by Olivier Truc
He was often asked why he refused the advantages of progress. Aslak didn’t really understand what that meant. He saw the other breeders doing the same work as him, but with scooters and quad bikes, even helicopters, using electronic neck tags fitted with GPS transmitters. And to pay for all that, they needed even bigger herds, which meant greater expanses of pasture. And all that led to conflicts between the herders, under the beady eye of the authorities, who had found the perfect excuse to keep up the pressure on the Sami, make them do as they were told—keeping the peace out in the vidda, they said. Was that what they called progress? To be a slave to official census forms, and tax declarations, accounting for your lifestyle to people who understood nothing about it whatsoever? Small-time herders like Mattis, who just wanted a quiet, simple life, had been left with no choice. Aslak paused for a moment, leaning on his stick. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, invisible inside his reindeer-skin gloves. Anyone watching would have thought he had stopped to collect his thoughts, perhaps even to pray. He seemed to be looking in upon himself with an intensity that communicated itself wordlessly. Mattis, he thought to himself, straightening up. That poor soul. He set off once more.
Some years, Aslak’s reindeer were thin, but they never starved. They retained a certain prestige, setting them apart from the other animals, the ones that were left to their own devices for too long by herders who got up too late, or were in too much of a hurry to get back to the warmth of their trailers. Aslak stopped on the crest of the hill. He could barely see in the dim light, but he knew what he was looking for. His dog never failed to lead him where he needed to go. After a quarter of an hour, he spotted the old reindeer. One of his toughest head animals, one of the wisest, too. A beast who always led his group to the right place, at any cost. Aslak trusted him. If he was there, you could be sure there was enough lichen to feed the others. He moved forward quietly. His dog knew what to do. When his master moved closer to the great reindeer, he had to keep well back.
At Aslak’s approach, the great reindeer lifted his head, surmounted by thick, elegant antlers. Slowly, he moved away just a few steps, then stared back at Aslak. Aslak glanced around, seeing other reindeer digging at the thin covering of snow. They seemed to have no trouble finding the lichen, so they could stay where they were for a few more days. His great reindeer had found the right place.
Satisfied, Aslak turned to go, followed by his dog, and made his way back to the track leading to his camp. His wife would be needing him soon. As she did every day. As she always had. He hurried on, redoubling his efforts, leaning on his stick, impervious to the freezing air rushing at his throat.
29
Wednesday, January 19
10:30 a.m., Kautokeino
The forensic pathologist’s findings, and Klemet’s theory of two suspects instead of one, sparked an animated discussion among the assembled officers. With a second suspect responsible for severing and marking the ears, the case was taking a new turn. Two suspects meant twice the likelihood of finding further evidence, new clues. There had to be something else, something they had missed.
The Sheriff called for quiet. To give everyone a chance to collect their thoughts, he asked Nina to summarize her visit to Henri Mons in France. Klemet listened as his colleague delivered a precise account of the main points, including the prewar political background and the dark shadow cast by the Swedish ethnobiologists.
“The Swedes got something right for once.” Brattsen grinned. “Joking! Of course!” This in response to a furious glare from the Sheriff.
“What about the various contacts who approached Mons about the drum?” the Sheriff asked Nina.
“The Nordiske Museet tried to secure it for their collection, but pulled out when Mons made contact with Juhl, here in Kautokeino. Which leaves the private dealer who contacted Mons, apparently acting as an intermediary. There’s an Oslo telephone number, apparently. I can soon follow that up.”
Tor Jensen picked at his bowl of salmiakki. He looked uneasy. On edge. “Any more from the crime scene?” he asked Fredrik.
The forensics officer from headquarters in Kiruna hadn’t bothered to open the folder in front of him on the conference table. He straightened up in his seat and directed a smile at Nina.
