by Olivier Truc
“That’s not what I said. I’ve complied with all the criteria for prospecting in winter, avoiding the reindeer pastures and––”
“Reindeer, reindeer.” Olsen waved his hand dismissively, indicating that reindeer were not a problem. He lowered his voice. “Now, listen.”
Olsen paused, as if weighing his words one last time, reviewing the many options he had in mind. “The committee’s in a restrictive mood right now. There’s been a lot of debate on the town council, and some people think things are moving too fast.”
This was not entirely true, but Olsen turned a little further in his seat, to judge Racagnal’s reaction. Nothing. The Frenchman was not making this easy. He went on.
“We’ve already turned down an application to prospect from the air, as you are probably aware.”
That was true, as it happened. Another glance at Racagnal. Still nothing. God almighty.
“So it’s not looking good for you. But I can help. You seem like a serious player. You know the region, so I’ve been told?”
This time, the message seemed to hit home.
“My very good friend Deputy Superintendent Brattsen—fine policeman, a sure bet for the local top job—told me about you.”
“And?”
“You’ve already done some work in the region?”
“Yep. For a few years. I’ve worked a lot in Africa, too, and Australia, Canada. All over.”
“Always with the same company?”
“No, for the Chileans, too, but I’ve been with the SFM for ten years now. The biggest French outfit. Very competent people.”
“Excellent, excellent. I’ve taken a look at your application. Very well put together, it has to be said. Shame the committee is such a tough nut to crack. But there’s something else I’d like to discuss.”
The Frenchman stared at him, harder than before.
“You see, I’m interested in mineral ores, too. Very much so. Have been for a long time. But I need a geologist. A good one. Not someone in the pockets of the Labor Party, or anyone else from around here. Someone who can go about their business quietly and discreetly, if you see what I mean. Answering to no one.”
“I see what you mean,” said Racagnal. “Go on.”
“I can offer you a partnership. In a mine. A big one. Something that will make us both rich.” Olsen’s eyes narrowed further. He spoke slowly and carefully. He could picture the mine, right there before his eyes. “I just don’t know where it is.”
“Ah…”
“But I have a map,” he added quickly.
“A map. But you don’t know where the mine is. I don’t follow.”
“It’s a geological map, see? No place names. An old map and, well…”
Olsen left off in midsentence again, gauging Racagnal’s reaction. At the mention of the geological map, the Frenchman looked very interested indeed.
“A map dating from when?” Racagnal cut in.
“Well, the date isn’t marked anywhere, but from what my old father told me before he died, it must be from just before the war.”
“And what makes you think your huge seam exists? What would we be mining?”
Karl Olsen massaged his neck, his features lined in pain. He leaned in closer to the Frenchman.
“Gold,” he said quietly. “Quantities of gold.”
Olsen sat back in his seat, unable to hold the painful pose for long.
“And what do you want from me?” asked Racagnal.
“You’re an expert prospector. With a permit from your company. But you’ll be looking for my gold seam, too. As a priority. I’ll give you an exclusive share. You’ll be a rich man.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because my old dad said people had talked for years about a fabulous seam here in the region, but one had ever found the damned thing. Except no one else had the map.”
Racagnal said nothing. Olsen watched him closely. At least the Frenchman was giving it some thought. At least he hadn’t laughed out loud.
“We’re holding the next committee meeting shortly, as you know,” he said. “But it won’t be difficult for me to get it postponed a few days. Which will give you time to submit an additional application to prospect. My name won’t appear, of course. So by the next meeting, you’ll need a clear picture of where the seam might be located, to be sure to strike in the right spot. Because the licenses they’ll be handing out at the end of this month cover the whole of Lapland, and they’re the biggest ever granted up here in the north. There won’t be another set of licenses on that scale issued within the decade, you mark my words. It’s now or never!”
The Frenchman looked straight at Olsen, who had begun massaging his neck again. “Sounds interesting, potentially. Give me some time to think. I’ll need to make a few arrangements.”
