by Oliver Tidy
‘Absolutely. Are either of you familiar with Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences?’
‘Lisa Gardner the crime writer?’ said Romney.
Marsh believed strongly that he was trying to be funny.
‘No, sir. Howard Gardner, the American developmental psychologist,’ said Fower.
With an air of exaggerated disappointment, almost as though he were discussing a man doing prison time for a paedophile conviction, Romney said, ‘Oh. That Gardner.’
Marsh sneaked another look at him and he was almost smiling. She felt a tightness developing across her chest, like someone pulling the cords of a corset tight. And then she thought why shouldn’t she engage in a bit of stimulating conversation with an interested and interesting colleague? Why should she prowl around on the eggshells at the periphery of Romney’s temperament? She said, ‘I can only remember a couple of them. We touched on them on a course: interpersonal and intrapersonal, I think they were called.’ Just saying them made Marsh think that Romney should have been on that course – he needed to brush up on his communication skills and his self-knowledge.
Encouraged, Fower said, ‘That’s right. Gardner proposes nine intelligences all together: the two you mentioned, then there’s spatial, musical, linguistic, logical, kinaesthetic and the two later additions, naturalistic and existential. When you know about these things and how a predisposition towards them can shape a person, it really helps you to understand individuals better, their relationships with each other and the world. I learned a lot about myself when I had my eyes and mind opened.’
Romney drew a deep breath and said, ‘Shall I tell you what I think, Philip?’
Marsh did not like that ‘Philip’.
Romney continued, ‘I think that Lisa Gardner the crime writer probably knows more about human nature and why people do what they do to themselves and each other than some antiquated academic locked up in his Ivy League ivory tower. I’m prepared to concede that he might be on to something, but as I understand it even after all this time the theory of multiple intelligences remains just that – a theory. To this day there is a distinct lack of empirical evidence to back up Gardner’s suggestions. In fact, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Gardner himself once say that the allocating of an “intelligence’’...’ – in a moment of recklessness that made Marsh want to arrest him, Romney took both hands off the wheel to describe inverted commas in the air with his fingers – ‘…to an individual was more artistic judgement than scientific assessment?’
If Romney had not made that up, Marsh was suddenly impressed. And then she replayed it and thought that even if he had made it up it was still quite good.
‘That’s true, sir,’ began Fower, ‘but...’
Romney cut him off. ‘I think that Gardner is just being optimistic. Maybe he’s that sort: a glass half full type of bloke. He preferred to look on the bright side of humanity by focussing all his attention and efforts into developing his theory of multiple intelligences, something positive but, it could be argued, not particularly useful. Maybe it could also be argued that he’s been a bit narrow-minded and it’s cost him half the bigger picture. Or maybe he did consider the alternative, the ying to intelligence’s yang, if you will, and thought that a) he’d have a lot less work to do if he chose to concentrate on human intelligence and b) it would be a lot less depressing than the opposite.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. You’ve lost me,’ said Fower.
‘I have my own theory regarding the question of human intelligence. You want to hear it?’
Marsh did and she was about to say so but Fower beat her to it. ‘Yes, sir. I’d like that.’
Romney said, ‘Actually, strictly speaking it’s more a theory of non-intelligence.’ Marsh was not the least bit surprised. ‘Forget about the rosy picture of “multiple intelligences” and consider the bleak reality of Mankind’s more prevalent and more destructive influences: what I refer to in my theory as “particular stupidities”.’ He let that hang in the air for a moment before saying, ‘For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.’
Marsh was not sure that mixing his sciences, like mixing metaphors, was going to make Romney look particularly ‘intelligent’.
Romney said, ‘Generally, it’s not intelligence that gets people into trouble in their lives, that negatively affects and inconveniences them and those around them, it’s stupidity. And I think that if people were encouraged to explore and understand those areas of their lives in which they display what I refer to as a “particular stupidity” – areas of their lives where they regularly behave stupidly i.e. not in their own and others’ best interests – then the world might be a better and nicer place. When an individual is encouraged to appreciate and understand that a particular way in which he/she regularly behaves causes either him/her or others around him/her problems he/she just might feel enlightened and then empowered to do something about his/her damaging behaviour, maybe change some bad habits. Knowledge is power and all that.
‘In direct contrast to Gardner’s theory that children can develop from the embryo harbouring a type, or types, of intelligence why can’t it be accepted that those same embryos can develop harbouring a particular type of stupidity; that stupidity, multiple stupidities even, like multiple intelligences, exist in the individual from birth, a result of genetics, arrested neurological development or some random chemical imbalance? If we can be innately intelligent in areas of our lives then surely we can be equally innately stupid in them. Like I said, the ying to the yang.
‘While I’m on about it, I also think it could be argued that if Gardner had chosen to focus on stupidity in the individual rather than intelligence he might have done more good for education, mankind and ultimately the planet. To have highlighted the failings rather than celebrated the successes of the human condition might just have proved more useful, more altruistic. That’s what I think.’
Romney had piqued Marsh’s interest. She said, ‘You say “particular stupidities” like you have some in mind. Do you? Like Gardner’s intelligences, I mean?’
‘Yes, I do actually.’
