Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  “So you have, haven’t you?” Ingrid pursed her lips.

  She stared at Klemet in silence for a few seconds, apparently sizing him up. “And what’s more,” she went on, “Brattsen says he’s in charge of the murder investigation. Still not exactly your biggest fan, of course. He’s a really nasty piece of work. You should watch out.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Ingrid,” said Klemet drily. “So can you give me anything on the Frenchman?”

  “I must be the dumbest blonde in town. But I suppose the documents aren’t confidential. They’re just the applications for exploration permits, received from the Mining Administration for our approval. Nothing top secret—residents in the area concerned have to be able to consult them here. And they’re not as detailed as the applications for actual mining licenses. They’re often quite vague, actually. Wait here, I’ll go and take a look in the back.”

  Ingrid got to her feet and disappeared down a nearby corridor. Klemet felt a pang of emotion. He remembered her at twenty. Fantastic looking, with a devastating smile, irresistibly fresh and natural. Not much of that left now. She had turned him down at the time, like all the others. He didn’t hold it against her. Much. She hadn’t been unkind. She had just said no, laughing, like the rest. A quick kiss on the mouth, meaningless as far as she was concerned. She had haunted him, like the others. Klemet had suffered, but the worst of it was, he had taken it for granted that a quick stolen kiss was all he deserved. Nothing more. He had settled for the crumbs at the feast. When he was posted back home after his years on the Stockholm force, he had relished his new status in the eyes of the local women, Ingrid included. Obsessed by the rejections of his younger days, he had seen them all as if they were still twenty years old. Now, he saw them for what they were: women worn down by the trials of life, struggling to hold on to their looks and claim their share of happiness. They had become like him, happy with a furtive kiss. It had taken thirty years for them to call it quits.

  Ingrid reappeared. Klemet smiled at her. She held a thin file in one hand.

  “You’ll be disappointed if you’re after precise details, but take a look at this.”

  She motioned for him to move behind the reception desk, keeping the file out of sight. He made his way around to the other side.

  Quickly, he glanced down the topmost form. André Racagnal, date of birth, contact details. Société Française des Minerais. Project at the research stage. And, finally, the geographical details.

  “Can I get a photocopy of this?”

  “I’d rather not, Klemet, if you don’t mind. I’d be worried that was a step too far.”

  He didn’t insist but took out his notebook. The prospecting area mentioned on the form was huge. The envelope contained two applications, in fact.

  “Why two applications?” he asked.

  Ingrid took a look. “He’s applied to search in two different areas, that’s all. The first request covers a vast area northwest of Kautokeino. That was lodged last autumn and seems to have been stamped by the committee yesterday, Wednesday. The second request looks like more of a rushed job. It mentions three zones within a large area extending east and southeast of here. Seems to have been sent over from the Mining Administration sometime yesterday morning. And it was stamped late yesterday afternoon. Well, that was quick.”

  “What makes you think it’s a rushed job?” asked Klemet.

  “Not sure, really. These are only applications to prospect in the field, I suppose. We’ve had quite a few through from the Mining Administration in recent months. They usually take a while to compile and process, but the second one looks as if it was done in a hurry. The final decision on the actual licenses for exploratory drilling will be taken on February 1.”

  Klemet was taking notes, saying nothing but trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle. When he had got all the information he needed, he moved closer to Ingrid and cupped his hand tenderly around her face, gazed at her for a second, then kissed her on the forehead.

  Ingrid smiled and raised her hand in a discreet wave as he walked away.

  “Call me,” he said, and left the building.

  * * *

  4 p.m., Central Sápmi

  André Racagnal had very little time to pull off an extraordinary feat. The wretched hick farmer was insisting he find the gold seam double-quick, because he had no idea of the work involved.

  After studying the maps on his own at the café, he had isolated three zones within the vast area suggested by Olsen’s geological map, and he confirmed them again the next morning with Aslak. Even that had been a near-impossible task in such a short space of time. The obstinate old fool had been right on one thing, at least. His Sami guide seemed to know the region inside out.