Olsen shot him a dark look, winced in pain, then slowly reached for his wallet, with the newspaper cutting slipped inside. But he thought better of it. “The committee meeting’s at noon today. I need an answer before then. An exclusive share, remember. Here’s my number. Now go.”
* * *
10 a.m., Kautokeino
Karl Olsen returned to his parking spot behind the council offices and entered unnoticed by the back door. It was easily done. You could walk in and out of the place, and no one was any the wiser. Anyone could come in from outside and go straight through to the offices without ever being noticed. People didn’t worry about things like that here. Kautokeino was an innocent backwater. Just as well. Olsen grinned to himself.
He opened the door to the Progress Party office. No one was there. Excellent. He walked through to reception. Ingrid was talking to a small group of councillors, including his Progress Party colleague, still wearing his snowmobile suit.
“Any messages for me, Ingrid?”
“No, Karl. And I told the personal callers you were busy working.”
Ingrid opened the morning mail, chatting amiably with the other councillors. There were two hours to go until the meeting.
“Is the room ready, Ingrid?” one of the councillors asked. “The overhead projector wasn’t working the other day.”
“I’ll go and check.”
Ingrid walked across the reception area to the corridor, from where Olsen had just emerged, and headed for the committee room. After a few moments, a piercing scream sent the group scurrying as one, along the corridor. Ingrid stood with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide in terror.
“There,” she said, pointing to a shape on the floor.
Everyone looked. The thing lay next to an open plastic bag. It had curled in on itself and turned black in places. But its outline was unmistakable. It was a human ear.
19
Monday, January 17
10:30 a.m., Kautokeino
Brattsen was questioning Ingrid when Klemet arrived at the station alone. Nina was making final preparations before leaving for the airport in Alta. The two had parted in a melancholy mood on Friday night.
Brattsen paid no attention to Klemet. A police officer was taking pictures of the ear while another looked for fingerprints. Ingrid explained that she had found the plastic bag fixed to the door with a thumbtack. She had no idea how long it had been there. The meeting rooms along the corridor hadn’t been used that morning—the mining affairs committee was the first of the day, so she couldn’t be sure anyone else had been in that area earlier. Brattsen continued his questioning, but he clearly wasn’t getting anywhere, Klemet thought: the council offices were wide open. Anyone could have walked right in.
He bent over the ear. It lay untouched on the floor. There were clear marks cut into the lobe. His blood ran cold.
Mattis’s ear—Klemet was certain of that—had been marked like one of his herd. Like a reindeer calf, its ear incised by the breeder as a mark of ownership. Klemet kneeled down to take a closer look. There were cuts in two places. The first, at the bottom of the ear, was circular in shape, but incomplete, like a three-quarters full moon. The second, at the
top of the ear, was more elaborate, like a curved claw, and, just below that, a curling movement described a shape like a fishhook. Yes, some kind of sharp hook. Klemet got to his feet.
Brattsen finished questioning Ingrid, and the receptionist left, still in shock, supported by one of her colleagues.
“Chubby! Always quick on the scene…” With that, Brattsen hurried away, leaving Klemet to speak to the photographer.
“I’ll need copies of the shots.”
Klemet wondered what the marks referred to. Could they be traced to an individual breeder? Why make them? The discovery of the ear, in this state, put the inquiry in a completely new light. What sick individual was capable of this?
He hurried back to the station, shut himself in his office, and reached for the Reindeer Administration handbook, listing the marks of every reindeer breeder in Sápmi, across the three Nordic countries. There were thousands of them, some no longer in use but still existing in law. Klemet rubbed his forehead. Some of the marks looked vaguely familiar. But vague familiarity was nothing to go on. There was nothing for it but to check each one, systematically. He picked up the phone to let Nina know what had happened, then collected a pen and notebook, and set to work.
