Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  “I saw him on Sunday,” Aslak revealed at length. “Sunday. He was in a bad way. Always bad. He could no longer cope. He ate here. Our paths crossed to the west, three-quarters of an hour from here. I told him to take better care of his reindeer. Some of them were over on my side. And Johann Henrik’s side. He couldn’t handle them alone.”

  He took a long drink of broth, slurping loudly from the bottom of the mug, then helped himself to more, staring intently in Nina’s direction.

  “You killed him. All of you. Your rules, your lines on the map. We cannot live by reindeer breeding, as we did before.”

  “No one was forcing him to drink,” said Nina.

  “What would you know about that? No one was helping him, either. He hadn’t opened a letter in six months. He didn’t dare. He was scared.”

  “What was he afraid of?” asked Nina.

  “He was afraid he had lost his way. Failed.”

  “You mean as a reindeer breeder?”

  “As a breeder, and as a man. A breeder who doesn’t know how to take proper care of his reindeer is not a true man.”

  “From what I understand, from what I’ve seen of your lifestyle, a breeder working alone doesn’t really stand a chance,” Nina objected. “It’s nothing to do with whether he’s a real man or not. I thought people always helped one another out in the vidda—”

  “Hah! Yes, of course. Did Klemet tell you that? Being Sami doesn’t mean he understands what goes on out here.”

  “Mattis got himself into his own mess,” said Nina. “It wasn’t the system’s fault. Where were you exactly on Monday and Tuesday?”

  Asking the question, Nina realized that whatever answer Aslak gave would be almost impossible to check. Aslak kept his contact with the town to a minimum. He didn’t need to stock up on fuel, and he had no cell phone that could be tracked. A dead end. She sensed that there would be no point coming down hard on him, as Klemet had done with Johann Henrik. Aslak was a different character altogether.

  She would have to try another approach. As the inquiry progressed, it seemed to her that they were groping further and further into the dark. Klemet was too careful in his handling of the breeders, she thought, not to mention his inexplicable behavior with Aslak earlier. Was he too close to their world? Yet the Sami seemed suspicious of him. She thought again about what the Sheriff had said before they left: if Aslak has no alibi, arrest him.

  “Aslak, you do realize that if you can’t tell me exactly where you were at the time of Mattis’s death, you are making yourself a suspect?”

  The herder looked at her with cold disdain, or indifference. Nina held his gaze.

  “What was your relationship with Mattis like? I get the impression you were close. But that you had had your differences, too.”

  Aslak clenched his jaw, still staring Nina in the eye. She forced herself not to look away and was astonished at the powerful emotion expressed in his face. Powerful, and tragic. She understood why people were in awe of him. But she didn’t feel afraid.

  “Mattis had lost his way. A long time ago. But especially since his father’s death. I knew his father. He was a true Sami. He knew our people’s past. People tell many stories about him. Good, and bad. But people knew nothing about him, really. He had power. He had knowledge. He had the memory. Mattis had none of those things. But he thought of himself as a shaman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You met him before his death?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “He didn’t try to read your fortune?”

  Nina pictured the scene in the trailer, Mattis half drunk, leering at her breasts.

  “Yes, he offered to tell my fortune.”

  “Mattis was like a child. His father was too great for him. And your society, your system drove him down even further. Led him even further astray.”

  Nina had no interest in that particular line of discussion. She remembered what Johann Henrik had told them about Aslak’s exceptional strength and powers of endurance.

  “Aslak, is it true that you killed a wolf by thrusting your fist down its throat?”

  He hesitated, bending over the fire, stirring the embers. Nina looked at his hand. It bore several scars, reaching up higher than his wrist. Marks left by the wolf’s teeth, she thought. Her heart beat hard.

  “It is true.”

  “They say you followed it for hours, on your skis?”

  “It may have been hours.”

  “How many miles can you cover in a day?”

  But Aslak had closed himself off once more. His lips pursed tight in a thin line. His wife began to shake her head gently, from side to side. A guttural murmur rose from her mouth. Her lips parted. The murmur grew louder.

  “Get out!” said Aslak urgently.

