
“You’re not in trouble. There are just formalities-”
The pony neighed wildly. It sounded like a scream.