  Aslak lay stretched out on the trailer behind Racagnal’s snowmobile, packed in between the bags and storage boxes. The Frenchman paid little attention to him, but he needed his local knowledge. He was forced to drive slowly and avoid shaking him up too much. At this speed, it would take three hours to reach the first location he wanted to look at. He had set off just after the passage of a low bank of cloud that had barred the horizon for some time. Now the sky was clear again. A sky for the Northern Lights, he thought. He had no idea why, but the spectacle of the aurora borealis was the only thing that moved him. Really moved him, not just excited him, like the young schoolgirls. He had realized this on his first visit to Lapland years before. The wild dance of the Northern Lights seemed to embody the desperation of his own life. He saw its fleeting beauties, its irresistible energies, its chaos.

  According to the map, he could follow the course of a frozen river for the whole of this first stage of the journey, which made driving easier. There were few bumps, nothing to crash into. The wind had swept the sky clean, and a bright moon lit up the way ahead. The ride was smooth, and Racagnal’s thoughts turned again to the mine. His initial observations were insufficient for a clear, precise picture. He would have to compare various coordinates and details, to see if they concurred with the old map. He didn’t believe in luck. He been spared such naïveté. His creed was simple: life was the sum of a set of choices. Leave nothing to chance. Anticipate everything. And accept the outcome of your choices. Live with every decision. His personal creed had kept him alive this far and made him one of the best geologists in the business: what envious colleagues saw as his exceptional instinct was in fact the result of diligent, hard work. His approach to life also meant he could pursue his urges in relative peace. Still, he knew he had made a series of blunders over the past few days. The hick farmer and the cop had trapped him. He would have to find a way to redress that anomaly in his career. He turned his attention to the frozen river, rounding its curves. The moonlight dimmed. He couldn’t allow his concentration to lapse. He slowed down for a moment, turned to check on the Sami, then focused on his driving again. The surrounding terrain was relatively flat, punctuated by clumps of young trees struggling skyward. Racagnal could see for some distance, in spite of the dark. He was riding over the high plateau now, a rolling landscape of low hills and gentle dips, having traveled for over an hour with no sign of a light. He stopped at the mouth of a small valley, taking advantage of the view, and cut the snowmobile’s engine. They were engulfed in total silence. When he moved away from the warmth of the scooter, the cold bit suddenly, and hard. Racagnal lifted his eyes for a moment. No sign of the Lights yet. He took out his radio and sent a message. Then he turned to look at the Sami. Couldn’t make out the expression on his face—it was too dark. But he could see the man watching every move he made.

  * * *

  5:30 p.m., Kautokeino

  Nina and Klemet would be away for at least two days. They met at the agreed time, at the police station in Kautokeino. The Sheriff had asked to see them before they left. Tor Jensen liked to keep his troops on a tight rein.

  The bowl of salmiakki was back. Klemet raised a hand in greeting. The Sheriff held out the bowl. Klemet declined the offer, as did Nina. Tor Jensen fr
owned, pushing the sweets to the very edge of his desk, as far as possible out of reach, then slid a folder over to Klemet.

  “A photograph of your Monsieur Racagnal. And a few bits of information picked up here and there. Nothing much. Why the interest?”

  “He’s suspected of sexual harassment. But it turns out he works in the mining industry. Which makes him doubly interesting.”

  Jensen frowned. “Not much to go on, is it?”

  “Well, the sexual harassment is important, of course,” said Nina pointedly. The Sheriff caught her tone, but said nothing.

  “So, Malå. What was all that about again?”

  “After looking at the photos from the 1939 expedition, we’re convinced the link between the drum and the Sami legend about the cursed mine is worth exploring,” said Klemet. “The Geological Institute archives may have something.”

  The Sheriff frowned, apparently less convinced than at their meeting earlier that day. He leaned forward and pulled the bowl back toward himself, picking out three black licorice sweets at once. “You know the UN conference is almost upon us,” he said, with his mouth full.

  Klemet and Nina nodded.

