Acid Song (18 page)

Election Saturday meant the block was unusually quiet, and Richard made it to the elevator without anybody else feeling the need to avoid his stare. Or perhaps they saw him coming, hid themselves in cupboards and empty lecture theatres until he passed. The thought brought a smile to his face, just for a moment, until he noticed it.

Richard’s first memory of death was the thick forearm of his father, the hair turning to white against the brown skin, ripping the startled sheep’s jaw back and up, knife slashing across exposed neck. Not, to the eyes of a small child, the easy efficient dispatch of an expert. There was a struggle involved: to keep the terrified animal from bolting, to make the first cut deep enough to be the last. As it should be. That was a warm death, its smell fresh hot blood and sheep shit, summer dust and sunshine on painted iron. There was old death too, the acrid scent of decay. A ewe caught out by a flood, snagged by the trailing branches of a weeping willow, bloating up and adding a brown froth to the passing water. You took care to swim upstream, until the next rain washed it out.

The country was a long time ago. Last summer Richard and Elizabeth had taken up the offer of a friend’s new bach over in Martinborough. He’d felt embarrassed to be returning as a tourist, visiting vineyards, lolling in cafés, waited upon by bemused locals. Death smelt different in the city: of the hospital wards that took his brother, of the rest home where his father moved after the last operation (he only lasted two weeks, but still Richard remembered the colour of the carpet). City death was the smell of cleaning agents.

There was a uniformed officer on the door, older than the one who’d visited that morning, heavier too, swaying on his feet as if to relieve a tired back. He saw Richard approaching and stepped quietly forward to block his passage.

‘Good afternoon, Sir. Sorry, but this part of the building is closed off for the rest of the day.’

‘Richard Bradley. The detective rang to ask me to …’

‘Certainly, Sir.’

The officer nodded and stepped aside, leaving the way clear and Richard no time to prepare himself. He walked into the office, knowing of course there would be nothing left to see there, but still bracing himself.

‘Richard. Thank you for coming.’

She offered a long, thin hand, its bones sharp beneath Richard’s fingers. Her hair was a mess of blackened curls which sprung as far as her neck, giving roundness to a thin face and softening her slightly sharp nose.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Olliver. Now, before we talk, I want you to do something for me. Close your eyes.’

Richard did as he was told. As a child might have, for she was a detective, and his friend was dead. Not that this made him feel less ridiculous. His balance almost went and he had to shoot an arm out to his side to steady himself.

‘Oops, sorry.’

‘That’s all right. Okay, Mr Bradley, sorry about this, the constable was supposed to let me know you were on the way up, but just before you open your eyes …’

‘Can I ask why I’m doing this?’

‘You’re helping us with our investigation.’

‘I thought you said he hanged himself.’

‘We’re almost certain that is the case. But perhaps we could have this discussion after … if you perhaps just let me explain …’

She had that special tone people can affect only after many years of not being argued with.

‘Of course.’

‘I understand you visited the deceased last night.’

‘That’s right. Well, early evening.’ Richard heard in his voice an eagerness to get this exactly right. An odd compulsion not so much to help as to please. ‘I would have left about seven-thirty I suppose.’

‘And it was in this office you visited him?’

‘That’s correct. Do I have to have my eyes closed much lon…’

‘Just a few more moments. All right, Mr Bradley, I would like you to just remember that scene as best you can. I’m interested in the office, how it looked, whether anything seemed unusual to you. Try to pick out any details. What was on the desk. What was on the wall. Were particular books off the shelf, that sort of thing. So, have you got a picture there?’

Richard never had pictures, as far as he could tell. What he had were feelings about pictures, the sorts of feelings which could be sharpened or muted by subsequent experience. Memory of sensation and sensation were, he imagined, quite different things. He was, however, tired of having his eyes closed, and the detective would not care for his speculations.

‘Yes, all right. Got that.’

