‘Professor Simpson?’ I supposed he did have that natural charm and air of allure. I could understand a young woman being drawn to his maturity. But let’s face it. He was older and a really bad dresser. ‘You say “initially”. What’s changed your mind?’

‘The fact that Simpson is a sponging, fame-grabbing, parasitic, lazy, male-chauvinist pig.’ She wasn’t one for holding back.

‘I take it from that you don’t like him.’

‘Not particularly, and I thought surely Rosie would see through him, and that he was just a leech on the back of her and all our work.’

‘What do you mean?’ I was beginning to realise I had no concept of the politics of academia.

‘The abridged version is: Rose-Marie has the idea, makes the breakthrough, our team researches and trials and tests and retests the information, we do all the hard work, and at the end of the day, that sponging bastard’s name goes first on the academic paper.’

‘Why? That hardly seems fair.’

‘Because, he is the Professor, the all-hallowed High and Mighty. He is supposedly the supervisor, and even though his input has only been a half-hour meeting once a week, he gets the glory. In fact, if it came down to it, he’d get the bloody Nobel.’

‘That’s not right. Surely the university knows about this; wouldn’t they do something about it?’

‘No, because it comes down to dollars. The professor is a high-profile, internationally esteemed researcher, even though he’s done pathetic little in the last few years, and in order to attract outside money, you need the high-profile names. Industry isn’t likely to invest money in an untried doctorate student, or a couple of lowly departmental academics, so they chuck in the big name and he gets the glory.’

‘God, if it’s like that, why does anyone bother?’ And I thought police internal politics was bad.

‘Not everyone is like that, don’t get me wrong – the vast majority of professors are hands-on, in there and passionate about what they’re doing. Which is why the university is flourishing. Unfortunately, we happened to get the leech.’

55

‘So what do you make of all that?’ I asked Smithy as we walked back to the car.

‘It makes me glad I’m just a dumb-arse detective and don’t have to put up with all the bickering, infighting and arrogant giant egos.’

Well actually, I’d had to put up with the arrogant-giant-ego thing, and I didn’t think either of us came into the dumb-arse category. Smithy must have realised what he’d said, as he added a proviso: ‘That doesn’t include Dickhead Johns, of course,’ and gave me a knowing grin.

‘You know what I think?’ I said.

‘What?’