CHAPTER NINETEEN
In her car outside St Augustine’s Church, Ella turned to Ripley and said, ‘I’m going in.’
She had everything she needed. Blue jeans, pink jacket; a look that said there was no cop to be found here. When it came to going undercover, the intricacies were everything. She'd left her credentials locked in the glove compartment.
‘Got your cover story?’ Ripley asked.
‘Entomophobia,’ Ella said. ‘Fear of insects. I can work with that.’
Ripley nodded toward the church. ‘I'll be out here. Anyone comes or goes, I'll note it. You see something wrong, you text me. Don't try to be a hero.’
‘I know the drill.’
‘I mean it, Dark. I know what you’re like.’
‘Trust me.’
‘What about a wire? I don’t like you going in deaf.’
‘We’re trying to be inconspicuous here. Besides, we don’t need a wire when we’ve got my brain. I’ll remember every word.’
‘You damn well better.’
Ella jumped out of the car and closed the door with a thud.
The arched gates of the churchyard beckoned her inside, and she passed through the tranquil cemetery towards the main entrance.
The door was already ajar, and inside Ella found herself in a foyer bathed in candlelight.
Her senses were immediately assaulted by the scent of incense.
Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she took in the scene before her.
She jumped back when a figure emerged from the shadows.
‘Welcome,’ it said. The man was formally dressed but not in priest attire.
An entirely grey outfit hung loosely off his broad frame, unironed but still complementing his sturdy figure.
He had three rows of wrinkles below a scalped haircut from which strands of blonde peeked out. Ella put him at late fifties.
‘Hi, I’m Ella,’ she said. ‘I’m here for the… group session.’
The man extended his hand. ‘Derek Graham. I run the sessions.’ His grip was a little too firm, and he held her gaze a beat longer than felt comfortable. ‘First time?’
‘Yeah. I heard about the group from a friend.’
‘Glad you found us.’ Derek released her hand. ‘It takes courage to walk through that door. Most people don't make it this far.’
Ella looked the man up and down. No one was above suspicion, she thought. ‘Guess I'm braver than I thought. Do you run these groups often?’
'A few times a week, whenever my schedule allows. We're two years in now, and they've been a big hit. The room is just through…'
Ella stayed neutral, but she committed every word to memory. Two years. Long enough to build trust, to become invisible. 'And it's only phobias you deal with?' Ella jumped in, but then reminded herself not to appear so eager.
‘Not at all. My psychoeducational phobia class takes place twice a week, but there are group sessions most nights of the week. We foster a tight community here. Some people just need a place of kinship.’
‘You don’t discuss phobias every session?’
‘Not at all. We welcome anyone who needs to offload. Substance abuse, relationship issues. We’re a place to talk and learn.’
‘So you get a lot of repeat visitors?’
‘Some stay for months. Some leave after a session or two. Everyone's carrying something. Here, they don't have to carry it alone.’
'You must see a lot of people come and go,' Ella said, trying to steer the conversation towards the attendees of the group session. Julia Dawson and Thomas Barker's names hung on her lips, but she banished them to the back of her throat.
‘Each person's journey is unique,’ Derek said. ‘But yes, there have been some who leave a lasting impact.’
Ella's ears perked up. ‘Anyone I might have heard of?’
Derek shook his head. ‘We respect confidentiality here. Many group members don’t even use their real names.’ He turned behind and pushed open a door. ‘Our room is through here. I’ll be through shortly.’
Ella took the hint and went on through. She entered into a communal area, much larger than she expected.
Fifteen chairs were arranged in a loose circle, and two people were already seated.
One woman in her thirties scrolling through her phone, and a man who looked to be in his sixties, staring at the floor.
Both looked up when Ella entered, then went back to their business.
A table near the back wall held a coffee maker, a stack of foam cups, and a few boxes of generic tea bags.
A man stood there, pouring himself a cup.
Ella went over, allured by the prospect of free caffeine to help settle her nerves.
As she reached for one of the cups, the figure looked over and smiled.
‘Nice to see a new face,’ he said. ‘English Grey or Dark Roast?’
The man was average height, well-built, perhaps early fifties.
His hair, a tousled mass of light brown, gave him a youthful appearance that worked surprisingly well with the worn skin under his eyes.
He wore black trousers and a brown shirt, his collar unnecessarily tight to his neck.
There was a faint grey smudge jutting from his neck to his chin, perhaps a tribal tattoo the man had since come to regret.
‘Dark Roast, please. I’m a sucker for the exotic.’
He handed her a coffee. ‘First time?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You're standing like you might bolt any second.’ He grinned. ‘Don't worry. We all looked like that our first time.’
Ella accepted the drink, which seemed to have been brewed to her specifications. ‘I heard about the phobia classes and thought I'd give it a try. How about you?’
‘Just trying to better myself,’ he said. ‘Used to be on the wrong side of the law, but then I found the big man upstairs.’
She noticed his candor and tried to detect if any of it was lies or role-playing. This place was the hunting grounds for a serial killer, she reminded herself, and such a person wouldn’t give away their real life stories so willingly.
‘Sounds like quite a turnaround. I’m Ella, by the way.’
‘Ella,’ he repeated. ‘My name’s Mason Arthur.’
‘Good to meet you, Mason.’ Ella tried not to chuckle to herself. The name felt a tad too on-the-nose for someone in the man’s age group. It had to be an alias.
‘You too. You’re a local?’
‘Unfortunately so. How about you? Have you been coming here long?’ asked Ella.
‘Only a few weeks. I just set up an office in Apollo Court, if you know it. Trying out a new business venture.’
‘Apollo Court?’ She’d seen that building on her slow journey from the airport to the first crime scene. ‘I think I’ve seen it. I passed it on my way to… work. What’s your business?’
'Life coaching.' Mason suddenly raised his palms in defense. 'I know, I know. What's an ex-con like me doing giving people advice, right?'
Ella listened. Ex-con. He'd volunteered that information without being asked. That could mean honesty, or it could mean he was establishing a character. 'Everyone deserves a second chance.'
‘That's the whole philosophy. You fall down, you get back up. Writing new chapters.’
More people filtered into the room. An older woman with a cane.
A younger guy in a hoodie who was clearly acting too cool to be here.
A couple in matching fleece jackets who sat close together, holding hands.
Ella counted them: eight people now, including herself and Mason.
Each person entering the room could be holding secrets akin to a ticking time bomb.
She needed to stay focused, to observe the subtlest of cues that give away a homicidal psychopath.
‘Speaking of new chapters,’ Mason continued, leaning in a little, ‘if you ever want a real coffee, not this machine stuff, pay a visit to my office sometime. Floor thirteen.’
Ella caught the slight change in his tone, a hint of genuine interest, maybe even a subtle flirtation. ‘I might just take you up on that, Mason. A good coffee is hard to refuse,’ she said.
‘I hope you do.’
Derek Graham came into the room, and Ella suspected the proceedings were about to begin. Time to get into character, she told herself, but before she did, she had one last question for her new friend.
‘So, if I went to floor thirteen in Apollo Court, I’d find a Mason Arthur, would I?’
Mason shrugged, winked, and said, 'A rose by any other name.'
Derek's voice cut through, 'Alright, everyone, let's settle down.'
Ella left her new friend and found herself a seat in the semi-circle.
Time to put her own acting skills to the test.