‘In a moment I am going to ask you to open your eyes, and when you do I want you to look around the office and make a note of anything you see which is different from the way it was last night. Anything at all that jumps out at you. Just say it out loud as soon as you notice anything. Is that clear?’

‘Sure.’

‘Right then, open your eyes.’

Richard blinked at the white light of the office and waited for the out of place to strike at him. Sadly whatever differences there may have been quickly melted back into the greater scene, unlabelled and unnoticed. He stood in silence while the detective waited for his response.

‘Nothing?’ she finally prompted.

‘Ah, I don’t think so,’ Richard conceded, feeling as if he had just failed a test. ‘Was I meant to?’

‘Sometimes it works,’ the detective shrugged.

‘And how do you know they aren’t just imagining the changes, you know, to please you?’ Richard asked. She smiled, as if it was a poor joke which manners obliged her to find amusing.

‘Have a seat.’

There were only two seats to choose from: that which he had sat in the previous evening, and William’s. Richard hesitated, before choosing the more familiar chair. The detective remained standing.

‘As you have already been told, Mr Harding was found hanging in the office early this morning by a colleague. We have no particular reason to believe this was anything other than as it appears, but it’s important to be cautious, in the circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’ Richard asked. She had stayed at his left shoulder, so he needed to swivel uncomfortably to look at her. A petty little power thing. He decided he didn’t like her.

‘I am talking about the controversial nature of Mr Harding’s research.’

‘Professor.’

‘What?’

‘Not mister. Professor. He was a professor.’

‘I see.’

It was plain she didn’t care what he made of her, one way or another.

‘So you think somebody killed him because they didn’t like his research?’

‘I think it is highly unlikely.’

‘So why bring me in here?’

‘Highly unlikely isn’t always enough.’ Her voice betrayed her impatience with this job. Probably she was being instructed to take more care than she felt it warranted. This was the sort of story that
played well in the media.

‘How would you do that?’ Richard asked. ‘Make it look like somebody hanged themselves? Surely there’d be signs of a struggle.’

‘If you’d stick to answering the questions, Mr Bradley, this will be much quicker.’

‘I don’t remember a question,’ Richard replied. Now that he had decided he did not like her, it would take a lot to undecide him. ‘You’re not recording this are you?’

‘No.’

‘I just thought you’d be taking notes if you weren’t…’

‘If anything important comes up … Now, if you don’t mind, the nature of this research. I understand it related to race.’

‘Universities are full of controversial research. It is the nature of what we do. It’s what we are called upon to do, to challenge the orthodoxy.’

‘Universities are not full of professors being assaulted.’

‘No, not as yet.’

‘Did he ever speak to you of any particular groups who had voiced their opposition?’

‘Everybody voiced their opposition. Church leaders, politicians, academics, students. Google his name, see what you get.’

‘You didn’t voice your opposition.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I didn’t know the area well enough,’ Richard lied.

‘Have you ever been threatened, as a result of this?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I heard it had become heated, amongst the staff.’

‘Good research is supposed to generate heated responses. Being ignored is what we worry about.’

‘Apparently Mr Harding wouldn’t agree with you.’

‘Who knows what the professor was thinking.’

‘It’s my job to guess. Did he ever speak of any specific threats?’

She was sparing with her eye contact, like a boxer only jabbing when they have to, trying to convince they’re holding something back. Her mouth was tight with distrust.

‘No, not to me. There have been some though, from what I’ve heard. His secretary I think might be a good person to…’

‘Why did he persevere with it?’

This was her technique, he supposed, cutting in on the answer, changing the angle of the questioning abruptly. Designed to cut out the time required to construct an answer. Richard paused deliberately, making a game of baiting her. Because he could. Because it was his technique.

‘Persevere with what?’

‘The research. If he knew it was upsetting people.’

‘Brothels are in the business of making people comfortable. Universities serve a different function.’

‘So you agree with what he was doing?’

‘That depends what you mean.’

‘Do you think it was a good piece of research?’

‘I think it was too early to judge.’

‘So what did the two of you talk about, when you visited last night?’