* * *
11 a.m., Kautokeino
Brattsen made a wide-ranging tour around town, looking for suspect vehicles. He was returning to headquarters when he saw the Frenchman’s four-by-four parked outside the pub, where the fight had broken out the other evening. He should have been getting back to the station. Instead, on an impulse, he parked next to the Volvo. From the evidence of the parking lot, there was no one else around. People wouldn’t be turning out for lunch for another quarter of an hour or so, at the earliest.
He pushed the door soundlessly and saw Racagnal at the bar, nursing a beer and apparently deep in thought. Brattsen was about to approach him when he saw the waitress coming out of the kitchen. Not Lena but her little sister, two years her junior. Brattsen watched as Racagnal reached across the bar and caressed the girl’s cheek, stroking her lip with his thumb. She smiled shyly and pushed his hand away before turning and heading back into the kitchen. Racagnal inclined his head slightly to the left, eyeing the curve of her tight jeans. He looked around further and caught sight of the policeman silhouetted in the shadow of the doorway. The two men stared at one another, then Brattsen moved toward the bar.
“A light beer please, Ulrika.”
The girl poured a beer and placed it on the counter, catching Racagnal’s eye as she did so, then returned to the kitchen. Brattsen raised his glass to his fellow drinker.
“Still not left town?”
“All done, nearly. Just waiting for the green light from the council.”
“Of course, the council.”
Brattsen said nothing about the discovery of the ear. He sipped his beer then spoke, lowering his voice. “Definitely not eighteen, that one, I can tell you that for a fact.”
Racagnal said nothing.
“One sweet ass on her, though.”
Racagnal was taken by surprise, but let nothing show. He couldn’t make the police officer out. Brattsen’s allusion to the girl’s shapely figure put him on his guard, but it set his mind racing, too.
“The young ones like her, they’re the easiest.”
Racagnal held his breath, gazing straight ahead, wondering what the policeman was after.
“Used to it, too. Even their own fathers screw them around here.”
Ulrika emerged from the kitchen at that moment. The two men stared at her. She looked away, intimidated now, and turned around, disappearing back through the door.”There for the asking,” said Brattsen. “And her old man wouldn’t kick up a fuss, believe me. Ulrika,” he called out.
The girl appeared from the kitchen.
“Come over here.”
Ulrika made her way around the bar and stood between the two men. Racagnal’s breathing quickened, but still he said nothing. Brattsen reached up to stroke the girl’s cheek. She seemed startled.
“How are things, Ulrika?” Brattsen continued to caress her cheek with his thumb, with a gentleness unusual for him. “School all right, is it? Things at home OK?”
He was stroking her lip with his thumb now, the gesture at odds with the everyday niceties of the conversation. Ulrika clearly had no idea how to handle the situation. She looked somewhat at a loss, but she was letting him get away with it. Brattsen leaned back slightly on his stool, noting Racagnal’s reaction. The Frenchman watched in fascination as Brattsen’s thumb brushed the young girl’s lip. The gesture was fatherly, but highly sensual, too. Brattsen dropped his hand suddenly.
“Ulrika, you look after my friend here, won’t you? Be a good girl…” He got up to leave.
Ulrika looked at Brattsen with a submissive air, then returned to the kitchen without a backward glance. Racagnal’s eyes blazed. He stared at the kitchen door.
20
Monday, January 17
11:10 a.m., Highway 93
Nina was driving along the highway between Kautokeino and Alta, heading for the airport. She drove slowly, with plenty of time before her plane. Thick, dark clouds covered the region, softening the temperature to a mild four degrees below zero. A strong wind was blowing too, swirling flurries of snow. The sun had risen above the horizon but it was still dark as night, the surrounding landscape invisible in the snowstorm. Sections of the road were covered with packed ice, and Nina drove even more slowly here. The road turned slightly, the wind rose, and Nina found herself blinded by the blizzard at times, her headlights bouncing off an impenetrable curtain of snow. She was heading downhill now. Soon she would be level with a lake much favored by snowmobile riders in winter. Visibility was bad, and she could barely make out the sides of the road.