  “It’s been made abundantly clear to me that all this has to be resolved by then. So don’t go saddling us with even more investigations, please! On your way back, stop in at Kiruna. They’ve promised me the latest forensic results from the murder scene.” Jensen looked at the two officers. “So? Still here?”

  Klemet hesitated. “There are a lot of us on this case. But I get the feeling some people are keeping their cards close to their chest. For example, we only just found out that Brattsen questioned the Frenchman a week ago. A week! And we knew nothing about it.”

  “Well, let’s ask him, shall we? I’m assuming you’ve been sharing with the rest of the class as required, Klemet?”

  “Of course. Everything we can be sure of, at any rate.”

  The Sheriff pressed a button on his phone panel. “Rolf, can you come in here, please?”

  Silence reigned. Tor Jensen picked at the bowl of sweets.

  Brattsen entered the room two minutes later. He didn’t bother to acknowledge Klemet or Nina, but shot a questioning look at Tor Jensen.

  “You’re aware of a certain…Racagnal around town?” asked Jensen, reading the unfamiliar name from the case file.

  “Racagnal? French? Yeah, I questioned him a few days ago.”

  “And why did you not tell the Reindeer Police about this?”

  “Why would I? It was just a pub brawl. Nothing to do with this case. Wouldn’t want the Mounties to get too overloaded, would we?” he added, underscoring the heavy irony with a look to match.

  The Sheriff seemed to be weighing up the situation. “What happened, exactly?”

  “A pub brawl, like I said. Between the French guy and Ailo Finnman. Jonne and Mikkel were involved, too. Nothing serious. The Frenchman didn’t even want to file a complaint. I had to insist on taking a statement.”

  “So the Frenchman was the plaintiff?” asked Klemet, disappointed.

  “Yes, why the surprise? The breeders jumped him. Ailo, followed by the other two, as per usual.”

  “Why?” asked the Sheriff.

  “The herders were the worse for a few beers. All it takes with that lot, believe me.”

  “And where’s the Frenchman now?” asked Klemet.

  “How should I know?” Brattsen’s response was sharp, irritable. “He was here to prospect. He’ll be out doing that somewhere.”

  “Alone?”

  “No idea. He knows the area. I expect he’s capable of setting out unaccompanied.”

  “And he shows up at the council offices a few hours before Ingrid finds the ear,” Klemet insisted.

  “So?” Brattsen glanced suspiciously at Klemet. “What is this? Taking me in for questioning, are you?”

  “Seems he was there to try and see Olsen,” Klemet continued. “Do you happen to know whether they saw one another, finally?”

  “No, he didn’t see him!” Brattsen barked his reply.

  “How do you know that?” Klemet’s tone was even, unruffled.

  “I don’t think he saw him,” Brattsen corrected himself. “I don’t know. What does it matter anyway whether he saw him or not?”

  Jensen sighed heavily and pushed the half-empty bowl to the end of his desk. Brattsen reverted to his usual hard glare. Klemet glanced at the Sheriff. With a jerk of his chin, Jensen indicated the door.

  * * *

  Klemet had been at the wheel of the Reindeer Police’s Toyota pickup for a good hour already. He had loaded what seemed to Nina to be a great deal of superfluous equipment for the trip—sleeping bags, camping stove, provisions for two days.

  “Old habits,” he explained, when she commented.

  “We don’t go by the clock in the Reindeer Police,” he told her as they drove. “That’s meaningless here. Three-quarters of what we do is connected with disputes over reindeer breeding, across vast areas. Sometimes you get a call and you’ll be gone for four days.”

  Nina peered through the car window. Black night. The headlights showed nothing but snow-covered slopes and sparse dwarf birches. The tarmac was covered with packed ice, but with a top layer of grit, and his snow tires, Klemet maintained a steady fifty-five miles an hour. The road ran straight, over long distances. In the darkness, the lights of oncoming vehicles were visible from a long way off. Since leaving Kautokeino they had passed one car and two big trucks, throwing up swirls of powdery snow in their wake.

