Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  The granite deposits had been eroded by the glaciers that had covered Scandinavia for millennia. The last great glaciers had retreated just ten thousand years ago, leaving smooth, bald summits in a landscape dotted with lakes. Olsen’s map showed eruptive terrains forming a host of small veins. Its author had described quartz-pebble conglomerates, too. As Racagnal pored over the map one more time, the evidence looked pretty consistent, in his view.

  Geologically speaking, Lapland was a stable region, part of the Scandinavian belt, though fault lines existed in places. For geologists like himself, the fault lines were especially interesting. And there was one on the map.

  He turned to the modern maps from his own collection. Most of the details indicated on the old map were absent, not to mention their scale, which was quite different. You had to know how to read between the lines. He stroked the curves with his finger. Other curves soon sprang to mind. Ulrika. That little minx had to go and get mixed up in all this. But that didn’t matter now. If he found what he thought he could find here, she’d come crawling to him all over again, with her little angel face. Olsen would have some crawling to do, too.

  * * *

  7:20 p.m., Kautokeino

  Before accompanying Nina home, Klemet had kept her at the tent for a few minutes more. He had something to say. “Watch out for Aslak.”

  She was about to object, but he placed a finger on her lip.

  “Hear me out.”

  She almost misinterpreted his gesture, but realized she was mistaken.

  “Just now, in the car, you asked me why I wasn’t horrified when you talked about the Swedish researchers. We only ever spoke Sami at home, on my parents’ farm. When I was seven years old, I was sent to a boarding school where almost all the pupils were Sami. We were forbidden to speak our own language. The schoolmaster was Swedish. He spoke only Swedish. On purpose. They were turning us into little Swedish children. Things had moved on a bit since the war, certainly. People like Mons had been observing the death of the Sami as a people, recording what they could in the name of science. In my day, it was all about assimilation. Complete assimilation into Scandinavian society. Grinding us down. We were beaten if we spoke Sami, even in the playground. See this scar?”

  Klemet pointed to his temple.

  “I was seven years old, Nina. I was seven years old and I was forbidden to speak the only language I knew. I couldn’t speak. So don’t talk to me about appearing horrified, I…”

  Nina watched in astonishment as her partner’s eyes brimmed with tears. She had never seen him like this. He broke off and left the tent, holding the flap for her as she stepped outside. Then he let it fall back. The time for shared secrets was over.

  * * *

  7:30 p.m., Highway 93

  The old Sami woman was still sitting behind her cash register, motionless and silent. She should have closed up by now, but she sat waiting. One other customer had come in during the past hour. A truck driver who had left his engine running outside.

  “Evening, darlin’. Bored, are we? Fancy a bit of fun in the back of the rig? How about it, eh?”

  The Sami woman stared at him in silence, showing no reaction.

  The driver was Swedish, Racagnal noted, eyeing him briefly, taking in the tattoos plastering his forearms. The Swede roared with laughter and turned to Racagnal, certain his wit would be appreciated. Racagnal stared at him for a moment, then went back to his maps.

  “Pardon me, I’m sure. Hej, old hag, any sign of my sandwiches? Sorry if I’ve interrupted the start of something beautiful between you two, eh?”

  He roared with laughter all by himself, ignoring the geologist now, tapping his fingers on top of the cash register, waiting for the sandwiches, beating out the rhythm of a silent song. Probably a regular at the café, thought Racagnal. He hadn’t needed to say what he wanted in the sandwiches.

  The woman returned with two sandwiches in plastic wrap. She placed a bottle of Pepsi next to the cash register, took out an exercise book and made a note of everything. On the tab.

  “Hej, old hag. Look at the tits on that. Got me in your little black book of favorite customers, eh? Know just what I like, don’t you? We should have some fun, you and me, I’ve told you before. Yeah, baby! Hands off old Sexy Sami, man,” he called over to Racagnal. “She’s all mine! Hasta la vista, baby!” He left, slamming the door, still humming and tapping the fingers of his free hand against his thigh.

  The Sami woman closed her notebook, shook her head quietly for a couple of seconds, then resumed her impassive pose behind the cash register.