  His sudden fury took Nina by surprise. She had touched a raw nerve, she decided.

  “Get out now!” he roared.

  Nina watched as he got to his feet. His looming silhouette was terrifying, but he made no move against her. His mere presence was enough.

  Aslak’s command was final. His wife’s murmuring grew louder. Nina was acutely aware of her own situation now—far out in the tundra, facing a man with a mysterious reputation, surrounded by nothing but ice, snow, and desolation, a long way from her partner. She felt suddenly cold, but her shivers expressed something she dared not admit, even to herself. The smoke stung her eyes. She buckled her bag. She had to get away from the hypnotic chant.

  She got her feet and bent down, making for the entrance to the tent. Aslak followed her, then stood guard outside. Nina was about to start her snowmobile; the murmur became a wail. She turned to Aslak. He lifted the tent flap, preparing to go back inside. The wailing grew louder still. Nina forgot all about her questions, her terror. She forgot all about the inquiry, but gazed at him, speechless, her eyes full of empathy. Aslak was breathing hard, his chin thrust forward in defiance, fists clenched. Through the tent flap, Nina could just see his wife, her arms lifted skyward, her face a mask of intense suffering.

  And then she heard it. The sound filled her head, on and on, for hours on the journey back to base. The scream.

  15

  Friday, January 14

  11 a.m., Kautokeino

  Berit Kutsi arrived for work later than usual that morning. She was afraid Karl Olsen would appear, but the irascible old farmer was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, she had no need of his instructions before setting about her tasks. Berit knew perfectly well what she had to do. If the truth be told, she had always known what was expected of her. She had known that since childhood. She knew her place. People like her always knew their place. Berit had left school when she was barely eleven years of age. School was not a happy memory. She had learned the basics of Norwegian—there had been no choice in the matter. Learning Norwegian was the reason she had been sent to school in the first place. And when she knew enough to get by, she had left. As simple as that. She understood enough to know where she belonged in Norwegian society.

  She entered the barn to see to the cows. The cattle spent the better part of the year indoors. There were few dairy herds in the interior of the Finnmark. The wild country barely supported any livestock, apart from the reindeer. But a handful of countrymen like Olsen had managed to make a living dairying here, though they were in the minority and barely tolerated by the Sami. Olsen was an unjust man, and mean. Berit was wary of him. Afraid, too. But she belonged to an ill-reputed local clan, and finding work when you came from a family with no reindeer of their own was next to impossible.

  Thanks be to God, her faith was her rod and her staff for the challenges she faced. The Lord was a hard master, but merciful. Berit trusted in Him, though she didn’t always understand His ways. She cursed Olsen sometimes when he humiliated her. But she always forgave. The pastor insisted on that. Only those who forgave their fellow men and placed themselves in the hands of God were fit to enter the kingdom of heaven. It was as simple as that, the pastor assured her categorically
. “No salvation without forgiveness.”

  Berit was a devout, trusting, God-fearing Laestadian. She had shunned any notion of personal fulfillment, dedicating her life at an early age to her younger brother and the trials he faced in the sight of God. She moved along the rows of dairy cows, the gentle creatures she knew and loved like the children she had never had. After so many years with them, she understood them better than she did other people. Sometimes, she thought to herself, her fellow men did not repay the effort, not if they were like Olsen, at any rate. The more she saw of them, the better she liked her cattle. She had worked on the farm since she was twelve years old. And now she was fifty-nine.

  But she must do what she could to help people, too. Or God would not approve. Berit smiled. Really, her wayward thoughts shocked even her sometimes. The idea that the Almighty might stoop to think about her and her cows. God was love, but He was to be feared, too.

  The pastor wouldn’t approve if Berit dedicated herself solely to her animals, either. He had great need of Berit. But the cows were her responsibility. The pastor took a close interest in the day-to-day business of his parishioners. He was a friend of Olsen’s, and God smiled when Karl Olsen’s business prospered—Pastor Jonsson had told her that. Because cattle were God’s creatures, unlike reindeer. Berit couldn’t really see the difference. As a rule, she felt the pastor took altogether too close an interest in local politics, even though she understood little of such things herself. In her heart of hearts, Berit thought the pastor did not care for each member of his flock quite equally. She took better care of her herd than the pastor did of his flock. She had even told him so one day, and his temper had flared. The pastor reminded her about it, quite often.

