Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  The call ended and Nina realized, once again, that speaking to Paul had awoken painful memories of her youthful Paris experience. Had she been too naive? She had often mulled over the episode, but couldn’t see how the fault could have been hers. She had liked the young man. She remembered the sound of his voice. Paul Mons’s voice had stirred the same feelings. Although it was deeper, the timbre and cadence were the same.

  Not wanting to face the evening alone, she called Klemet, who told her about his discussion with Tor Jensen. Jensen’s conclusions showed common sense, she felt. But she could tell Klemet was annoyed to find her siding with the Sheriff.

  “Are you going to question Johann Henrik again tomorrow?”

  “Nina, you’re as bad as Jensen! One ear doesn’t prove anything.”

  “But you’ll question him all the same?”

  “Of course! I’ll have to take a stronger line with him this time. Check back over every dispute he’s been involved in. We’ll see. I’ll need to look back further than two years if we really are dealing with a full-scale vendetta. I may find something that connects him to Olaf. I haven’t talked to the Sheriff about that yet.”

  “Will you go alone?”

  “Want me to take Brattsen along for company?”

  “Why do you two dislike each other so much?”

  “The man’s an out-and-out racist. He has no business being a policeman. That’s all there is to say about him.”

  Nina could see the discussion was closed. Afterward, she still didn’t feel like sleeping, so she took out the file on the drum. There were photographs of the Juhl Center and photocopies of the designs on known Sami drums. She studied them with interest. They were mostly oval in shape, covered with strange symbols. Some she could identify, though they were highly stylized. She recognized the reindeer, of course, and birds. Other symbols were trees, perhaps, and boats. She saw tents like the ones she had visited, Klemet’s included, and figures of people, simplified in the extreme, almost like a child’s drawing. But there were a great many other symbols she couldn’t place at all. Deities, perhaps, even abstract concepts? But which ones? She was stepping into a world completely unknown to her.

  Norwegian schoolchildren were taught very little about the Sami, perhaps because they were so few. From the police course in Kiruna, she knew that they numbered in the tens of thousands, but not even a hundred thousand, as far as she could remember, scattered across Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. They had their own parliaments in each country. At this, she remembered Olaf, his seductive smile, his mocking nickname. And what was the Spaniard’s role in all this? It was a world very far from her own.

  Nina lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and thought about her father. Vivid memories came flooding back. Papa. Softly, she began to cry.

  * * *

  10:45 p.m., Kautokeino

  André Racagnal had said nothing to the old farmer, but if there was a map, there would be a field book, too. That was how it was, never anything different. Every geologist worked that way. A map always led back to a field book, where the geologist had recorded his observations out on reconnaissance, before drawing the map. And if an old, hand-drawn map like Olsen’s was worth its weight in gold, compared with those issued by professional institutes today, an original field book was the Holy Grail itself. So where was it? It would speed up his search for the location of the gold seam. If there really was a gold seam. Olsen had held on to the map, but Racagnal had made a mental note of the main characteristics. Olsen wasn’t a professional, luckily. He associated maps with buried treasure, like some antiquated adventure novel. That was about the level of his limited imagination. Just as well. It gave Racagnal the advantage.

  Still, he was furiously angry with Olsen. That hard-faced cop had pretended he was on Racagnal’s side, but he was in the old man’s pocket, too. How could Olsen have known about the little bar girl otherwise? That little minx. She’d done as she was told, all right. But he could forget all about fooling around now.

  The Frenchman mulled over Olsen’s proposition. An exclusive share in the exploitation of a seam—a rich seam, as Olsen claimed—was tempting indeed. He could stuff the lot of them then—the Paris bureaucrats and the stay-at-home geologists with their slick PowerPoint presentations and no clue how to survive in the field without their GPSes and computers. Those arrogant white-collar businessmen giving him the cold shoulder on his return from Kivu, coming over all shocked and horrified when they heard how he had handled the mission in the Congo. Or, rather, when they read in the papers what had been done out there in the company’s name. Because if the papers hadn’t got hold of the story, you could bet your bottom dollar headquarters would have left him in peace; probably paid him a hefty bonus, too. They had been happy enough all those years ago when he had secured the coltan seam in what was probably the most corrupt and dangerous region in the world.