  Racagnal had made progress, meanwhile. Much remained to be done, but by cross-referencing the information on the modern maps and identifying the geological structures, he thought he was getting somewhere.

  The old mapmaker seemed to have concentrated on the central section, which was much more thoroughly annotated. Racagnal thought he could see why. It was scattered with the yellow marks indicating metal, pointed out to him by Olsen. Racagnal, on the other hand, was much more interested in a geological deposit in the top right-hand section—a tertiary formation combining a fair amount of rubble and large rocks, mostly shale. This was also where two basement layers of differing ages rubbed up against one another. Here was the fault line he had spotted, marked by the unknown geologist with signs indicating marble deposits. The presence of marble in this area, even in small quantities, bothered Racagnal. He tapped his pencil on the map, thinking hard, then decided to leave that till later and focus again on the yellow markers, clearly suggesting an abundance of gold.

  After another hour of calculations and comparisons, Racagnal was satisfied he had found three possible matches for the area described on Olsen’s hand-drawn sheet. He spread the old map out flat and folded it over several times, hoping it would correspond to an area on the modern map. The two showed a number of variations and anomalies, of course, but these could be explained by the differences in the approach, the means and, of course, the professionalism of their respective makers. Setting all these aside, he saw clearly where he should search. In an ideal world, he would collect samples and analyze them back at base. But he had no time for that. He’d have to draw on every last scrap of his intuition and expertise. And he would need Aslak, given the few short days available. There wasn’t a minute to lose.

  He would radio the three areas through to Olsen for the exploration permit. Play it by the book. His tracker’s instinct was aroused. Racagnal felt the familiar adrenaline rush. Shame the old Sami woman wasn’t a fresh little minx. As if reading his thoughts, she turned to look straight at the Frenchman for the first time, staring after him as he stepped out into the cold and dark.

  28

  Wednesday, January 19

  Sunrise: 9:54 a.m.; sunset: 1:07 p.m.

  3 hours 13 minutes of sunlight

  8 a.m., Kautokeino

  The radio announcement of the discovery of the second ear came as no surprise to anyone, though it was a terrible shock for the cleaner who found it, behind a door in the main hallway of the annex to the Reindeer Administration offices in Kautokeino. It was barely 7 a.m., and no one was at work yet. As a rule, the door was kept open, and the woman had only closed it to run the vacuum cleaner behind. The ear must have been there for several days. No one had noticed, because the vacuuming was done only once a week. Like the first ear, the second had been marked with incisions.

  News of the find spread fast around town, especially because the cleaner had been unable to contact the police. Shocked and frightened, she had called her neighbor Tomas Mikkelsen, the reporter. He was sure to know what to do. Mikkelsen had arrived fifteen minutes later, microphone at the ready, and interviewed her on the spot. He was careful not to touch anything, but took photographs from all angles. A scoop of the first order. The police had tried to conceal the fact that Mattis’s cadaver had been found minus its ears, but Mikkelsen had already heard the rumor. The second ear, shriveled and curled, was incontrovertible proof, in his view, tha
t this was an important case and more than a simple, if murderous, feud.

  There was very little time before the eight o’clock newscast. After that, he would post the photograph of the ear on the newspaper’s website. It would be a busy day.

  * * *

  Tor Jensen’s office was crowded, and the Sheriff looked particularly out of sorts. He hadn’t picked at his bowl of salmiakki yet. It was barely 8 a.m. Everyone present had just heard the radio news. Coffee was doing the rounds. Pastries were swiftly disappearing from two loaded trays. Brattsen, sitting in a corner at the back, appeared to be sulking. Nina was in discussion with Fredrik, from forensics, who had arrived from Kiruna the previous evening with the forensic pathologist, Anders Sunneborn. The latter sat poring over his files. Fredrik seemed very interested in Nina, whispering quietly to her. Two other officers were present from Brattsen’s team.