“Well, vacuuming the tundra wasn’t a complete waste of time,” he said with a sidelong glance at Brattsen. “We managed to get some fairly clear prints of the scooter tracks. They don’t match Labba’s machine, and they run over the top of his tracks, so whoever made them arrived after him. But there’s something else. The tracks are deep-set. To my mind, that means there were two riders on the second scooter. It’s most apparent when you focus on the places where the scooter had to slow down. It sinks even further into the snow. Two riders on board, then. Make what you like of that.”
“Can you tell whether they left together, as well?” asked Klemet.
“I would say yes, they did.”
“Any way of identifying the machine?” asked the Sheriff.
“No. Obviously, if it’s going to carry two men across the vidda, it would have to be pretty powerful. But there are plenty of powerful machines around here. I did find traces of grease on Labba’s poncho. I was told he inherited it from his father. Took great care of it, unlike the rest of his stuff, it has to be said. So I was interested in the stain—it was clearly fresh. It certainly isn’t animal fat. I don’t exclude the possibility that it came from the murderer’s snowsuit. The stain could have transferred in the struggle, when he stabbed Labba. Like the doc said, it was a powerful thrust. He may have pressed all his weight against Labba to push the blade home.”
“Fine, fine,” muttered the Sheriff. “Anyone got anything else? If not, class dismissed.”
Klemet raised a hand. “The GPS,” he said. “Mattis’s GPS. Have we been able to get anything off that? I know his machine was set alight, but we might be able to find out something about his last movements.”
The Sheriff looked inquiringly at Fredrik.
“We’re on to that, of course.” The forensic officer gave a thin-lipped smile. “Going to need a few more days. Patience!”
Clearly, the GPS hadn’t crossed his mind until now.
The meeting was over. Fredrik pushed passed Klemet, looking preoccupied, even shamefaced. Klemet couldn’t resist whispering in his ear to the effect that Nina already had a boyfriend. The Kiruna officer clearly fancied himself as something of a Casanova. Klemet didn’t like that.
Leaving the Sheriff’s office, Klemet tugged at the forensic pathologist’s sleeve while the other officers were dispersing along the corridors, then showed Sunneborn into his own office and invited him to take a seat.
“I have a question. It may not be important, but––”
“You mean you didn’t want to ask it in front of Brattsen.” He was right, of course.
Klemet looked at him, saying nothing. His expression said it all.
“Klemet, everyone at headquarters knows the situation you’re in with Brattsen. But that makes it all the more important that you should be here in Kautokeino. Brattsen has allies further up the ranks. The Norwegians seem perfectly happy to have someone like him in a place like this—but I can assure you, everyone on the Swedish side thinks you’re doing a great job under the circumstances.”
“Which means no one’s going to lift a finger to get him to shut up.”
“You know we can’t do that, Klemet. Now, what was your question?”
“When you examined Labba’s body, did you notice anything about the eyes?”
“The eyes?”
The question seemed to take the forensic pathologist by surprise. He gave it some thought. “Anything in particular?” he asked.
“I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to me that the skin around them was very dark. Bluish in color. Or purple. I remember Nina commented that he seemed to have very dark rings under his eyes. I wonder what to make of that.”
“I’ll take a look when I get back to Kiruna,”
said Sunneborn. “I’ll make it a priority this time. Promise.”
* * *
Nina was leaving the station, on her way to the stores, when she met Berit Kutsi. The older Sami woman gave her a kindly smile.
“So! How are you, Nina? I hope you aren’t getting any bother from Klemet? He’s quite incorrigible!” Berit’s mischievous expression was enhanced by the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.
Nina returned her smile. “He’s a great partner to work with. Don’t worry. But I’m keeping your advice in mind,” she added with mock seriousness.
“It’s strange to think,” Berit went on, “I’ve known Klemet since we were both young. He wasn’t in the police force then. He was mad about cars and anything mechanical. And rather awkward when it came to girls. One of the superintendents here suggested he stand in when the station was short-staffed one summer. Klemet was a sensible boy. He didn’t drink. Those were all the qualifications you needed here, then. He just drove the patrol van to start with, but by the end of the summer he was in uniform and driving the inspector’s car. That was when they sent him to the police academy in Sweden. Not before. And when he came back, all fit and muscly in his smart uniform, I think he decided to get his own back on a few people. One or two harsh fines here and there, but he soon got over that. And then he was posted to all the small towns in the region. Little towns like here. Being a policeman was much simpler back then.”
