Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  “I don’t know. But we have a drum and a death in 1939. And another death, and the same drum now, in 2011. And a connection to both deaths: the Labba family.”

  “We don’t know for sure that Mattis’s death is linked to the drum,” he interrupted quickly.

  “Oh, Klemet, for heaven’s sake!” Nina looked suddenly exasperated. “I know we don’t have concrete proof yet, but still, it’s staring us in the face.”

  “And the cut ears? What about them?”

  * * *

  Nina did not want her colleague’s excessive caution to affect her own thinking. When Patrol P9 entered the Sheriff’s office fifteen minutes later, she decided to push her advantage. The case was outside the Reindeer Police’s usual remit. You had to think outside the box, but it was plain to Nina that Klemet’s obsession with evidence and proof prevented him from thinking imaginatively.

  Paradoxically, Klemet’s experience was against him—not so much his time in the Reindeer Police as his years on the Palme assassination inquiry in Sweden. In Kiruna, before he had been posted to Kautokeino, his Swedish colleagues had shown him great respect as a former Palme investigator, in the biggest inquiry ever undertaken by the Swedish police. To his Norwegian and Finnish colleagues, the case had been a laughingstock. But in the career of a Swedish cop, it was tantamount to a service medal, despite the inquiry’s undeniable failure: the only suspect to come to trial and be sentenced had finally been acquitted on appeal.

  Tor Jensen greeted them. His bowl of salmiakki was nowhere in sight. He indicated the Bodum coffeepot, inviting them to help themselves, but said nothing for the moment. A bad sign. Nina wondered vaguely whether the reason was bad news or the absence of his bowl of sweets.

  “So?”

  The Sheriff seemed on edge. Nina knew his post was politically sensitive. And doubly so in light of recent events. Tensions between the Sami and the Norwegians were nothing new, especially now that the success of the populist Progress Party had loosened many people’s tongues. But they were new to Nina. Her innate sense of right and wrong, good and bad, told her that the Sami had not initiated the confrontation. Henri Mons’s testimony had shaken her. She was unprepared for this new perspective on her fellow Norwegians, and the Swedes, as the bad guys.

  Something else bothered her, too. The legend of the curse, and the Swedish ethnobiologists, all added to the disturbing nature of the case. This was no random settlement of old scores.

  The Sheriff was growing impatient. Klemet hesitated to speak first. Exasperated by her patrol boss’s cautious nature, his religious devotion to proof, Nina spoke out.

  “The theft of the drum and Mattis’s murder must be linked. It’s only logical,” she said. “What’s the likelihood of two such exceptional events taking place within the space of twenty-four hours, in a place like this?”

  “Go on,” said the Sheriff.

  “We know that two people visited Mattis at his trailer, riding the same snowmobile. Did they come to talk, or were they looking for something? Was it the drum? That seems to be the logical conclusion. Is Brattsen still talking about breeders settling their scores? Nothing in the inquiry corroborates that, though it’s the easiest and most tempting solution. I would add that some people have a vested interest in encouraging everyone to believe the breeders are given to murdering one another or engaging in open conflict. All the more reason to keep a tight grip on their apparently incest-ridden, gangster-ish world. That’s what we’re talking about here, isn’t it?”

  Klemet said nothing. Nina might have been reading his thoughts. He was astonished that she felt bold enough to venture into the minefield like this.

  “I know we still need proof,” she went on. “But I think something is going on under our very noses. I firmly believe these crimes are linked to the events of 1939. The expedition. A gold seam. Deaths, a theft.”

  “And the marks on the ears?” interrupted the Sheriff.

  Nina glanced at Klemet. Her partner had retorted with the exact same objection. Now he said nothing. He wasn’t hostile, just silent. The ball was in Nina’s court. Tor Jensen waited.

  “The ears are the biggest missing link. Not the only one, but the one that will give us the final, conclusive answer to the mystery. Or part of the mystery.”

