Closer Than You Think

By Christen Notrelle

His message was clear. “Go back to where you came from Georgina, or I’ll send you home in a box.”

Surveillance officer Georgina Brynn was used to observing people and uncovering their secrets. With an eye for detail and a knack for reading people, she was a great asset at her uncle’s security company. After surviving a car accident that killed her best friend Kimba, Georgina’s life is turned upside down. How well did she really know her friend? Kimba’s emails revealed a side of her life that Georgina didn’t know existed. Cryptic messages from someone calling themselves the Blue Gypsy sparks an international search for answers. Tracing her friend's travels to Prague, Georgina finds herself in a world of trouble. Her investigation into her friend's death is stepping on toes, with unthinkable consequences. Could the perpetrator be closer than she thinks?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notrelle Publishing
• Release date: May 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386532514

Christen Notrelle

Christen Notrelle was born in Brisbane, Australia and has lived in the UK and Canada. A self-confessed travel addict, Christen has jotted down book and plot ideas in cozy cafes, crowded hostels, and more recently, gorgeous pensions around the world. She spends copious amounts of time reading, drinking far too much coffee, and trying to fit in a tap dancing class, playtime with the dog, watching sport, and attempting a science degree. You can find out more about Christen on the web at www.christennotrelle.wordpress.com and www.facebook.com/planetchristen.

Book preview

How well do you really know your friends?

Prologue

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My head hit the window, smashing the glass. The car came to an abrupt halt. I sat slumped over my seatbelt, groggily trying to process what had just happened. As I opened my eyes and moved, I cried out as an intense pain shot up my neck. Shattered glass and blood covered the dashboard. Holding my screaming neck, I gingerly turned to face the driver's side. Kimba's body was slumped across the steering wheel. I could not see her face. Movement from the front seat of the car that t-boned us caught my eye. A dark-haired boy stared at me. His terrified eyes were wide, but clear. He had a tight grip on the steering wheel and his knuckles were as white as his face. Panicked voices yelled from the street. I realised wailing sirens were heading our way. The boy broke our staring match and rested his head on his steering wheel. Then sublime darkness offered me peace.

Chapter 1

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The guards watched me out of the corner of their eyes. Jake would not be happy. No doubt, he had told them to keep an eye on me, but patron safety should have been higher on their list of priorities. I caught the eye of Terry, the head of security, planted my hands on my hips and glared at him. He turned away to scan the crowd, not suppressing a smile. I hated being spied on.

I work for my uncle Jake’s security and surveillance company as a surveillance officer. I certainly was not hired for my fitness level. Jake trained me in self-defence for his own peace of mind. During the day, I am usually assigned the office spy jobs. This involves me being hired as a pretend office temp and weeding out petty cash thieves and information leakers. If I have really annoyed my uncle, I am assigned shopping centre surveillance jobs. (I am constantly amazed how many grocery items can be squashed into a pram.) As enthralling as these jobs are, I beg Jake for night shifts. My night time role is to mingle with the crowds, in hotels and clubs around Brisbane, to detect any disharmony. Jake is convinced I attract disharmony rather than detect it, but that's another story. My natural talent enables the security guards to diffuse trouble before fights start. These shifts can be far more intense and occasionally amusing.

This had been my first shift back since the accident. I wore my uniform of sparkly, sleeveless top, bootleg jeans and comfortable black ankle boots that made it easier for me to run if necessary. My long, wavy, dark auburn hair was pulled back, so as not to obstruct my view.

I had my eye on a young girl, who looked as if she had barely hit legal age. She tried to hide her nerves beneath a mask of attitude. I sipped my fancy mocktail and watched the tiny girl approach a group of twenty-somethings with more piercings in their faces than I could count. One of the girls glanced around the club and slipped her hand under the table. I watched the exchange of money for a small plastic bag. The young drug dealer moved on to the next table. I sat my glass on the bar and eased passed three super-cool young guys, all dressed the same in silver pants, tight black tee shirts and silver cowboy hats. They slammed back Sambuca shots, shook their heads and cheered. One guy had spilled most of his shot down his pants.

I caught the eye of a security guard on the other side of the dance floor, pretended to wave at a person near him and snaked my way back to the bar. He walked up beside me and leaned in close.

Red shirt; tiny; about eighteen; heels that she can’t walk in. She's going table to table. She had a win with the spiky-haired girl in all black at the third table from the bar, I told him.

He nodded.

I think she’s selling pills. I turned back to the bar and he moved away. I checked my watch. It was three a.m. I stifled a yawn. My shift was over. The beat of the music pounded along with my niggling headache, a regular occurrence since the accident. I headed for the door. The guards were breaking the bad news to a line of agitated drunk people who had missed lockout.

See you next week, I called. The guards waved back, looking like they should stop me.