  The business with the drum had angered him. He had heard Olaf Renson, the member of the Sami parliament, talking on the radio about how the theft of the drum was a threat to the Samis’ identity. And on that same day, Olaf Renson had called the pastor a “drum burner” at the crossroads. The churchman had confided his frustration and anger to Berit. “God did not speak Sami, Berit! Never forget that!” Berit could well believe it; she had learned to read using a Norwegian Bible.

  No, Berit did more than just look after Karl Olsen’s cows. She had a duty to watch over the weak in spirit, the poor souls who risked being led into temptation, out in the vidda. She watched over the pure of heart, too. And when she thought of one and the other, two images came into her mind, as clear as day. Mattis and Aslak. The two men stood like figureheads for the herders, for the downtrodden people of the vidda, their misery and greatness, their sufferings and their fierce pride. Berit followed the rhythm of their lives. Her spirit went with them into the mountains, warmed them during their endless vigils in the cold of winter.

  Berit prayed for them, too. The Norwegian gospels were full of good words for the souls of the vidda, and the great lineage of Laestadian pastors had never failed to communicate the word of God. But when she thought of the things she knew, Berit shivered. She paused in her milking, then went to wash her hands, wiped her face, and slipped away to a small corner at the back of the barn, where she always went to collect her thoughts. She made the sign of the cross, and she prayed for the salvation of the weak in spirit, and the pure of heart, out in the vidda.

  * * *

  4:30 p.m., Kautokeino

  When Nina rejoined him from the camp, Klemet made no attempt to explain his strange behavior with Aslak. Patrol P9 rested for a few hours. Reindeer Police rules stipulated an overnight stay in one of the huts for any journey of more than 150 miles, but Nina had insisted they move on and try to make headway with the investigation. The inquiry was stagnating, she said, and Klemet allowed her to twist his arm. He just hoped their GPS wouldn’t be checked back at headquarters.

  She’s eager to prove herself, he thought. And he remembered the quotas again. The idea had preoccupied him ever since it had first crossed his mind. He couldn’t help acknowledging that although he was the boss right now, through experience and seniority, she was the one with a career ahead of her. She’ll be my superior one day, he told himself.

  For the moment, he had to find a way forward with the inquiry. And avoid getting himself into any more awkward situations, like the one with Aslak. Luckily, Nina hadn’t persisted with the matter. Had she understood? Had Aslak told her anything? He didn’t think so. That wasn’t Aslak’s way.

  The Sheriff was waiting for them in his office, helping himself to too many salmiakki from the bowl on his desk. Deputy Superintendent Rolf Brattsen was seated opposite him. Klemet knew what was going through the Sheriff’s mind: Tor Jensen pictured Brattsen taking his place one day. Brattsen was ambitious. It annoyed the Sheriff, Klemet knew that. Brattsen’s hard-line views didn’t sit easily with the delicate balance to be maintained across the region. Kautokeino was a Norwegian town, much like any other, but it was also one of the few genuinely Sami towns, with a special status of its own: the Sami inhabitants were allowed to use their own language in their dealings with the authorities. Most of the population was Sami. It had always been that way. Not only that but the Reindeer Police, with its cross-border jurisdiction, had to tread very carefully, too. They covered Norwegian Sápmi, and the Sami territories in Sweden and Finland; their headquarters were in Swedish Kiruna. The national government, and the regional administration, saw the Reindeer Police as a model of Nordic cooperation. But it was a fragile balance, as Klemet knew only too well. His own post counted for the “Swedish quota.” He had trained at Sweden’s police college. But that didn’t matter to him. His parents were local people, originally. And national borders meant nothing to the Sami. They counted for him, as a man of the law, but still…

  “So, Rolf, getting anywhere?” The Sheriff turned to Brattsen first. “You know Oslo is talking about sending some crack teams up here from down south. That’ll go down well. Our confidence rating in Oslo and Stockholm isn’t exactly high after that business with the pedophile ring. So do me a favor and show me some results, as they say down there. Where are we at right now?”