  Klemet was thinking. “What Nina has said holds together. And what she hasn’t said, too. The missing bits. I think we should investigate the story of the gold seam, the gold mine. My uncle Nils Ante told me about a similar story. I detest rumor and speculation, but there does seem to be a cluster of evidence here.”

  “Well, get over to Malå and clear up this business of the gold seam, then,” said the Sheriff.

  “What’s at Malå?” asked Nina.

  “It’s near Västerbotten,” said Jensen, “a little town in northern Sweden. The Nordic Geological Institute. Its archives, at any rate. Not sure they aren’t even the oldest geological archive in the world. Bring me something back.”

  * * *

  11 a.m., Central Sápmi

  André Racagnal pulled up on his snowmobile, five yards from where Aslak stood. He sat watching the herder for a few moments. He cut an imposing figure for a Laplander. His square-jawed face registered no emotion. The geologist knew he was dealing with a highly determined man. Before moving closer, he made his way around to his snowmobile trailer and retrieved his radio. He spoke into the handset, addressing a nameless contact at the other end, making sure Aslak could hear.

  “I’m in the field, with the guide. He’s ready to help. You’ll get a message every two hours. If not, you know what to do.”

  He cut the call without waiting for a reply. Finally, he approached Aslak. “Know how to read a map?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Racagnal and Aslak spent the next two hours studying the maps. The Frenchman was on his guard, but the herder showed no sign of rebellion. Racagnal was anything but naive—he knew a hard nut like Aslak would not give in quite so easily. But he knew, too, that primitive, isolated individuals like him did not react in the same way as men accustomed to the petty intrigues of everyday society. Aslak had to be convinced that he had no choice. Perhaps the promise of replacements for his dog had been enough to persuade him. When you lived under such extreme conditions, you accepted the twists of fate. No point trying to fight the will of the evil spirits. You just knuckled down and put up with them, hoping they’d soon move on, trying to forget them once they’d gone, yet living in fear of their next appearance.

  Racagnal could see why Olsen had insisted he take Aslak as his guide. The Sami didn’t know how to read geological symbols, but he recognized the curves and contours, he could feel his way, knew how to describe a location with a wealth of precious detail. Still, the Frenchman had to allow for a double margin of error: Aslak could make a mistake, and he himself had no idea whether or not he could trust the old geological map. Its maker had deliberately omitted the place name. And he may well have laid other traps, too, to put prying eyes off the scent. It was a possibility Racagnal could not exclude.

  Aslak rolled up his bundle and wrapped it in reindeer skins, tying it tight. He moved closer to his wife. She would have to manage alone for up to five days. Aslak could not be gone for too long, he knew that. Her sufferings were too great.

  Aslak had suffered, too—the absence of a mother, and his father’s death when he was still very young. He had succumbed to the cold after setting out to recover a group of reindeer that had crossed into Finland. The regulations were harsh and pitiless back then. Aslak’s father risked a heavy fine if the Finnish patrols found him. He had no way to pay. He had set out in haste. Too much haste. He was too ill equipped. He had been caught unawares by a snowstorm the like of which had seldom been seen. They had found his body two months later. And then the tragedy of Aslak’s wife had struck, when they were first betrothed.

  Aslak looked at her, placed his hand on her head. They had not spoken for so long. The eyes were enough
, in the rare moments when she seemed to share his existence. She knelt up. He did not take his hand away. She stared at him intently. A look like that usually preceded one of her attacks. But no cry rose from her throat. On the other side of the hearth, Racagnal was getting impatient. Aslak’s wife stared at him, then turned her gaze on Aslak, as he cradled her face. She placed her left hand over her husband’s. But with the other hand—out of the Frenchman’s sight—she drew a sign in the dust of the hearth. A sign that turned Aslak’s blood to ice.

  33

  Thursday, January 20

  3 p.m., Kautokeino

  To reach Malå, Patrol P9 would have to drive about 435 miles due south. A good ten hours or so on the road.

  Klemet and Nina decided to leave at the end of the afternoon, taking turns at the wheel to arrive the following morning, sleeping for a few hours in one of the Reindeer Police cabins.