  The room was waiting for Klemet, who had gone to place the second ear in the Reindeer Police freezer. Located in the station’s map store, the freezer held a curious assortment of exhibits including several reindeer ears, a couple of Siberian geese, and other quarry from illegal hunting expeditions. Now the collection included two human ears.

  Klemet returned holding a sheaf of documents. The Sheriff raised a hand, calling the meeting to order.

  “The first ear has been identified as belonging to Mattis Labba, beyond any doubt,” said Fredrik.

  “Same goes for the second ear, almost certainly,” added Klemet. “Same size, same cutaway sections, same type of incisions, too, though the marks are different.”

  “So this definitely points to one of the breeders?” the Sheriff cut in.

  Klemet took his time pouring a cup of coffee. “Well, I’m not so sure about that now,” he admitted. “The cuts on the two ears still seem to indicate Olaf’s clan, and Olaf himself, but it’s a fairly loose interpretation, admittedly.”

  Brattsen jumped to his feet. “I’ve always said Olaf was involved one way or another. There’s something not right about him. He’s got a guilty conscience, you mark my words.”

  “Let Nango finish, Brattsen.”

  Brattsen sat down, clenching his jaw. “Come on then, Chubs. Amaze us.”

  Klemet ignored Brattsen, as usual. “What I mean is, that’s just one possibility, based on a fairly loose reading of the incisions, which may have been made in a hurry. And remember we’re looking at them several days later, when the ears have atrophied. There did seem to be a likeness to Olaf’s clan mark, but now that we have both ears, I’m less convinced. If we’re looking for a strict comparison, then…well, the marks don’t correspond to anything in the handbook.”

  A heavy silence greeted his words. The Sheriff signaled for Anders Sunneborn, the forensic pathologist, to take the floor. “Doc, please. I hope you’ve got plenty to tell us—you’ve been rather quiet these past few days.”

  Sunneborn flashed a broad smile at Tor Jensen. “Procedure, Superintendent, procedure. And for us, as a transnational unit, procedure is even more important, so as to avoid any possibility of misunderstanding between our two exceedingly punctilious administrations. Procedure states that nothing is to be divulged, either by telephone or by––”

  “I’m familiar with procedure, Doc. I would just like us to be given a somewhat higher priority than usual, for once. But that won’t have crossed your minds, over in Kiruna.”

  “Klemet has summarized the situation regarding the ears, but I’ll come back to that in a moment. Just one clarification about the incisions. I haven’t examined the second ear yet, but I imagine the same observation will apply. The incisions—meaning the marks made on the lobe and in the upper part of the ear—are clean-cut. I mean that whoever was handling the knife did not think twice. The flesh is cut with some precision, not torn. There is no sign of multiple cuts, which might indicate that the person with the knife had changed their mind, going back over their work.”

  He opened a file. “Now, the cause of death. The examination found that Labba received a violent thrust from a sharp, pointed instrument, with a blade measuring between 1.25 and 1.5 inches at its widest point, apparently a knife identical or similar to the Knivsmed Strømeng models used by the breeders, found in the rod and gun stores here, and also popular with tourists as souvenirs. The wound is not that deep, but the force of the thrust is apparent from the fact that the knife passed through several layers of clothing. The murderer is strong—just one thrust was enough. Labba was wearing his snowsuit, two sweaters, one of which was quite thick, a shirt, and two T-shirts. These layers of clothing also explain why very little blood was found at the scene—it was all absorbed by the fabrics. The wound was nonetheless deep enough to cause renal scarring. Judging by the apparent width of the blade, the corresponding length would be about seven inches, which also corresponds to the depth required to pass through the layers of clothing and reach the kidney.”

  He paused. Everyone was listening attentively.

  “You see, a renal wound is not fatal, unlike a wound to the heart, for example. Which brings me to my point: Labba was not killed by the knife wound. Under normal circumstances—by which I mean, at normal temperatures, if the body had been indoors, for example—he could have survived for about six hours. But outside it was minus four, give or take a couple of degrees. He was well covered, well protected from the cold, but still, hypothermia would have set in very quickly. His suffering was all the shorter for that. And I would estimate the time of death at around one hour after the infliction of the knife wound.”

