Redirected Attention

"Three decades taught me that half my job is doing the work, and the other half is stopping people from doing things they'll regret."

The third attempt at reaching Sarah's mobile went straight to voicemail. Again.

I jabbed the disconnect button on my desk phone with more force than necessary, the plastic protesting under my finger. My pen—the good one, the weighted steel barrel that had survived two decades of institutional abuse—sat poised over my notepad where I'd been tallying call attempts like a solicitor tracking billable hours.

Three calls. Three failures. And somewhere in this bloody building, Detective Sarah Lahey was wandering around without her phone, oblivious to the fact that I'd actually done the work she'd delegated yesterday with such casual assumption of my compliance.

Typical.

The airports had responded. Both of them. Launceston had been professionally efficient, Hobart slightly less so but ultimately cooperative. The Spirit of Tasmania had promised security footage delivered via Duncan—a silver lining I'd allowed myself thirty seconds to appreciate before returning to the more pressing problem of Sarah's complete inability to maintain contact with her own communication devices.

I pushed my wide-framed glasses back onto my nose and glared at the file folder I'd prepared. Neatly tabbed. Properly annotated. Responses printed and organised with the kind of administrative precision that young detectives took for granted whilst simultaneously believing they were the only people in the building actually working.

The folder sat there, mocking me with its completeness. All dressed up with nowhere to go, because the detective who'd requested this information had apparently decided that answering her phone was optional.

I grabbed my cigarette packet from behind the monitor—nearly empty again, would need to pick up another pack on the way home—and pushed back from my desk. Bugger it. Sarah could wait five more minutes. I'd tried reaching her three times, had the documentation prepared, had done everything professionally required of me. If she couldn't be bothered to answer her phone, she could wait until I'd had my nicotine and five minutes of peace in the courtyard.

The corridor was quieter than usual for mid-morning, most officers either out on calls or buried in paperwork at their desks. My boots made soft sounds against the linoleum, the courtyard's promise of cold air and temporary escape pulling me forward like a magnet.

I was perhaps twenty metres from the courtyard door when I spotted her.

Sarah. Moving along the wall with that particular quality of attempted stealth that made me want to shake her until some sense rattled loose. She was creeping—actually creeping—towards the courtyard windows with the grace of someone who thought they were being clever whilst actually being spectacularly obvious.

I slowed my pace, following her gaze through the glass panels.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Sergeant Charlie Claiborne stood in the courtyard with Louise Jeffries. Close together. Too close. His hand resting on her elbow with familiar comfort. His mouth moving near her ear in conversation clearly not meant for anyone else.

And Sarah bloody Lahey was inching closer to surveil her own supervisor having what was obviously a private conversation with a key witness.

The implications assembled themselves with uncomfortable speed. This wasn't just poor judgment. This was the kind of situation that generated complaints, derailed investigations, created institutional nightmares that would consume everyone's time whilst achieving absolutely nothing except damaged careers.

Mason Wright would not approve.

The cigarette break could wait. Ellen Lowe was going to stop this before Sarah saw or heard something that would force everyone's hand.

Thank god I spotted this in time.

I shoved the cigarette packet into my cardigan pocket and shifted Sarah's folder to a more prominent position under my arm—visible evidence that I'd been searching for her for legitimate professional reasons, not that I'd been heading outside for a smoke break and happened to interrupt her surveillance.

"Sarah!" I called out, my voice carrying that particular rasp that thirty years of cigarettes had permanently etched into my vocal cords.

What the hell is that snooping bitch up to now? The thought arrived with heat, though even as it formed I recognised it as uncharitable. Sarah wasn't a bitch. She was young, inexperienced, operating with detective's instincts but without the institutional wisdom to know when those instincts should be overridden by pragmatism.

I hurried down the corridor as Sarah slowly turned in my direction, her movement betraying the reluctance of someone interrupted mid-surveillance. Her speed was a poor cover for her nosiness, but at least she was turning, at least her attention was shifting away from that courtyard window.

"Sarah!" I repeated, determined to bring her full attention to myself, to make this intervention impossible to ignore or deflect. My work is more important, I thought, pushing my wide-framed glasses back onto my nose with the automatic gesture that punctuated my days. These bloody glasses! They'd been sliding down since I'd bought them three years ago, the frames stretched beyond repair but not quite useless enough to justify replacement.