  Four years. He had spent four years down there, with the crazed militiamen—drink-sodden killers, the lot of them. Traveling the length and breadth of the region, locating the seam, then setting up and securing the mine, so the Paris pretty boys could get their precious coltan for their precious cell phones. And then they had the nerve to take the moral high ground with him, André Racagnal, because he’d had the guts to get down and dirty with the monsters running the show out there. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. Oh yes, they were all so terribly shocked and upset. Still clung on to their cell phones, though. Fuck every last one of them.

  Four fucking years. Even so, Racagnal had had his fill of little Kivu girls. One of the militiamen, one of the craziest types he’d ever come across, fancied himself as the local Chuck Norris. Little clipped beard and sleeveless vest, just like the action hero himself. Except that compared to him, the real Chuck was a liberal intellectual. Commander Chuck, as he liked to be known, was mad, bad, and in charge of security at the mine. Racagnal had supplied him with dope and cognac, and Commander Chuck had kept him supplied with little girls. Fair exchange. But the guy was genuinely dangerous. One day, completely off his head, he had killed an engineer from the Société Française des Minerais in cold blood, right before Racagnal’s eyes. Over nothing. Racagnal had told him he couldn’t touch the ex-pats, but Chuck didn’t give a flying fuck about that. That was when the trouble had started.

  He pushed Kivu to the back of his mind.

  The field book. Did it still exist? And if so, was it at the farm? He would have to try to find out. What if it existed, but wasn’t at the farm? Where might it be? At the council offices, the local museum? The Geological Institute in Malå, perhaps. That high temple of geology, home to the complete geological archives of the Far North.

  Racagnal had been there several times, back when he had last worked in Lapland. The institute was an unrivaled source of documents for anyone with the knowledge to decipher them, keeping records of every survey carried out in the region for over a century. Even the Americans couldn’t match that. It had maps, field books, samples, aerial surveys, everything. All archived and accessible. A treasure house.

  But why would the map and field book have become separated? It made no sense.

  23

  Tuesday, January 18

  Sunrise: 10:00 a.m.; sunset: 12:59 p.m.

  2 hours 59 minutes of sunlight

  9:30 a.m., Central Sápmi

  Klemet set off early, taking two other police officers with him. He didn’t think Johann Henrik would show much resistance, in spite of his hard-bitten character, but you could never be sure. The faintest blue light softened the darkness, but the three snowmobiles moved swiftly nonetheless, racing along the final stretch of frozen river. Three miles from Henrik’s trailer, they left the river and climbed a slope covered in thick snow. After two miles of difficult terrain, threading through buried rocks and dwarf birches, Klemet came to a halt on the summit of Searradas, the highest hill in the area, rising to a height of some 1,930 feet. He took out his field glasses and scanned the surrounding countryside,
one knee propped on the seat of his scooter, searching for the slightest movement. The engines had been switched off, and the silence was near total. There was no wind, but still the cold stole through the slightest chink in his snow gear.

  Johann Henrik kept his trailer on nearby Vuordnas, on a shoulder of land from which two slightly higher peaks rose to the north. It was still there, sheltered by the higher ground. Vuordnas rose only 330 feet or so above the surrounding terrain, but it gave Henrik a perfect vantage point. Klemet hadn’t called ahead on this occasion.