  They crossed the Finnish section and drove on into Sweden. The thermometer showed the outside temperature: minus 13°F. Klemet slowed and parked in a turnout at the top of a hill. He left the engine running, suggested coffee.

  Nina got out to stretch her legs. She was wearing a heavy snowsuit over her uniform, with her chapka and thick gloves. She stood still, her face turned to the sky.

  “If it’s this cold, should we see the Lights tonight?”

  “Nothing to do with the cold,” Klemet told her. “It’s just that you need clear weather for the Lights. And in winter, clear weather means cold weather.”

  “What produces the aurora?”

  “Not really sure. Something to do with the sun. The Sami say the Lights are the eyes of the dead. And because of that, you should never point your finger at them.” He handed Nina a plastic cup full of coffee.

  “The eyes of the dead,” she repeated his words. “Well it looks as if the dead are blind tonight.”

  34

  Friday, January 21

  Sunrise: 9.41 a.m.; sunset: 1.20 p.m.

  3 hours 39 minutes of sunlight

  7:30 a.m., Central Sápmi

  André Racagnal and Aslak Gaupsara had slept just a few hours in a herder’s shelter before hurriedly setting off again. It was dark, with banks of low cloud blocking the faint hint of light that should have been felt at this time of day. They had not spoken once. Racagnal had slept lightly, fitfully, attentive to the Sami’s every move, ready to knock him out flat if necessary, tie him up if it came to that. Or worse, if Aslak caused him too much trouble. Racagnal had formed a clear picture of what was at stake; he wouldn’t hesitate to take the necessary measures. If the Sami had to die, then die he would. Racagnal’s task would be all the more difficult, for sure, and probably impossible in the timeframe imposed by the old farmer, but he knew he could find what he was after, alone. Perhaps the SFM would cover him then, if he discovered a really superb seam.

  He knew his methods looked wildly unorthodox in the eyes of any professional in his field. His expedition was doomed to failure in the eyes of any rookie geologist. He could hear the youngsters now, laying down the law, telling him all about aerial geophysical surveys, moraine samples, bore holes, laboratory tests, studies of old and recent maps, field-book research, studies of field reports. Fastidious, scrupulous research. A mix of fieldwork, lab work, archive work: the mysterious alchemy that was the pride of his profession. And here he was, flout
ing it all. If his bosses knew what he was up to, they would probably earmark him for early retirement. But that was a risk he would take. Double or quits. If he drew a blank, he had a great deal to lose. But if he came good…

  He glanced back. Aslak was still on the trailer. Racagnal couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but he felt his constant gaze. The landscape rose and fell more than yesterday, but the vegetation was unchanged. No pines, just a few skimpy birch trees, their trunks twisted in torment. He couldn’t be far now from the first observation point he had identified: the snow cover was thinning. In the light of his powerful headlamps, Racagnal could even see patches of earth, blown clear by the wind. This section of the Finnmark deserved its reputation as an Arctic desert, there was so little precipitation.

  Racagnal rode on for another half an hour, then looked for a place to set up camp, finally choosing a spot above a bend in a river. Rivers were cherished friends for people like him. Lapland consisted of vast expanses of granite. You had to find the fault lines—these were where the water ran off, carrying the minerals with it. A river meant a fault line, a weak point in a fractured expanse of rock, used by the river to carve out its bed.

  He explained to Aslak what he planned to do. The Sami raised a makeshift shelter and spread the reindeer skins on the ground, then cut some wood. Soon, smoke was rising from inside the tent. Everything had to be in place before the first rays of the sun broke the horizon. They could not afford to lose a moment of daylight. Racagnal looked at the sky. The clouds were thinning. The sky brightened. With luck, it would be clear within an hour, for the start of his exploration. He looked again at the modern geological map of the area and compared it with the old, hand-drawn sheet. The author had been at pains to conceal the exact spot. Subtle and clumsy all at once. The map looked quickly drawn, he thought. Too quickly, perhaps. Yet its fine detail suggested hours of painstaking analysis of the rock fragments collected in order to record them on paper.