  An afternoon nap was essential, preceded by lunch at the Villmarkssenter, just across the main street. Nina paused for a moment as they left the station, watching the pale, orange afterglow on the horizon, and the encroaching, relentless dark of the polar night. The light was one of the great discoveries of her new posting to Sápmi, even more raw and magnificent than that of her native fjord. She felt its impact still more powerfully in the biting cold. That was something new, too. Where she came from, the Gulf Stream ensured tolerable temperatures all year round.

  A gust of wind struck their faces. They bent their heads and hunched forward, Nina shielding her mouth and eyes with her arm. It became suddenly, aggressively cold. As they hurried over to the restaurant, she lost her footing on the black ice covering the slope leading to the entrance, practically skating the last few feet, and almost laughed out loud when Klemet rushed to help her and slipped himself. The last gleam of sunlight had disappeared, obliterated by the clouds covering a section of the sky.

  It was already past lunchtime, but Mads laid two places for them and brought out the dish of the day—salmon with dill, boiled potatoes, and a white sauce. The dining room was empty, and the proprietor sat with Klemet and Nina as they ate. The low cloud dispersed and the wind swept the sky clean. The Villmarkssenter stood on high ground overlooking the road, with a view over the whole of Kautokeino. At this time of day, the town’s lights were all that was visible, snaking in a gentle curve along the Alta River.

  “So, have you found the bastard who killed Mattis?” Mads asked Klemet.

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you playing at? People are starting to ask questions, you know. Everyone’s very tense.”

  Klemet nodded. “Anyone staying here now?”

  “No. The retired Danes have left, and the truckers come and go as usual. The French prospector left yesterday.”

  Klemet and Nina stared at one another.

  “What prospector?”

  “You know, that Frenchman! He’d been here a while. But he left with all his stuff. Loaded with equipment, he was. He’s off to look for some kind of ore, a big seam. Don’t know what. Always top secret, all that. Oh, he had all the paperwork—all in order, so he said. He was annoyed about the mining affairs committee taking its time. But it was all sorted in the end.”

  “Did he leave on his own?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “And you say he’d been here for some time?”

  “Let’s see, he arrived…before all this business, I’d say. Well, yes, the first day back to school, January 3. A Monday. I remember, because he was very keen on helping Sofia with her French homework. She’s in eighth grade now, started French last autumn.”

  “And where was he off to?”

  “Oh, you’d have to ask at the council offices about that.”

  Klemet glanced at his watch. Still time to drop by. They drank their coffee quickly.

  “What was he like, this Frenchman?”

  “Oh, a decent enough type. Seemed a bit bored waiting around for his permit. Told me some tall stories about his time in Africa. He speaks Swedish. He’s worked around here before—he was prospecting then, too. But you should ask Brattsen if you’re interested. He interviewed him about a week ago, after a punch-up in the pub. The Frenchman looked a bit shaken up about it, in fact.”

  Klemet stared at Nina, who stared back, eyes wide, indicating this was news to her, too. Why had Brattsen said nothing about questioning the prospector? This suggested a whole new line of inquiry.

  Just then Sofia entered the restaurant, back from school, her bag slung over one shoulder. She waved to the table and grinned broadly, then came over to hug Klemet and shake Nina’s hand.

  Klemet and Nina got up to leave.

  “Put both the meals on my tab, Mads,” Klemet told him. “I’m hoping I’ll be forgiven for something…”

  Nina smiled. “You already are.”

  Sofia spread out her exercise books on a nearby table.

  “So, how are you getting on with your French, Sofia?” asked Nina. The girl’s face darkened.

  “Why do you want to know?” she retorted sharply, to everyone’s surprise.

  “No reason,” said Nina. “Seems you had a private tutor for a few days.”

  “That creep, with his vile wandering hands? Five minutes it took him. Five minutes.”

  Mads stared at her in astonishment. “What do you mean, ‘wandering hands’? You didn’t say anything at the time.”

  “Well, I’m saying it now, so there. Now leave me alone!”

  The girl gathered up her things and stormed out of the restaurant.

  Mads was speechless.