  The previous night, after Nina’s call, he had studied the herder’s file one more time. Henrik was the youngest of five brothers. In accordance with Sami tradition, he had inherited his father’s herd, together with his house, furniture, and land rights. A helping hand for the youngest in the family, and a reward for taking care of his aging parents. The herd had prospered under Johann’s expert husbandry, but he had gone into the tourism business, too, filling the slack periods when there was less to do with the reindeer. He organized fishing trips and showed visitors around a corral with a few reindeer, where he sold Sami handicrafts. Perhaps even a few drums made by Mattis, Klemet thought. He would have to ask about that. Henrik kept a fleet of agricultural vehicles, too, renting them to the council as required, especially for snow clearing. His wife kept a small café on the Alta road, selling home-cooked reindeer dishes, sandwiches, drinks, and cakes. In the high season, Henrik commanded a team of fifteen men. With all that, Henrik must be earning a tidy living, Klemet thought. Not at all like Mattis. Henrik was a local entrepreneur and a member of the Sami Nomad Party—the biggest political contingent in Kautokeino.

  Klemet lowered his field glasses, having spotted a few groups of reindeer. They seemed quiet enough. Smoke was rising from the trailer’s stovepipe. A snowmobile—only one—was parked out front. Had Johann Henrik heard he was now a murder suspect? If he had, it wasn’t from the newspapers.

  “That’s probably Henrik’s scooter down there,” he called over to his colleagues. “Looks like he’s alone. Let me take charge and ask the questions. Nothing aggressive. This isn’t Oslo. No need to play cowboys and Indians.”

  He liked giving orders to Norwegian police officers.

  The trio made their way down from Searradas, crossed a frozen lake, and began the climb to the top of Vuordnas. Klemet reached the plateau and looked across at the trailer, a little over a mile away on the northern side. He was halfway across when he saw a dark silhouette emerging from the shelter. Klemet accelerated hard. The figure spotted them at last. Klemet saw him move forward, then jump aboard the snowmobile. The machine tore around the trailer, along the north side of the plateau, and away into the distance. Klemet swore and accelerated again. He spoke into the helmet’s fitted radio, giving the two other officers instructions to go on before him while he turned off, taking a lower route. He stared ahead, looking for the scooter, but could see nothing. He would have to act fast. The other two officers weren’t used to this, and Henrik would have no difficulty shaking them off.

  Klemet accelerated down toward a lake just visible to his right. He followed the contour of the hill, avoiding hidden obstacles, anomalies in the snow-covered relief that might suggest a buried birch trunk, a boulder, or a crevice. He looked up repeatedly from the path ahead of him, checking the direction of the lake. He had to reach it before Henrik, whose only way down was through a narrow ravine, opening onto the expanse of frozen water. Losing concentration for a moment, Klemet hit a rock. The heavy snowmobile went into a skid. He felt the machine swerve to the left, sinking into the snow. He threw his weight to the right, turning the accelerator handle away from him as far as it would go. The machine leaped forward. He managed to get back on course. In less than half a minute he had reached the lake.

  He followed the shoreline to his right and stopped at the mouth of the ravine. There were no tracks as yet. Then Henrik’s scooter burst into view, bearing down on him fast. Klemet stood up on his footplates, waving his arms. He saw one of the police snowmobiles following behind. The man riding the front scooter—it was clearly Henrik—realized his way was blocked. He slowed down and stopped just short of Klemet’s machine.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted. “Let me through, I have to catch up with my reindeer!”

  “Your son can take care of them.” Klemet’s voice was raised over the noise of the engines. “You’re coming with us back to the trailer right now, for a little chat. And after that we’ll see if I decide to let you go see to your reindeer.”

  Henrik muttered under his breath, gunned his engine, and set off in the direction of the trailer, escorted by Klemet and the other police officer. A little higher up, they found their colleague, fresh from hauling the front end of his machine out of a hole, to judge from the tracks. He was apparently unhurt.

  Johann Henrik led the way into the trailer, followed by Klemet and the first police officer. The interior was like that of any other shelter in the vidda: two bunk beds down one wall, a fitted bench seat opposite, and a table in the middle. Klemet invited Henrik to take his seat first, hemmed in by the others. The herder shifted reluctantly along the narrow space between the bench and the table, and sat down.