The detective walked around behind the desk and sat in William’s chair, deliberately no doubt. She leaned right back in a way William never did. Confident, perhaps even bored, open now in her dislike for Richard. Whatever the opposite of suicidal was.

‘The whisky bottle.’ It came to him.

‘You talked about a whisky bottle?’

‘No, you asked if anything was different. There was a whisky bottle, out on the desk, when I was here. I thought you’d want to know.’

‘It was on the floor.’

‘Oh. Just thought it might have been important.’

‘I assume he kicked it off. So what did you talk about?’

She was a cold one. He looked at her more carefully, trying to read her face, guess at her motivation. Just getting through the day, slashing at the undergrowth. Habit.

‘The protesters. Their having beaten him. I knew there was footage of it. I told him he should contact you: you people I mean, the police.’

‘And did he?’

‘I don’t know. Did he?’

‘What else?’

‘His research.’

‘What about it?’

Richard realised how little he wanted to talk about this. No, that was the opposite of the truth. He wanted to talk about it more than anything he could think of, but not with her. Not with someone who wouldn’t understand. What he needed was … he searched for the right person. William. He needed William here. That was the truth of it. He should have told him, last night. And now it was too late.

Without warning Richard’s throat tightened and a tiny panic attack shuddered cold beneath his skin. He swallowed hard, coughing in an attempt to distract himself. He was aware now how close tears were to falling. And what sort of a damned fool would he look then?

‘I was suggesting to him he find a way of moderating his views.’

‘So you disagreed with them?’

‘I’ve already told you, I don’t know the data well enough.’

‘You think he might be right?’

‘Have been.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Past tense.’

‘I think Mr Bradley,’ now the title he knew was deliberate, ‘that
this will be quicker if we keep your little observations out of this.’

‘Why do you dislike me?’ Richard asked, damned if he was about to yield.

‘I don’t have any opinion on you one way or the other.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Your doubt I can live with. Tell me about Mr Harding’s research.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Summarise it, in lay terms. Assume I’m a little simple.’

‘I already had.’

The detective pulled out a small notebook.

‘The standard orthodoxy is that race differences are, biologically speaking, very shallow. That period of time over which human populations were isolated, and therefore able to develop characteristic physical profiles, is tremendously brief, on an evolutionary scale. It was long enough for superficial traits to emerge: skin type, hair colour, susceptibility to certain diseases; but if one wishes to be accepted within polite company, then one stresses not long enough to establish differences in the physical design of the brain.’

The detective scribbled something down. No more than a word or two. Richard shuddered to think how his exposition was being summarised.

‘When it comes to the complex skills – the way we think, the way we process information, the way we behave – inter-race variation is attributed to culture, the prejudices of the observer or some combination of the two. This is the modern perspective, and given the collective shame of race history it’s not difficult to understand our pride in it. Professor Harding’s research was notable for its tremendous impoliteness. He understood, and I believe for the most part embraced, the modern orthodoxy, but within his chosen field of expertise, IQ measurement, he found it hard to match the data and the theory. Am I going too quickly for you?’

She didn’t respond.

‘To make a long story simple and slightly inaccurate, IQ testing has a shabby and embarrassing history. The early claims of race difference were almost certainly attributable to the unsophisticated and prejudicial nature of the testing procedures. Given the dubious launch, most people jumped overboard before the craft left the harbour. The mind, it seemed, was too complex to have adjusted during our evolutionary isolation. We are all Africans in the end. More recently, it has become fashionable to claim race doesn’t even exist, that it is a social rather than a biological phenomenon.

‘Professor Harding, though, stayed with the boat. Modern IQ tests have changed tremendously over the years. While the cynic can still claim that all they measure is the ability to complete IQ tests – and that’s not an unreasonable view – that in itself can be of considerable interest. What Professor Harding was claiming was that racial profile remains a significant predictor of outcomes in IQ tests – and that the variable has explanatory power after obvious cultural markers like country of birth, income, education level and the like are removed.