I moved hastily to my car, through the stinking hot and humid early morning air. Tying my hair into a knot on top of my head, I groaned as a trickle of sweat ran down my neck. It was almost Christmas. Hopefully it would rain and be bearable for Christmas day. My phone rang. Terry's name flashed on the screen.

Leaving so soon? he asked.

Yep. I gotta go to bed. Let me know if that girl is dealing.

What have I told you about walking to your car alone? Terry asked in his best stern voice.

You’re busy. I didn’t want to pull anyone from their stations. I’m here now anyway. Thanks for walking me to my car Terry, I sang.

You’re a pain in the arse Georgina Brynn, growled Terry.

Like I haven’t been told that before. I rolled my eyes and found my keys.

Goodnight George, sighed Terry.

Goodnight. I unlocked my Holden Barina with my remote, locking the door as soon as I sat down. I cranked the air conditioner, pulled on my seat belt and reversed out of the park. Jake told me never to sit in the car too long, as people could be lurking around the car park and may take me by surprise. He informed me, that even though I hang around with security guards, I am just a surveillance officer and should not push my luck. No doubt, I would have grumbled something sarcastic. 

*   *   *

It was five o’clock before I shut the windows and clambered into bed. Sleep had almost claimed me when I remembered the young girl in the red shirt. I wondered if she just sold drugs or if she was a user too. I hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of her eyes. The hardest drugs I had ever taken were strong painkillers and the anti-depressants the doctor prescribed after the accident.

My best friend Kimba and I had been driving home from the cinema. An eighteen-year-old guy named Trey Zamma, smashed into our car. Trey’s car had run straight into Kimba’s side, pushing her small car up the gutter and into a fence. Passers-by had surrounded the scene and the police and ambulance had arrived before I could undo my seatbelt. The fire brigade had shown up a few minutes later. My physical wounds were superficial; whiplash and a cut on the side of my head where I had face-planted the passenger side window. That was the last time I had seen Trey or my friend.

I had known Kimberly Addison, affectionately known as Kimba, since the age of three. I had been accident-prone, not her. Nothing ever happened to Kimba. She was sure on her feet. I guess that doesn’t really matter when a car hits you. The drugs prescribed didn’t fix the ache in my chest and I soon gave them up.

I sighed and rolled onto my stomach, hoping sweet sleep would foil my over-active mind. It had been three months since the crash. Mum had moved me home for a while to keep an eye on me. After two weeks, I told her that I would be fine and knew who I should call if I was upset.

Trey’s wide eyes appeared behind my eyelids. The police had called to inform us that Trey had been under the influence of an illegal substance when he'd hit us. I told them that couldn’t have been the case, as I had seen his eyes. They had been clear and alert. The officer said something about pathology reports and that I had hit my head. My parents suggested Trey could have been suicidal and hadn’t meant to hurt anyone else. Trey’s legal representative obviously told him to go along with the police’s suggestion, as he later told them he had taken a pill sometime before the accident.

My stomach twisted. I tried to think about the good times Kimba and I had shared. Her plan had been to travel the world and experience everything. She had gone overseas and come home a different person. She had seen the beauty of European cities and the darker side. She came back to Brisbane and enrolled at university to study social and community work, determined to help the disadvantaged. I had finally agreed to go to Europe with her the following year. Then Trey had taken her away from me. I sat up. There was no chance of sleeping. I made another coffee, set up my laptop on my bed and checked my email. A few new messages from well-wishers remained unopened. I slumped back and sipped my coffee.

When Kimba and I were still in high school we would chat online for hours after school. Kimba’s mum had seen a message I had sent about a guy Kimba had been out with the night before. She had told her mother she was going on a school outing. After that, we suspected her mother might read her emails. To get around this we set up fake usernames, creatively using our initials, and emailed each other. Kimba’s username was Killer_Abs. I came up with Gutsy_Babe after strongly opposing Kimba’s idea of Great_Breasts. We had still used these addresses for emailing each other. I had set up a more respectable email address for official stuff. I opened my Gutsy_Babe email inbox and clicked through old emails from Kimba.