"Where have you been? Answer your damn phone! I have been trying to call you all morning," I scolded, deploying white lies with ease. The truth was I'd only called Sarah three times, but the exaggeration served its purpose—suggesting greater urgency, greater effort on my part, greater negligence on hers. I'm useful when she wants to palm work off. I'm not her friend. The distinction mattered, kept expectations appropriately modest.

Sarah stammered for words, caught off-balance by my aggressive approach. "I, uh... I think I've left my phone in my car," she managed, slowly shuffling her feet across the old floor, turning her back to me in a movement that suggested she was already planning how to resume her surveillance once she'd dealt with this interruption.

Not if I had anything to say about it.

"Again?" I asked, channelling genuine surprise into the question. My annoyance growing with the detective's lack of interest in my important news—or perhaps her transparent interest in getting back to spying on her supervisor—I planted myself directly in front of her, blocking her sightline to the courtyard. "You may need to start strapping that phone to your arm... or perhaps your forehead."

Stop it, Ellen, I warned myself, frustrated at my lack of self-control. The sarcasm had been unnecessary, counterproductive, revealing my irritation when strategic patience would serve better.

But decades of dealing with officers who treated administrative staff as convenient furniture rather than colleagues had worn my professional composure thin. The automatic deflection into mockery was reflexive, protective, a way of maintaining dignity when respect wasn't naturally offered.

"Um... sure," Sarah replied, paying me very little attention, her eyes already sliding past my frame towards the courtyard. Determined not to lose ground, she pushed forward. "Did you... ah... did you need something, Ellen?"

"Me?" I asked incredulously, offence creeping into my tone despite my better judgment. "I think it is you that needs something."

"Huh?" Sarah's face contorted in confusion, the expression making her look younger than her years, less like a detective and more like a frustrated child denied something she wanted.

The frustration finally overflowed. Several loud huffs escaped before I could moderate my response, the sound carrying more exasperation than I'd intended but less than I actually felt. "Well, in case you were wondering, which obviously you weren't, I've heard back from both the Hobart and Launceston airports."

The shift in Sarah's attention was immediate but shallow—interest engaged but not fully committed, divided attention that suggested she was processing my words whilst simultaneously trying to see past me into the courtyard.

"Oh," Sarah said flatly, the monosyllable carrying neither enthusiasm nor appropriate gratitude.

I continued, delivering the results with professionalism despite Sarah's obvious distraction. "They've no record of either Jamie Greyson or Kain Jeffries boarding any flights in the last two weeks."

"Oh," Sarah replied again, her face dropping with disappointment that seemed more performative than genuine. "Thank you anyway, Ellen."

Her eyes reverted back towards the courtyard, barely concealing her real priority. The dismissal was clear—she'd processed the negative results, filed them mentally, and was already moving past this conversation to return to her unauthorised surveillance.

I couldn't help but glance in the same direction myself, pushing my glasses back onto my nose as I did so. My eyes narrowed, squinting through the dirty glass that desperately needed cleaning but never received it. Why is Sarah so interested in Sergeant Charlie Claiborne and Mrs. Jeffries?

The question answered itself almost immediately. Because detectives were incurably curious, because Sarah had stumbled onto something that looked significant, because she hadn't yet learnt that some truths were better left unexamined—not because they didn't exist, but because knowing them served no purpose beyond complication.

Certain that Mason wouldn't approve of Sarah's concern for the pair, that allowing this surveillance to continue would generate problems neither of them could anticipate, an ongoing intervention was required. Decisive. Immediate. Effective.

"I'm not done yet!" I said, my voice strengthening in pitch to demand Sarah's full attention, to make clear that this conversation wasn't concluding until I decided it was concluded.

My hand gently nudged Sarah's elbow as the conversation progressed, a physical component to the verbal redirection. I carefully guided our shuffling feet in the reverse direction, turning us one-eighty degrees with the casual authority of someone who'd spent decades managing people who didn't realise they were being managed.

"I've also checked with the Spirit of Tasmania ferry," I continued, maintaining momentum now that I had her moving. "They have no records of either of them travelling to Melbourne. But they've promised to send down a hard drive with the last few weeks of security footage, just in case."

My monologue had managed to spin us around completely. I was now the one with full view of the courtyard, watching as Claiborne and Mrs. Jeffries appeared to be concluding their conversation. The timing was perfect—they'd moved away before Sarah could catch more than that initial glimpse, before she could see anything that might demand action.