  Klemet watched Brattsen closely. The deputy took his time, looking around the room before speaking. Apart from the Sheriff, Nina, and Klemet, the only other person present was a Swedish officer sent from Kiruna to provide backup for the scene-of-crime team.

  “Well, I think Fredrik here should update us on the forensic team’s findings. Fredrik…’ Brattsen invited the other man to take the floor.

  The Swede from Kiruna was a tall blond with a beer gut and a toothbrush haircut. He stared around, looked hard at Nina—a new face—opened a file, glanced at it quickly and addressed Jensen, who fidgeted impatiently, crunching his salmiakki.

  “OK. First the murder. We should be getting the report from forensics soon. But I’d be surprised if we get the highest priority. The murder of a Sami herder is never going to be top of their list. I’d need to see the report before coming to any conclusions about one or two things, anyway: the type of knife used, the length of the blade. These will be important leads. And any traces of blows, the cuts around the ears. They look pretty clean, as you know. We found a lot of prints in the trailer. We haven’t made much headway there—there are fingerprints traceable to all the breeders roundabout, and to Patrol P9’s visits the day before, and after the body was discovered.”

  The forensic officer looked across at Nina and Klemet, saying nothing. But Brattsen wasn’t about to miss his chance.

  “Yeah, well we can’t expect the Mounties to be well up on scene-of-crime procedure, can we, Chubby?”

  “Enough, Brattsen,” the Sheriff interrupted. “What else, Fredrik?”

  “We went back to the trailer after it had stopped snowing. Guess you won’t be needing a PowerPoint presentation from me to explain the slim chance of isolating snowmobile tracks in the snow. But this was the first snowfall for a while, and the layer underneath was quite compact, hardened in places by the wind. It might seem overzealous, but I think if we removed the top layer of powdery snow around
the trailer, we might find something.”

  “Idiotic waste of time!” Brattsen made no attempt to conceal his scorn. “What tracks? A snowmobile? Someone on skis? What we need is a motive, then we’ll know where to look. And the motive is staring us in the face. It’s a case of breeders settling old scores.”

  “Rolf,” Klemet cut in, “you know perfectly well that you can have every motive under the sun, but if you can’t connect a murder to evidence found at the scene, you haven’t got a case. One thing I learned from my time on the Palme investigation.”

  Brattsen ignored Klemet and addressed Fredrik.

  “You can put your snowblower away for a start. Look for traces on the breeders’ knives if you want proof. But don’t go wasting your time poking around in the snow. We haven’t got limitless resources. Remember the powers that be want results,” he added, glaring at the Sheriff. “They won’t want to hear we’ve been out vacuuming the tundra.”

  The room fell silent. The Sheriff turned to Klemet. “What about the breeders?”

  “We’ve questioned Johann Henrik and Aslak,” said Klemet. “Nothing conclusive. Johann Henrik seems to have an alibi, though it’s quite light for part of the period of time we’re interested in. I should say, too, that Johann Henrik doesn’t think this is a case of breeders settling their scores.”

  “Oh really, doesn’t he? Well, that’s that, then,” exclaimed Brattsen. “He’s a fine one to talk. Let’s see, when did he get shot at? Ten, twelve years ago, wasn’t it?” He grinned. “Bunch of innocent choirboys, the lot of them.”

  “He was shot at, yes, but you know perfectly well the other man was dead drunk. People don’t settle scores that way here. Just because someone has a hot temper doesn’t make him a criminal.”

  “Yeah, ’course,” said Brattsen. “Bullet holes in the trailers. All part of the decor. Nothing at all to do with intimidation.”

  “Can we get back to Johann Henrik’s questioning?” the Sheriff interrupted.

  “Well, if we follow Brattsen’s logic,” said Klemet, “I can’t see what his motive would be. The theft of a few reindeer wouldn’t be sufficient provocation—even Brattsen would admit that.”