I logged out of my email account and sat staring at the glowing screen. I had sent Kimba an email the day before the crash. She told me she hadn't had a chance to read it. I typed Killer_Abs into the username box and gutsybabe into the password box. A few seconds later Kimba's inbox opened. There sat my email, marked as unread. The message was about who would pick the movie that Tuesday night. I clicked on a folder named Travel. There were accommodation and transport reservations and confirmations. I read the names of the hostels and guesthouses where Kimba had stayed. An email from the_blue_gypsy grabbed my attention. I clicked on it. Images of swirling skirts, strumming mandolins and clapping hands filled my head. My excitement was crushed as soon as the message appeared on the screen. It read ‘Spoke to Pan Simek.’ The Blue Gypsy wasn’t a place it was a person. I frowned and stared at the screen. Kimba and I had been the only ones who'd known this email address. I understood the accommodation and transport emails, but a personal one? Who was Pan Simek? I opened another message from the Blue Gypsy. It read ‘Yes. I saw him talking to Milan yesterday. Vanda knows.’ Who were these people? I minimized the web page and reopened my email. I scanned old messages from Kimba. Vanda owned a guesthouse in Prague. Did Kimba hook up with a guy in Prague? Surely, she would have told me. Was this Pan Simek talking to Milan or had she meant to type in Milan? I knew Kimba hadn’t gone to Italy but perhaps the Blue Gypsy had. Maybe the Blue Gypsy was a wandering Italian.

I sank back against the pillow. Kimba had returned home a quieter person, determined to help people. I had not realised she had kept anything from me. I read every message she had sent me while she was in Prague, taking note of all the names mentioned. Vanda and Peter ran the guesthouse, Silvie worked in the bar across the road from the guesthouse, Lenka was the alcoholic housekeeper and Marie and Damek were her children. I remembered her talking about these kids. She felt sorry for them. She often talked to them and played soccer with the boy. As far as I knew, Kimba did not speak Czech so I assumed, if I could anymore, that they spoke English. Had Kimba gotten involved in something she shouldn’t have? I decided to email Vanda’s Guesthouse, tell her who I was and that I wanted to visit the places Kimba had recommended. She had stayed in Prague for two months, longer than anywhere else. Something had kept her there. She hadn’t told me anything. I typed a quick email, sent it off and looked up prices of international flights. I would wait until the festive period was over. Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Australia Day were always busy times in my industry. I didn’t want to leave Jake in the lurch. I booked a flight for February.

*   *   *

The sign read Welcome Georgina Brynn and I had never been so glad to see my name in big print in my life. Though the flights had been uneventful and the path through immigration and customs painless, exhaustion consumed me. I dragged my bulging suitcase and gave the sign bearer a small wave. His wiry frame stood head and shoulders above mine. He wore his dark blonde hair short and shot me a smile that was as bright as his blue eyes. He strolled towards me and extended a hand. I shook it and introduced myself unnecessarily.

Pleasure to meet you Georgina. I’m Lucas, he said. His accent was English. Up closer he looked to be in his late twenties. How was your flight?

Very long, I replied.

I bet. Okay follow me m’lady. He took the suitcase from me. Dragging it by the tall handle, he led the way through the crowd until we came to a set of glass sliding doors. The icy outside air slapped my face. I must have gasped as Lucas turned around grinning.

I parked as close as possible. The van will be warm.

The pilot had advised us of the weather but the warning hadn't prepared me for its bitterness. Before we landed I had changed into a maroon long-sleeved shirt, a heavy black jacket, with a padded hood. I had wound a black scarf around my neck as I cleared customs. Clearly, I needed more, like gloves, a wool hat and a huge blanket.

We soon came to a white van with Vanda's Guesthouse printed on the sliding door. Lucas unlocked it with a remote. He slid open the side door and heaved my suitcase up into the space between the front and middle seats.

You travel light. He winked at me. Ride up front with me. He opened the front passenger door. Too tired to be embarrassed I climbed up into the van and pulled the door.

Lucas weaved the van smoothly through traffic and along a motorway. Thick clouds threatened to smother the dreary grey buildings that lined the road. I couldn’t even picture where the sun would have been in the sky.

This part of the drive isn’t too exciting. It gets a lot more interesting as we get closer to the city.

I nodded slightly. I saw him glance at me out of the corner of my eye.

So, you’re Kimberly’s friend. He said it more as a statement.

Yes. I replied.

I’ve heard a lot about her. I came here after she’d gone home. I never got the chance to meet her. He paused as if to chastise himself for his last comment. I wondered if he knew about the accident. He continued quickly. She sounds like a great girl.

She was. I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, so I continued. We were neighbours for most of our lives. I'm two months younger and when we were little I followed her around like a shadow. She was killed in a car accident last year, I shrugged.

We sat in silence until we came to a more liveable area. He pointed ahead. This is Dejvice. You can get a bus from the airport to the Dejvicka metro station and then go straight to the centre. Also, the closest metro to the guesthouse is on this line.

We came to a large roundabout surrounded by huge brown and yellow buildings with parts of their rust red roofs peaking through snow.

There’s the bus stop where people freeze to death. He pointed to a group of people, rugged up and huddled beneath a bus shelter. He continued to point out places of interest on the way into the city. My head was on overload as I tried to take in as much of the scenery as I could. Lucas laughed.

If you’re here for a while, I take tours from the guesthouse. We stop at all the main attractions and I can give you a better look then.

Yeah. That sounds good. It’s so beautiful.

