The Hold Music Never Ends

“Some days the universe doesn’t conspire against you — it just puts you on hold and lets you listen to your own impatience.”

"This is bloody ridiculous!"

The words tore out of me like a snapped cable under too much tension, my patience—already frayed and threadbare—finally giving way completely. I slammed the phone's receiver back into its cradle with a sharp, resonant clack that echoed through the shared workspace louder than I'd intended, drawing curious glances from half a dozen desks.

For over half an hour I'd sat there, ears assaulted by that tinny, repetitive loop of hold music—some instrumental version of an 80s pop song rendered unrecognisable and painful—punctuated by the occasional monotone recording promising that "your call is important to us" in a voice that suggested the exact opposite.

And in the end? Still nothing. No answers. No transfer to someone who could actually help. Just dead air and wasted time and the growing certainty that the Hobart Airport administrative staff operated on some entirely different temporal plane where Saturday afternoon calls from police detectives were of negligible importance.

Fuming, I shoved myself away from the desk—too forcefully, my frustration translating directly into physical motion. The chair skidded backwards on its ageing castors, wheels protesting with a squeak that perfectly matched my mood, veering dangerously towards the towering bookshelf behind me that held decades of departmental archives and precariously stacked case files.

For one breathless moment, I saw it all unfold in my mind: the perfect storm of my frustration culminating in a spectacular toppling of carefully organised records, mug-shot memories scattering across the floor like oversized confetti, months of filing work undone in a single moment of poor spatial awareness.

But I caught myself just in time, my feet finding purchase against the floor, my hands gripping the desk edge, dragging the chair to a halt mere inches from disaster.

A few heads turned. I felt their glances—sharp, lingering, assessing. Curious. Maybe amused at the detective's loss of composure. But I didn't care. Not now. Not when I'd just wasted precious time on bureaucratic incompetence while Karl was out there actually making progress, actually moving the investigation forward.

With my jaw set in a hard line, I ducked my head and strode across the room, letting the motion help burn off the rising heat in my chest. The rhythmic click of my boots on the linoleum punctuated my mood with every step, each footfall a small outlet for frustration.

I needed progress, not a drawn-out battle with airport bureaucracy. I needed to contribute something useful, to prove I was worth more than being relegated to phone duty while Karl handled the real detective work.

I found Ellen Lowe exactly where I expected—parked at her desk in the far corner like a cat curled in the sunniest spot, barely concealing her disinterest in actual police work. Her computer screen glowed with the unmistakable blue-and-white banner of Facebook, and from my angle, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a cat meme. Of course it was a cat meme.

Ellen was an institution at the station—one of those administrative staff who'd been here longer than most of the detectives, who knew every quirk of every system, who could cut through red tape like a hot knife through butter when she felt like it, and who felt like it approximately thirty percent of the time.

The other seventy percent, she devoted to online shopping, social media, and cultivating an aura of profound disinterest in anything that might constitute actual work.

But when Ellen Lowe decided to help you, things happened. Doors opened. People cooperated. Information materialised. She had connections everywhere—airport staff, ferry operators, court clerks, records offices. She'd been doing this job since before I was born, and she knew where every body was buried, metaphorically speaking.

Probably literally speaking too, given how long she'd been here.

Slumping into the visitor's chair beside her desk with a long, theatrical exhale, I made no effort to hide my irritation. The chair protested under my weight—everything in this station seemed to protest everything—but held.

"Go away, Sarah. I'm busy," Ellen drawled without looking at me, her voice like gravel coated in sarcasm and world-weariness. The tone was classic Ellen—abrasive, unimpressed, and never in a hurry. Her eyes never left the screen, where a particularly fluffy Persian cat was apparently having opinions about Mondays.

"No, you're not. You're looking at Facebook," I pointed out, my voice dipped in playful accusation but also genuine frustration. I gave a subtle nod at the half-loaded meme on her screen, the orange tabby now replaced by a video thumbnail of a cat in a shark costume riding a Roomba.

Ellen clicked the browser tab closed with an exaggerated sigh and a roll of her eyes that suggested I'd just asked her to donate a kidney rather than do her actual job. Though there was the faintest twitch of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth—she enjoyed the performance as much as I did, the ritual dance we always went through.