  Nina was the first to react. She ran after Sofia and came back five minutes later, looking furious, but she addressed Mads calmly and methodically.

  “Nothing serious happened,” she reassured him straightaway. “She knew how to say no…and how to make herself thoroughly understood.”

  Nina paused, swallowed nervously. For a fraction of a second, Klemet saw how upset she was.

  “But I would advise her to file a complaint of sexual harassment all the same,” Nina went on. “I think it’s important for her to do that. This sort of thing needs to be taken very seriously, right at the outset, at the slightest gesture. And we must show her that we’re backing her up.”

  “Of course, of course.” Mads looked as if he was in shock, gradually realizing that he had accommodated the Frenchman for two whole weeks alongside his family, who lived in a private wing of the hotel.

  “Everything will be fine,” said Nina. “She’s underage, everything will be very discreet, and if need be, she can talk to someone who can help.”

  “Do you really think it’s that serious?” asked Klemet.

  Nina shot him a furious glance. “Of course it’s serious! And it’s about time men understood as much,” she said, marching out of the hotel. He hurried after her.

  * * *

  3:45 p.m., Council Offices, Kautokeino

  While Klemet called at the council offices alone, anxious not to attract too much attention, Nina returned to the station and began drafting a report on the incident involving Sofia.

  In reception, Ingrid greeted the Reindeer Policeman with a delighted smile. “Well, hello, Klemet! Goodness me”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“I thought you’d disappeared. You haven’t invited me over for a drink in your tent for a while.”

  Klemet leaned over the counter and whispered back, “Just let me get through all this business, and I promise we’ll have an evening all to ourselves.”

  Ingrid giggled, but quickly pulled a straight face as one of the Progress Party councillors walked in wearing a brand-new snowmobile suit, hair slicked back, face freshly tanned from the solarium. Olsen’s fellow councillor—the young man he referred to as “Prince Charming”—barely bothered to acknowledge the council’s Labor-voting receptionist, nor the Lapp policeman, whom he suspected of harboring similar political sympathies.

  “Asshole,” muttered Ingrid. “Makes that old hypocrite Olsen seem almost bearable. So, you
haven’t come to invite me over to your place, if I’ve understood correctly.”

  “It seems a Frenchman came by to see the folks on the mining affairs committee,” said Klemet. “I’m interested in him, but keep that to yourself. No sense in worrying everyone, if you see what I mean.”

  “I see. Big Bad Wolf’s on the scent…” Ingrid’s pet name for him. “Yes, I remember him. Good-looking guy! That hint of danger, just my type. He was angry the last time he came in. He wanted to see someone from the committee. Old Olsen was the only one here, but he wasn’t free to see him. Don’t know what happened after that.”

  “Olsen here now?”

  “No. He must be back at the farm. He usually comes late in the afternoon, unless there’s a meeting.”

  “When was the last meeting?”

  “It was scheduled for Monday. He was here that day. But—oh God, Klemet! Monday was when I found that hideous ear. I haven’t seen the Frenchman since.”

  “Was Olsen here long, before you found the ear?”

  “No, just a couple of hours, perhaps.”

  “Anyone enter or leave the building between Olsen’s arrival and the moment you found the ear?”

  “Not on that side of the building, no. There was no need for anyone to be there. But I’ve already told Brattsen all this, as you doubtless know.”

  “Brattsen! Again…”

  “Meaning?”

  “Nothing, just thinking aloud. Any other committee members in today?”

  Ingrid glanced at her list. “No. Why, are you interested?”

  Klemet leaned over the counter once again. “I want to know where the Frenchman was planning to go digging. And I’d like to know soon, because I’m leaving for Malå this evening to make some inquiries with Nina.”

  “Ah yes, young Nina. She hasn’t been here long, but people are already talking about her, quite a lot. Very bright girl, apparently. And cute, too, wouldn’t you say, Klemet? Invited her back to the tent, have you?”

  “Ingrid, please. I really need to know where the Frenchman was headed. I’m carrying out a criminal investigation here, remember?”