  Sunneborn waited for this information to sink in. “But that’s not all. This brings me back to the ears.” He was working the room for maximum impact. “At the risk of disappointing some—” he paused “—I can confirm that the severing of the ears was not an act of torture.”

  All eyes were on him now, some expressing astonishment and impatience.

  “I can say this quite simply because Mattis Labba had been dead for two hours already, when the ears were severed.”

  Glances were exchanged around the room. A low murmur circulated. Even Brattsen looked incredulous.

  “Almost no blood flowed from the ears, barely a few drops, so we are already in the presence of quite advanced vasoconstriction. Bleeding does not occur after death because there’s no circulation of the blood. If Mattis had been alive when the ears were severed, we would have seen far more bleeding. But in fact we see nothing of the kind. Added to which we have the effect of the extreme cold. The body had already begun to freeze when the ears were severed. Which explains the clean appearance of the flesh cuts.”

  “Which means,” said the Sheriff, “if your observations are correct, that the murderer would have spent three hours at the scene after stabbing Labba, perhaps looking for something, before cutting off his ears and leaving?”

  The group sat deep in thought.

  “Unless,” said Klemet, “we’re dealing with two different people.”

  * * *

  10:30 a.m., Central Sápmi

  André Racagnal had found Aslak Gaupsara’s camp without too much difficulty. Olsen had indicated the precise spot on the map. He hadn’t needed the unhelpful old bag at the café after all. En route, he stopped in a small turnout to take another look at the map. He could get closer by car, and after that he would have to continue by snowmobile. He had made sure the track wasn’t off limits—no need to attract unwelcome attention. He was less sure of how to approach this notorious breeder. Olsen’s warning left him unfazed: he wasn’t one to go to pieces over some nutcase with a scary reputation. On the contrary. He had plenty of experience when it came to dealing with characters like Aslak.

  He continued on his way, taking a short cut across country in the direction of a lake, frozen solid, like everything else. He drove slowly for a few miles and reached the shore, where a few huts stood waiting for their summer users—anglers from Alta or neighboring villages. They were deserted at this time of year. Racagnal parked his Volvo, unloaded his snowmobile, hoo
ked up his trailer, and piled it with equipment. He made a final checklist. No room for mistakes on an expedition like this. He was naturally cautious, even extremely so. He hated leaving things to chance—something his colleagues misunderstood. Because Racagnal trusted to instinct when prospecting, they dismissed him as reckless, even negligent. The opposite was true. He trusted to instinct only once he had recorded every last detail, eliminated every possible uncertainty from what he knew. Only then would he set off, every sense honed and alert, the ultimate tracker.

  He cast a glance at his surroundings. It would take him at least two hours to reach Aslak’s camp. He would bivouac on the way in a shelter he had spotted on the map, then arrive early in the morning. Surprising people when they were half asleep gave you an undeniable advantage.

  * * *

  Aslak Gaupsara kept his breathing deep and regular. He moved forward, repeating the same movements over and over again. His skis glided almost without noise. He had one last, small valley to check, making sure that the small group of reindeer that had strayed yesterday had enough to eat. Aslak liked to feel his body responding without complaint to his most extreme demands. He was in no hurry. His day was almost over. He wasn’t too worried about the reindeer. His herd was in his own image. Tough, capable of surviving in the most extreme conditions, impervious to the cold, resistant like no other creature on earth. They could sniff out lichen buried under six feet of snow, walk for days without eating to find pasture. And yet there was no more disciplined herd in the vidda, none more responsive to its breeder.

  Aslak’s three dogs were in their master’s image, too. They knew how to find a lost fawn, coax rebel reindeer back to the fold, block dangerous paths, sniff out danger in the vidda before anyone else. All lived in perfect harmony with the surrounding landscape.

  Aslak had had no formal education. He was not like the youngsters you came across sometimes in the Kautokeino market, idealizing his lifestyle and the old ways. There was nothing to idealize. This was his life. He understood that he was different. And he understood, too, that living as he did, as his ancestors always had before him, was likely to provoke extreme reactions.