"What do you want?" she asked, swivelling in her chair to face me properly, her expression arranged into one of profound put-upon martyrdom.

"I need you to follow up on some information from the Hobart and Launceston airports for me. You've got good relationships there. You'll get further than I will." I leaned in slightly, letting the flattery flow just thick enough to smooth the edges, appealing to her ego and her genuine competence in equal measure.

It was true, too—Ellen could get information in twenty minutes that would take me three hours and a formal request. She had people. She had history. She had the kind of institutional knowledge that made her irreplaceable despite her apparent allergy to actual work.

"Fine," she said flatly, with all the enthusiasm of someone being asked to clean a public toilet—but I saw it. The subtle lift in her brow, the slight straightening of her posture. She was pleased. Pleased to be asked, pleased to be recognised as the person who could get things done, pleased to be needed.

Ellen would complain, but she'd do it. And she'd do it well.

"Great." I placed the case file on her desk with more care than I'd used with Karl earlier—Ellen didn't respond well to anything that might be interpreted as disrespect for her workspace. I tapped the top page where I'd neatly typed out the summary and key questions, knowing full well Ellen didn't have the patience for digging through handwritten notes if it could be avoided.

She stared at the file as if I'd just handed her a tax audit written in Sanskrit, her expression suggesting deep personal offence at its mere existence.

"You'll find everything you need in there," I added helpfully, ignoring her theatrical distaste.

Ellen didn't touch the file immediately. Her look said everything: Do I really have to read this? Can't you just tell me what you need in twenty words or less?

"Essentially, all I need you to do is find out if Jamie Greyson or Kain Jeffries boarded any flights in the last few weeks," I explained, keeping my voice measured, calm, simple. Bite-sized information. Ellen-friendly digestible chunks.

I'd learned over the months that Ellen responded better to verbal instructions than written ones, despite the fact that she'd inevitably ask me to write everything down anyway. It was part of the ritual.

"Should be simple enough," Ellen said, her tone suggesting it would be anything but simple, but that she'd do it anyway because she was a professional, damn it, even if no one appreciated her.

The subtext was clear: This will require multiple phone calls, at least two cups of coffee, and probably dealing with that insufferable woman at Launceston who always asks about my cat.

"Thanks, Ellen. I owe you," I said, standing up, already feeling a twinge of relief. A task successfully delegated was a small victory, a breath of fresh air in an otherwise suffocating day.

"You mean you still owe me," she quipped without missing a beat, finally cracking a proper smirk that transformed her entire face from put-upon bureaucrat to someone who genuinely enjoyed the game we were playing.

"Exactly!" I tossed the word over my shoulder with a wry smile, turning away, already feeling lighter.

I'd taken three steps when something tugged at my thoughts, a loose end suddenly remembering itself.

I pivoted back. "Oh, and Ellen—"

"What?" she groaned, her eyes narrowing with the suspicious look of someone who knows they're about to be asked for more than they'd agreed to.

"Can you check the same with the Spirit of Tasmania, please?" I asked, adding the request with feigned innocence and a dash of charm, knowing full well I was testing her goodwill but also knowing she'd do it because Ellen, for all her complaints, was thorough.

I didn't wait for a reply. The less chance she had to say no, the better. Strategic retreat was sometimes the better part of valour.

As I walked away, my boots tapping a little lighter this time against the linoleum, I felt a flicker of control returning. The frustration that had been building since Karl had dismissed my theory, since he'd sent me off on administrative tasks while he handled the real investigation, began to ease slightly.

There was still too much to do. Too many questions unanswered. Too many pieces that didn't fit together properly.

But at least now, someone else was on hold for me.

And in my pocket, warm against my thigh, a scrap of paper waited.

Whatever it meant, whatever secret it contained, I'd find out tonight.

After I finished the official work. After I'd done everything Karl had asked.

After I proved I was more than just the junior detective who jumped to conclusions.

The paper seemed to pulse with its own significance, a reminder that sometimes the most important investigations were the ones no one authorised, the questions no one thought to ask, the secrets hidden in plain sight on a sergeant's desk.

I touched my pocket briefly, feeling the outline of the folded note.

Soon.