Her face darkened and she shook her head. “I can’t help but think of poor Mattis. So awful…”
“Did you know him well?” asked Nina, leading Berit gently into the shop doorway, out of the cold.
“Those boys, I’ve known them all since they were small. Mattis was a wild one, and––”
“Berit,” Nina lowered her voice. “I need to ask you something. Between ourselves. Please don’t tell anyone else.”
Berit looked intently into Nina’s face.
“There are rumors about Mattis. I’ve heard people say he was, well, simple. Some say it was because his parents were…closely related. Blood family.”
Nina detested herself for relaying Brattsen’s malicious gossip. Giving it credence, in a way.
Berit look at her, sadly. Gently, she clasped Nina’s left hand.
“Nina, my dear girl. Mattis was a good, decent boy. A kind boy. I wish I could say as much for everyone here. So I can tell you this: what you have heard is wrong. I knew Mattis’s father. I knew his mother, too. I helped her when she gave birth to Mattis. So you will understand my close connection to him. You don’t want to say the word, my dear, and I don’t blame you. So I will say it for you. Mattis was not a child of incest—which is the substance of that abominable rumor. It has even come to the ears of our pastor. And I have heard Karl Olsen spreading it around, too. I know him; I work for him at his farm. And I will tell you something else, Nina, because I see in your eyes that you have no prejudice against us, no wicked thoughts. Even today, people are still trying to bring the Sami down. I don’t know why that should be so. Why it should be so hard to live together when there is room enough for everyone in the vidda. But that’s how it is. I pray to Our Lord every day, but every day I see bitterness, jealousy, pettiness and suspicion.”
Nina placed her right hand on Berit’s. The two women were a strange sight, standing in the entrance to the general stores to one side of the door, near the bottle bank. They looked out of place amid the coming and going of shoppers and shopping carts, hurried customers laden with grocery bags, children shouting and pushing.
“God’s peace,” said Berit.
Nina gave her a parting smile, then disappeared into the shop. Berit stood for a long while, looking after the young Norwegian woman from the South.
* * *
6 p.m., Kautokeino
Anders Sunneborn, the forensic pathologist, left for Kiruna with Fredrik, the Casanova from forensics. Klemet headed for home: his house, not the Sami tent in the garden. His house was home, after all, not the lavvu, which even he considered a kind of exotic retreat.
Klemet’s family were no longer breeders, though they had had their own reindeer mark once. Sami society followed a complex hierarchy, with the reindeer breeders at the top. Klemet’s tent had been a show of bravado to begin with, a gesture to some of the local breeders, who looked down on him because he came from a family that had been forced to give up their herd. Luckily, most of the herders didn’t think that way. They knew the rigors of the work too well to point the finger at people who, for whatever reason—weather, bad luck, sickness, predators—had quit. They knew the same thing could happen to them.
There were the hard cases, too, like Renson. Klemet was a collaborator in his eyes. But Renson’s scorn was purely political, Klemet knew that, nothing to do with being exiled from the breeders’ caste. Then there were characters like Johann Henrik, a herder of the old school. A real hard nut. Sly, too. But he owed nothing to anyone. Henrik knew his livelihood and lifestyle were hanging by a thread. Klemet didn’t like Henrik, but he respected him. The same could not be said of Finnman, secure in his powerful clan, always ready to show Klemet exactly what he thought of him.
And so Klemet had decided to put up the tent one day, in his garden, just to infuriate arrogant types like Finnman. The neighbors had found it a little strange at first, but after a while they came to like the idea. Klemet, for his part, had discovered other advantages to the lavvu. The mysterious tent, with its stylish, cozy interior, had acquired quite a reputation throughout the area, and it clearly appealed to the opposite sex. Only later did the tent awaken vague, folk memories of a distant past Klemet had never known, except in stories retold by his mother and his uncle Nils Ante.