Marsh experienced a feeling like she’d fallen into a carefully laid trap and she wanted to kick herself.
‘I’d be interested to hear them, sir,’ said Fower.
Romney made them wait as he put his foot down to overtake three cars in a row. Marsh was not interested in breathing as he passed the point of no return with a bend looming.
Safely past and tension levels back to normal, Romney continued. ‘Just like Gardner’s intelligences I see particular stupidities as separate and distinct from each other. It’s my belief that if these strands of the human condition could be identified, recognised and agreed upon, and a positive spin put on the concept, then the whole process of assessment and diagnosis could become something educational and positive for the individual – liberating and motivating rather than demeaning and negative. Self-knowledge is always something to celebrate. It’s the first step on the road for people trying to change for the better. Anyway, let me think for a moment. I have a special way to remember them by.’
There was a long pause. It provided Marsh the opportunity to explore how being labelled as stupid could ever be liberating and motivating, something that people would be willing to sign up to. She could not remember ever hearing Romney talk like this. His passion for the alternative theory – his alternative theory – reminded her of a scientologist she’d once seen on the telly – completely absurd but believing every word of what he was saying.
Marsh risked a look at him. His lips were moving silently and he was frowning. Eventually, he said, ‘Belief stupid, coordination stupid, cultural stupid, emotion stupid, environment stupid, financial stupid, health and safety stupid, learning stupid, relationship stupid, social stupid, sporting stupid and technology stupid. I think that’s all of them. There should be twelve. Was that twelve?’
They made him repeat them and agreed that they did, indeed, number tw
elve.
Visibly warming to his subject and managing to sound like a learned crackpot professor, Romney said, ‘Just like Gardner’s multiple intelligences, particular stupidities transcend all barriers of class, colour and creed. No section of any society is spared in the same way that no section is more susceptible than another.’
‘I think that’s a really interesting theory, sir,’ said Fower, sounding like he meant it. Or it could have been that he had some sucking up to do for his earlier failings. ‘Do you have any detailed examples to backup your hypothesis? Can you be more specific about what you mean by any given particular stupidity?’
‘Sure,’ said Romney, clearly enjoying himself. ‘Take me, for example. One thing I am is health and safety stupid. I know how bad smoking is for health. I know the dreadful diseases it can cause, how it has been medically proven to shorten life. I know it costs me money. And yet I still do it. I don’t want to die younger than I have to. I don’t want to suffer from dreadful diseases and I don’t want to throw my money away on cigarettes, but I risk all these things because where smoking and my own best interests are concerned I’m stupid. But I’m not globally stupid. In most areas of my life I act with reason and logic and carefully calculated motives. To label me as a stupid person just because I smoke isn’t accurate or fair. But I am guilty of being health and safety stupid.’
Marsh wanted to ask him how his driving and exchanging suggestive texts with an ex-lover who was now engaged to be married to someone else and who was involved, like it or not, in a murder case would figure in Romney’s ‘stupid’ thinking.
Romney said, ‘Take coordination stupid as another example. I was at school with kids who couldn’t catch or throw a ball to save their lives. Didn’t matter how much time they spent trying to master these things that the rest of us found so easy. They were born with no innate ability to perform those tasks. But they were good at other things. I call that a form of coordination stupid, like women who can never learn to reverse park.
‘I used to know this chap, nuclear physicist working at Dungeness Power Station. Sharp as a pin. I was in his pub quiz team. There wasn’t much he didn’t know, I can tell you. I could barely understand one word in five when he was talking about his job but when it came to money he behaved with uncharacteristic stupidity. He just couldn’t manage it. Couldn’t balance his household budgets: income and outgoings. Was always overdrawn, always spending, had nothing put by and nothing to show for it. He earned a lot more money than me. In my book that makes him financial stupid.’
‘Is he still there?’ said Marsh.
‘At the power station?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. Moved on. We lost touch.’ Romney soon lost interest in his old drinking buddy. ‘Another bloke I know, teacher, funnily enough, so, educated, allegedly, a nicer man you couldn’t hope to meet. Sportsman, musician, well-read, atheist, doesn’t smoke, hardly drinks, speaks three languages fluently, great with technology and people...’
‘Sounds too good to be true,’ said Marsh. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He is too good to be true. He’s also tall, dark and handsome. Trouble is, he suffers from relationship stupid. He’s on his third divorce and he’s only fifty. He just can’t stop marrying the wrong women.’
‘He does sound pretty stupid,’ said Marsh.
‘But that’s my point, exactly. He’s not stupid. Not globally stupid. He has one area of his life where he can’t make decisions in his own best interests when it’s obvious to everyone around him that what he’s doing is stupid. Even he admits it. Always afterwards, of course.’
‘What do you mean by belief stupid, sir?’ said Fower.