A shadow sprang out from the right. She tugged the wheel left and skidded, avoiding the dark shape. A reindeer, she told herself, heart thumping. She straightened up and accelerated, pushing forward over the ice; but new shapes appeared, coming closer, fast, too fast. She hit one of them straight on. The muffled shock made her swerve again. A big truck was bearing down on her in the opposite lane, flashing its headlights furiously, sounding its horn. Nina swung the steering wheel around hard, accelerating again, skidded, and drove straight into a mound of snow on the bend ahead. She was thrown around violently in her seat and heard a dull crump as the car’s right front wing buried itself in the deep drift. Then nothing.
She kept her hands on the wheel, feeling the adrenaline flooding her system, unable to move. She pressed her right hand against her heart, feeling its wild beat, then turned around. There was nothing to see behind her. The truck hadn’t even stopped. Nina reversed and parked in a small turnout. She left the engine running and the hazard lights on, pulled out her flashlight, and put on her chapka and gloves. The blizzard clawed at her face. She had lost all notion of distance. The wind almost blinded her, biting at her skin, pouring through the gaps in her hurriedly fastened snowsuit. Nina felt the sudden grip of the cold. She tried to retrace her tire tracks, but the blizzard had swept everything away, and her powerful flashlight shone barely ten feet into the near-horizontal, driving snow.
At last, she made out a shape to her left. The reindeer was half leaning against a deep drift, its hindquarters still sticking out into the road, its pelvis apparently shattered by the impact. The ground before her was a mess of blood and ice. It was still alive, its tongue lolling to one side, its large eyes expressing sheer terror. Or pain. Or both. Nina was in shock, deafened by the storm, shaking with cold and adrenaline, completely at a loss in the face of the animal’s plight. She turned away, tears in her eyes, and gave a terrified shriek at the silhouette of a man, standing just behind her. The wind had drowned his approach. Aslak. He was a fearful sight, his beard half frozen, his muscular jaw clenched, his bloodshot eyes sunk deeper than ever, expressing profound rage. Nina was seized with dread. He was wearing his reindeer-skin cloak. In fact, he was clad from head to foot in reindeer s
kins. She could hardly believe her eyes. He had appeared as if from nowhere, at the height of the storm.
“What are you doing? What are you doing here?” She found herself shouting, not to make herself heard, but to release her pent-up tension. She was furious with Aslak for frightening her so badly.
He showed no response, but stepped around her, moving toward the mound of snow, and bent over the reindeer, feeling the animal’s body. Its eyes were still wide and staring, but it seemed soothed by Aslak’s presence. Nina watched the surreal scene in the shaft of her flashlight. She stood stock-still, shaking, gripped by the cold. Aslak was kneeling in the snow, stroking the reindeer now, with a gentleness Nina would have found it hard to imagine earlier. She felt overcome with emotion: the sight brought other images crowding into her mind, bright and sharp, powerful and absurd. The image of her father, that wounded soul, stroking her hair on the evening she had been too scared to sleep, after seeing him suffer one of his attacks. Nina struggled to contain her feelings. She did not notice immediately that Aslak had taken out a dagger. Only once he had plunged it into the reindeer’s heart, straight and sure, killing it where it lay, did she realize what he was doing. He closed the animal’s eyes and stroked it for a while longer.
“Are you going to Alta?”
Nina looked up, as if astonished to hear him speak. “Yes.” Her voice shook.
“Then I’ll carry the animal to your car and you will take it to the police. They’ll do the paperwork.”
He bent down, gathered the reindeer in his arms and followed behind Nina. He stowed the carcass in the trunk and took a seat next to Nina in the front of the car. She was about to start the engine when Aslak stayed her hand.
“I’m staying here. I have other reindeer to bring in.”
“In this storm? Without a snowmobile?”
“I’m on skis.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Crazy? Yes, that’s what people here say,” he said quietly. The rage was gone from his eyes.