  “We’ll start by searching the trailer,” said Klemet, raising a hand for silence before Henrik had time to object. “You may have heard we found a severed human ear at the council offices yesterday. It had been marked—incised along the edge with a knife.”

  Johann Henrik stared at him incredulously. His mouth twisted, but he said nothing. He took out a pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.

  “What’s that got to do with me?” he asked with an unpleasant glare. “That why you’ve come out here—to stop me going about my work?”

  “The marks look strangely like one of Olaf’s. Very similar, in fact.”

  Henrik looked unfazed. He lit his cigarette.

  “Brilliant. One more ear notched up for the Spaniard.”

  “You didn’t tell me about that business between you and him.”

  “What the hell are you on about? What business?”

  “That time you were shot. Seems you were in a dispute over pasture, you and Olaf. More of a long-standing grudge, actually, from what he told me. Mattis was working for him at the time. Seems he was caught up in it, too.”

  “Ah.” Henrik sighed. “And so you think I killed Mattis, cut off his ears, marked them with Olaf’s notches, and left one of them in the council offices? You’re a crack squad in the Reindeer Police, make no mistake.”

  He broke into a dark grin this time, cackling with laughter.

  “I don’t think anything, Johann Henrik,” said Klemet. “There’s nothing to link the mark to you, but I have to explore the possibility.”

  Henrik stared at Klemet through clouds of exhaled smoke, while the two officers searched the trailer. After a few minutes, the men placed their finds on the table: three daggers and a bottle of cognac, three-quarters full.

  “We’ll take the knives with us, if you’ve no objection.”

  Henrik blew smoke. “Not arresting me, then?”

  “We know where to find you. We’ll be back,” said Klemet, closing the door behind him.

  24

  Tuesday, January 18

  9:30 a.m., Paris

  It was raining when Nina left her hotel to go to the Mons apartment. She pressed the button twice next to the name “Mons” on the intercom. The building dated from the early twentieth century and was clearly well maintained, with a recently cleaned stone façade. Paul answered immediately and buzzed her into a smart, well-appointed hallway. She took the stairs to the second floor. Henri Mons himself was waiting for her outside his door. The old man welcomed her with a broad smile.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle! I have been waiting impatiently for you!”

  Nina was surprised to find him so bright and alert. His gestures were quick, almost nervous.

  “Your visit has restored him to a sta
te of robust health!” said Paul, shaking her hand in turn. “But be careful not to wear him out,” he added, smiling.

  Nina looked at the two men facing her. Henri Mons sported quite a full head of hair for a man of his age, snowy white and brushed straight back. His face was thin and gaunt, with a slender nose and disproportionately large ears. His narrow shoulders stooped slightly, but this in no way detracted from his fine, distinguished air. He returned Nina’s gaze with kindly, bright blue eyes.

  At his side, Paul wore his own, chestnut-brown hair in exactly the same style. He was roughly his father’s height, with a slim, fit build, his healthy complexion shadowed by a well-cut three-day beard.

  Nina glanced around the spacious apartment, lined with paintings, paneling, expensive curtains, and expedition souvenirs. The impression was cozy, comfortable, bourgeois. She was unfamiliar with the smell of polished wood but thought it added to the refined atmosphere. It was all a far cry from Norway’s timber-framed houses with their pale, untreated birch and pine.

  They moved to a set of deep leather armchairs in the sitting room. Paul served tea while Henri Mons, clearly the lord and master, addressed Nina with a smile.

  “I am delighted to receive a visit from such a charming representative of the Norwegian police, Mademoiselle.”

  Nina smiled politely. The usual gallant compliments. She knew enough about French men to expect no less. She acquiesced with a look of suitable, modest delight, trying not to simper, all the same.

  “Do you have news of the drum?”

  “Still none, Monsieur. We have several teams of investigators on the case. We’re following up various leads, but until we know a little more about the piece and its history, we’re groping in the dark.”