That it is, he agreed. We made a left turn and Lucas assured me that we were almost there. Vanda has heaps of information on transport printed out in a little guidebook for guests.

Oh good, because I’m really not going to remember all this. I had an eye for detail, but I was too tired to remember everything he told me.

Lucas laughed again, more of a medium-pitched giggle, and turned the van right down the next street. This area is called Vinohrady. The guesthouse isn't far.

I watched as colourful apartment buildings and mansions filled my window and wondered what an apartment here would set me back. After a few more curves and turns, we pulled up at a gate. Lucas stopped the van and jumped out. He pushed the gate open, ploughing back a pile of dirty snow, and returned to the driver’s seat. The back garden was a long yard with a wide stone path up the centre. Big old trees covered in snow and long barren garden beds flanked the driveway. It led to a glorious pastel pink three-storey mansion topped with a rose-coloured roof, lightly dusted with snow.

Lucas turned off the engine and ran around to my door. He yanked it open and helped me down to the ground. As I stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed Lucas retrieved my suitcase from the back and motioned for me to follow him to the house. The back door swung inward and an elderly lady met us on the paved patio. Her grey hair, tied up in a loose bun, softened her features. She smiled at me and hugged me tight. Welcome to Prague Georgina. I’m Vanda. It’s so good to meet you.

It’s nice to meet you too. Your house is incredible.

She led me to the back door and pushed it open. I stepped inside, greeted by warmth, not only of temperature but also of homeliness. Lucas closed the door behind us. I had forgotten he had struggled in with my suitcase. He stopped in the hallway.

I’ll take this up to your room Georgina. Vanda will show you up later.

Oh, thank you. I can take it. I know it’s heavy.

No, I’ve got it. I had my spinach this morning. He bounded up the stairs, out of sight. I followed Vanda out of the hallway and into a lounge room with ceilings as high as my grandmother’s old Queenslander.

Please take a seat. Would you like tea or coffee? I was about to have one myself, Vanda offered.

Coffee would be great, thanks. I flopped onto a comfortable old leather lounge chair covered with a cream crocheted rug and closed my eyes.

Vanda woke me when the coffee tray was on the table in front of me.

I didn’t even realise I’d nodded off. I rubbed my eyes.

Vanda smiled. You must be tired from all that travel. She placed a mug of black coffee in front of me. Milk or sugar?

Milk please and one sugar. She handed me the mug. It smelled like the most wonderful thing in the world.

We’re so glad to have you here. You must miss Kimberly. She was a lovely girl. She sat in the chair opposite mine. Laugh lines creased her eyes and mouth. I knew why Kimba had felt so comfortable with Vanda. I wondered if Lucas had told her about Kimba's death while I was sleeping.

Yes, I do miss her. She showed me photos of this place but none of them do it justice. Was this your family’s house? I blew on my coffee to cool it down.

No. It belonged to a friend of my father’s. When the government handed back property in the early nineties the family reclaimed it, but they didn’t want to leave London. Their parents had died. They had built a new life for themselves and their children were at university. I’d been talking about coming back and opening up a guesthouse here for years, and they asked if I’d like to buy it from them. I jumped at it. They asked a reasonable price and they always have a place to stay here. She sipped her coffee and continued.

The house had been separated into flats so it wasn’t hard to make it into guesthouse-style accommodation. We've added an extra bathroom to each floor. You’ll be staying in the attic. It's a studio apartment with its own bathroom and kitchen. That’s where Kimberly stayed. It allows privacy that the longer-term guests need. Sharing a bathroom with strangers can be tiresome after a while.

I downed the rest of my coffee and studied the walls of the lounge room. Against one wall stood a tall, sturdy-looking bookcase filled with books written in English, German, French and other languages I couldn't pick. There were books on art, Czech culture, travel, food and wine. Oil paintings brightened the other walls with, what I presumed were, scenes of the city and its people. I wandered over for a closer look. These are beautiful paintings. So full of emotion.

My grandson Peter painted them. I’m a proud grandmother. I wanted them on display. Otherwise, he’d have them locked away in his room. He’ll be home later.

I squeezed passed a computer on a small wooden desk, around the lounge chairs, to the bay window overlooking the garden. Double-glazed windows and thick burgundy curtains contained the warm air, which seeped into my tired body. It was almost midday in Prague. Vanda sensed my exhaustion.

I’ll show you to your room. Maybe you can have a rest and join us for dinner.

I followed her up three flights of steep stairs to a navy blue door. Vanda inserted a key and pushed the door open. The ceiling was high in the centre and lower at the sides. The room had two windows. One was above a small sink facing the street and the other overlooked the back garden. The bathroom door was immediately to my right. My suitcase sat on a small wooden table.

Here you go love, Vanda said and handed me the