8.
Morning broke in the small hotel room, the sun leaking in with a beam across Edgar’s face. Turning to the nightstand, he observes his laid watch. ‘Seven-thirty-five,’ Edgar mumbled aloud, still half asleep.
Gathering his belongings for the day, he left behind his knapsack, the intention to have the case solved by noon, perhaps stay another night and then return directly home to Moscow. That would play out most favourably, Edgar assured himself.
He stalked outside the room and into the hallway. It was equally as dark and damp as his hotel room, the paper on the walls flaking, picture frames old and ill-balanced, askew, and tilted. Some were to the left, others to the right.
Nothing was aligned or well-placed. Edgar’s stomach churned and twisted, a feeling of being slightly nauseous overcame him. Something about this place was just not right.
Entering the main dining room area, breakfast was laid out—an assortment of scrambled eggs, cereal. There were jams, biscuits, croissants, and pain au chocolats. Milk and a selection of juices were presented for your choice, and yet the room was totally empty—no other guests lingered, apart from one who sat in a far corner, eating alone, reading a newspaper with a pair of glasses. Edgar did not recognize him at first, as Juraj did not normally wear glasses.
‘May I?’ questioned Edgar.
‘Of course, please do,’ beckoned Juraj, gesturing with his right hand to take a seat.
Juraj’s plate was full of food, yet untouched. It looked rubbery and cold.
Edgar examined the surroundings and turned his gaze back at Juraj, who continued to read the paper, not looking up or speaking another word since their initial greeting.
‘How long have you been here?’ inquired the detective.
‘Not long,’ stammered Juraj in a blunt reply.
He didn’t meet Edgar’s eyes or flinch, looking simply horizontally, analysing from left to right then down and repeating the pattern. There was a different temperament to Juraj this morning from the night before.
Looking at the untouched food once more, Edgar was acutely aware that Juraj was lying, but why?
There was a sense of tension between the pair, neither quite trusting the other, an unresolved feud between the two that had not been settled or ended the night before.
Edgar had insinuated that perhaps Juraj had something more to do with the note than he was letting on. The young Teralov had not taken kindly to the accusation, and stormed out of the room, no further words exchanged. The eyes of the detective had scanned and bore down on Juraj like a hawk gazing and weighing up its prey from afar. Edgar had been reading people for long enough to know that whatever Juraj thought he was looking at yesterday was different from what he understood to be true today. His intuition told him that Juraj had realised who the note was really from—perhaps he even understood what it means. Edgar had believed him the night before when Juraj said he did not know the note’s author, but it was now beyond certainty that he was hiding something.
After some minutes, Edgar broke the impasse.
‘Pass me that newspaper, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course, take it.’
Juraj slid the paper across the table and proceeded to stare silently out of the window. The snow was melting and the sun shone bright, its rays beaming into the room and inviting a warming presence that was felt on both their skin—a stark contrast to the atmosphere and context of the pair’s current disposition.
Edgar, flicking through the pages of the newspaper, finally stopped on the business section and, after scanning for a few brief moments, a small smile crept from the corner of his mouth. The wrinkles under his eyes stretched slightly, revealing an untold and hidden youth within the man.
‘Here,’ he said, stabbing his finger at an advert from across the table, showing Juraj his newfound discovery. ‘Borlog’s Winery,’ he started, ‘we ought to go there as soon as, don’t you think?’
Juraj shuffled and flinched in his seat. ‘Suppose so,’ he replied, with a bare and emotionless expression.
The paper listed an establishment recently made available to the market for sale, a vineyard that provided high-quality wine and shipped far across Europe. Edgar was, in fact, aware of the establishment—albeit himself and his folk back home in Moscow were unapologetically more favourable to the disposition of a good vodka.
Silence bore over the pair whilst Edgar finished his food and, after asking Juraj when he would finish his, he was met only with a response that he had already eaten enough and was ready to depart whenever best suited the detective.
As they left the main dining hall and passed through the lobby entrance of the building, the grim and pale character from the night before stood, gaunt and expressionless.
‘Will you be checking out?’ he questioned with a glimmer of hope.
‘No,’ Edgar responded bluntly. ‘We are not yet done here.’
9.
Bright sun and expanses of green hills were yonder with blue skies—a contrast from the storm and darkness of the night before.
The horse and carriage rolled past a wooden sign on its beaten path, scratched into the oak, ‘Borlog’s Winery.’
The winery was located outside the city of Bratislava, in a small town called Pezinok, positioned high in the hillside with twisting turns and glorious views of the valleys below. The area overlooked