‘Religion, of course. The world’s unfunniest joke. The idea that in this day and age in a first-world western society people actually believe in omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent beings prowling the heavens and our thoughts to determine our individual fates is about as dumb as it gets, if you ask me. There is no bigger stupidity in all the world.’ Marsh noticed that their speed had picked up a bit as Romney has started talking about God. ‘But belief stupidity does throw up a perfect example of what I’m getting at. You remember Tony Blair, I suppose?’ Romney was talking to them like they were little children. ‘No one could say that he was a globally stupid man. He was a well-educated, well-travelled, intelligent bloke by most accounts. A lawyer. A leading politician. You just can’t get to be Prime Minister of the UK without displaying some form of intellect. But what does he go and do after he’s turfed out of the biggest job in the country? He converts to Catholicism. One of the most intolerant, historically barbaric, misogynistic, homophobic, self-serving, child-abusing religions on the planet. And why? Because despite the overwhelming scientific evidence to the contrary he obviously believes, believes I say, in all that mumbo-jumbo bollocks. That is belief stupid. Don’t get me started on that waste of breath.’
Marsh was glad that Romney did not care to ‘get started’ on it. She had noticed the speedometer needle creep up to just over eighty miles an hour and there was a fair amount of traffic on the road.
Fortunately, they were soon on the outskirts of Chatham, and Romney needed directions. Marsh was glad. Apart from giving her an idea for a joke, his soapboxing had unsettled her. Not for the first time since she’d been working under him, she was forced to consider whether having a senior officer in CID with such intolerant and strange views was healthy for the service. She was also a little embarrassed. She knew that Fower was a Catholic who attended church every Sunday he could. After Romney’s scathing remarks about religion, his religion, the car had felt a little stuffier. Fower had certainly been a lot quieter.
***
11
They arrived at Mrs Leavey’s place of work just before midday. The small manufacturing concern was hidden away on one of the area’s non-descript industrial estates. The three of them piled out and headed to reception, Romney striding ahead of his subordinates.
Marsh turned to Fower, smiled and said, ‘All right?’
He smiled back a little weakly. ‘The DI has some interesting views, doesn’t he? I didn’t agree with all of it but his theory on particular stupidities has got me thinking.’
‘If you like that one,’ said Marsh, ‘you should ask him about his Particle Theory. Just don’t do it when I’m around, and not if you keep your toothbrush in a shared bathroom.’
They reported to reception. Mrs Leavey was paged and came quickly. She pushed through the thick strips of opaque plastic that separated the factory floor from the reception area to find three stone-faced, plain-clothes police officers waiting for her.
Before she’d even reached them, she said, ‘Is he dead?’
Romney looked around and said, ‘Is there somewhere more private we could talk, please, Mrs Leavey?’
‘Just tell me. Is he dead?’ She was quite loud, verging on hysterical. People were looking over in their direction.
‘We don’t know, Mrs Leavey,’ said Romney. ‘And I’m not prepared to discuss it here.’ He turned to Marsh. ‘Find us a room, will you?’
Marsh was only too happy to escape. The manager offered the small meeting room and refreshments. Marsh accepted both.
When they were settled around a large, scratched and scored table with their hot drinks and a plate of biscuits, all untouched, and no fear of being disturbed, Romney removed the Missing Persons picture they had of Lance Leavey and said, ‘Is this your son, Mrs Leavey?’
Mrs Leavey looked to be in her fifties and like she’d spent most of her life under fluorescent lighting. Her hair was a yellowy grey, her washed-out skin was the colour and texture of old paper and her pale eyes were bloodshot and moist. She wore a tragic expression and was obviously close to tears. She gripped a crumpled handkerchief, which she wrung continuously. As she stared at the photograph of her happy smiling son the big fat tears ran down her wrinkled face.
Mentally, Romney heaved a big sigh. Not for her pain but because all he’d done wa
s say hello and show her a picture. When he had to tell her about the pulped human remains they’d found wrapped in plastic and dumped in a broken chest freezer in a rusting tomb in the middle of a neglected and overgrown tip of a field she’d likely get worse.
Romney’s phone sounded in his pocket. A text message. He dug it out to give the woman a chance to compose herself. The message was from Julie Carpenter. The fact pleased him, as did her words that she was sorry to have missed him. There was another little ‘x’ at the end. He lifted his eyes to find Mrs Leavey’s unappealing face staring at him. Realising that he was smiling slightly, Romney coughed and remembered where he was and what for.
‘Well, Mrs Leavey?’
She nodded and sniffed. ‘Yes. That’s Lance. Please tell me why you’re here.’
‘A body has been found.’
An involuntary noise. ‘Where?’
‘Dover. Mrs Leavey, before you ask any more questions I’m afraid I have to tell you that I won’t be able to answer most of them. Not until we have confirmed that the body we’ve found is your son, or not, as the case may be.’ Mrs Leavey heaved out a sudden large sob and stuck the handkerchief to her mouth. Romney said, ‘The truth is, we just don’t know yet.’
Mrs Leavey said, ‘Why can’t you know? You’ve got his picture. Have you seen him? Does the body look like my boy? Please, you have to tell me what you think. I can’t stand not knowing.’
Romney said, ‘We can’t make a positive identification of the body. I’m sorry. What we need from you is a DNA sample that our forensic people can use to ascertain whether you are related to the body we found. You are Lance’s natural mother, I suppose?’
Mrs Leavey nodded and said, ‘Why do you need a DNA sample? Why can’t I just look at him?’