Klemet seldom went to the tent alone, spending his evenings indoors, at home. His house was far more conventional. Some visitors felt more comfortable there. Setting yourself apart from other people, with a tent in your garden, could give the impression that you felt different from everyone else. And feeling different meant feeling superior. Which was a sin, even a mortal sin, around here.
In the kitchen, Klemet helped himself to a glass of milk, and spread margarine and cheese on a slice of bread. He turned on the small TV next to the microwave, in time for the local news. Most of the newscast was devoted to Mattis’s murder, of course, but there were no new details. Speculation and supposition were rife. One breeder, interviewed anonymously, stated that what had happened was the result of deteriorating trust between the breeders and the authorities. Mutual suspicion that had been brewing for years. It was becoming harder and harder to survive in the business, he said, and people were driven to extremes. The breeder told of several cases of warning shots being fired at trailers in the vidda. Things would only get worse as climate change took hold, said an expert. Normally, there was far less snow in the interior, and the reindeer had little difficulty digging down to the lichen. But warmer temperatures brought alternating bouts of rain and snow. The rain froze and impenetrable ice layers meant the reindeer risked dying of hunger. With that came competition for access to decent pasture and heightened tension.
Next came an interview with Helmut Juhl. The German curator spoke about the missing drum and showed other drums on display at the Juhl Center. He made a point of displaying one very fine example.
“This one was made by Mattis Labba. The buyer who commissioned it never came to fetch it. We’re keeping it here, in memory of Mattis,” he said.
Klemet heard the reporter ask if the old Sami beliefs were still current in Lapland.
“Not that I’m aware of,” came the cautious reply. “But everyone respects what they represent. Mattis may have believed in the power of the drums to an extent. But it didn’t save his life.”
The news anchor moved on to a new subject. Klemet felt a rush of sadness at Helmut’s words. He emptied his glass and got to his feet. He hesitated for a moment, then reached for his bottle of three-star cognac in one of the kitchen cupboards. He pulled the cork, then froze, pushed it back into
place, and made himself a coffee first.
The TV news continued with a report on preparations for the UN conference. Tonight’s angle was the economic benefits of the jamboree for the region as a whole. Some two hundred delegates would be visiting for several days. The report ended just as Klemet finished making the coffee. He uncorked the cognac again and poured himself a generous glass, then set cup and glass on the kitchen table and turned off the TV. He sat thinking for a moment about the TV report, and Nina’s reproach when he had refused to consider her intuition of a link between Mattis and the theft of the drum.
Klemet freely admitted his almost obsessive need to tie every hunch down to palpable evidence. He sipped his coffee and drank some cognac. Nina wasn’t bound by such constraints. The advantage of a proper education, he told himself. You’re not afraid to think big, explore avenues, make mistakes, start again. He wasn’t like that. Not at all, he thought to himself. Absolutely not. It was the price he paid for his Sami origins. He didn’t want—couldn’t afford—to put a foot wrong. He had to prove himself every step of the way. The fact was, he was afraid people would poke fun if he came up with anything too far-fetched. The garage mechanic getting above himself! He’d surprised himself in the Sheriff’s office earlier, when he had floated the possibility of two suspects. He’d never admit it to a living soul, but he was proud that no one had mocked the idea. Not even Brattsen!
He drained the glass of cognac. He wasn’t that far off retirement, and here he was moaning about his lot like an old woman. What with that and his adolescent insecurities, like a persistent bad smell. And at his age. Klemet, he told himself, you’re pathetic. He looked at his glass, drank more coffee and got up to pour more cognac. Did him the power of good. He felt a warm, spreading glow. He wasn’t in the habit of drinking, and now he felt that hint of intoxication. His usual signal to stop, telling him he’d had enough.