"Send down?" Sarah repeated, latching onto the procedural irregularity with detective's instinct. "Well, that's hardly a secure way to transfer data."

I tilted my head, pleased that Claiborne and Mrs. Jeffries were entering the building and heading in the opposite direction without Sarah's knowing. The intervention had succeeded. Whatever conversation had occurred between them remained private, undocumented, unwitnessed beyond that brief moment Sarah had observed before I'd interrupted.

"We are in Tasmania, remember," I said, allowing dry amusement to colour my tone. "I don't think you need to worry. They've given it to Duncan to bring with him from Devonport. He should arrive sometime today. Can't wait..."

The last two words emerged with warmth I hadn't intended to reveal, carrying implications about my relationship with Duncan that I immediately regretted exposing. Not because anything inappropriate existed—it didn't—but because personal feelings had no place in professional interactions, because Ellen Lowe's private interests weren't anyone's business.

My sentence was cut short by Sarah's rolling eyes, the gesture small but unmistakable. What the hell is that all about? The judgment was clear enough—young detective dismissing the possibility that administrative staff might have personal lives, might experience attraction, might be anything beyond functional components of institutional machinery.

The disrespect stung more than it should have. Decades in this job, and officers still treated support staff as though we existed solely to serve their convenience, as though our humanity was somehow less legitimate than theirs.

"Thanks for the update, Ellen. That's great work," Sarah said, offering a brief smile that felt obligatory rather than genuine, the kind of social lubrication that acknowledged contribution without valuing it.

"I know," I replied, sarcasm spewing from my mouth in a tone carefully calibrated to match Sarah's condescending pleasantness. If she wanted to play at professional courtesy whilst clearly thinking of me as a useful tool rather than a colleague, I could return the favour with interest.

I left Sarah at the lift, watching as she waited with visible impatience, her foot tapping an anxious rhythm against the linoleum that suggested she was already planning her next move, already considering how to resume whatever investigation had led her to spy on Claiborne.

The anxious tapping caused a wry grin to spread across my face. "A cat only has nine lives," I muttered to myself as I walked down the corridor, the warning delivered to empty air but meaningful nonetheless.

Sarah Lahey was burning through her professional lives at a rate that would see her grounded long before she achieved the seniority she aspired to. The surveillance of superiors, the disregard for institutional politics, the assumption that determination and idealism trumped experience and pragmatism—these were the behaviours of someone who hadn't yet learnt that longevity in law enforcement required knowing not just what to pursue but what to ignore.

I'd saved her today. Prevented her from witnessing whatever Claiborne and Louise Jeffries had discussed, from seeing enough to force her hand, from initiating complications that would benefit no one. Whether she'd ever know I'd done her a favour was irrelevant. Whether she'd thank me if she did know was even less relevant.

The work wasn't about gratitude. Never had been. It was about maintaining the machinery, keeping investigations functional, ensuring that Tasmania Police continued operating despite the officers who thought institutional infrastructure was automatic rather than carefully maintained.

The cigarette packet sat heavy in my cardigan pocket, reminding me of the break I'd abandoned to intervene. The courtyard would still be there. The cold air would still provide temporary escape. But the moment had passed, the urgency that had driven me outside replaced by the satisfaction of having prevented a problem before it fully materialised.

Back at my desk, I filed the airport responses in Sarah's case folder—she'd collect it eventually, once she remembered I existed—and returned to the morning's other priorities. The printer on the second floor still needed attention. Glen's coffee cup required another passive-aggressive note about hygiene. The work orders for maintenance were overdue.

Just another morning at Hobart Police Station. Just another intervention in a career built on interventions no one noticed until they didn't happen. Just another day being Ellen Lowe—patient, competent, invisibly essential.

And outside, winter sunshine continued warming the courtyard where conversations happened that would never be documented, where relationships existed that would never be officially acknowledged, where the machinery of institutional life ground forward precisely because people like me ensured the gears remained lubricated and the moving parts stayed separated when separation served everyone's interests.

My glasses slipped down my nose again. I pushed them back up and finally pulled out the cigarette packet.

Time for that break. Time to stand in that same courtyard and contemplate the accumulated weight of thirty years' worth of interventions, interruptions, and invisible maintenance.

Time to smoke and think about nothing at all.