Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  Racagnal had very little time. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how important it was for him to make a success of this harebrained mission. He couldn’t afford to become the object of a police investigation. Couldn’t let his victims’ eyes become the eyes of his accusers.

  38

  Saturday, January 22

  9:55 a.m., Swedish Lapland

  Klemet and Nina hadn’t stayed long in Kiruna. Preparations were in full swing to welcome some of the delegations attending the UN conference. Huge Sami tents had been put up, housing exhibitions or seminars. Workmen were unloading sound equipment in the foyer of the Ferrum hotel. Klemet and Nina walked the length of the redbrick City Hall, with its clocktower of metal girders. Nina was wide-eyed, seeing the capital of Swedish Lapland in daylight for the first time. She had come here when she joined the Reindeer Police just a few weeks ago, but it looked quite different now in the early sunshine. She managed to persuade Klemet to take a photograph of her in front of City Hall. Her partner was half asleep this morning—she had to ask him to take the picture three times, to be sure to get everything in: Nina, the City Hall, and the mine in the background.

  They drove out of town. Immediately, the tundra asserted its presence. Yesterday’s clouds had cleared, the sun shone, and the intense glare ricocheted off the hills. Sápmi lay sparkling and glittering all around. The immensity of the landscape, its vast horizons, were plain to see. So different from what Nina had known in the furthest part of her deep, narrow fjord, with its sheer cliffs plunging straight into the sea, its scraps of moorland, and its fields perched high above the water. You had to go to the mouth of the fjord and gaze out west to the horizon to experience anything on the scale of Lapland. The tundra would have its secrets, Nina thought, like the sea. She had learned all about that. She had suspected nothing, as a young girl, until her mother spoke to her about her father’s problems. He had gone down to the bottom of the sea, and he had never been the same. The sea that seemed so predictable, so knowable, concealed forces that had almost killed him.

  Nina opened her rucksack and pulled out the folder containing the report on Mattis’s poncho.

  “Motor oil, but not from Mattis’s scooter,” she said, thinking aloud.

  “Yes, it could have come from the scooter that left the deep tracks,” said Klemet. “We’ll have to look into that when we get back. We need to look again at the list of all the scooter models and fuels and oils used by each of the herders. We’ll check out all the service stations locally. Might speed things up.”

  “Klemet, what do you think about the blood under the eyes?”

  Nina’s partner seemed transfixed by the icy, sparkling road. “Blood smeared under the eyes, severed ears, it’s looking more and more like some kind of ritual. But…”

  Klemet fell silent. Nina knew he was stuck, like her.

  “Ritual? Could that really be some sort of Sami rite? It’s so savage, so far from anything Scandinavian people would do. Yet the Sami seem such a peaceful people.”

  “They are, as a rule. Don’t say no one’s told you this yet—the Sami language has no word for war.”

  Hours passed in which Klemet and Nina took turns at the wheel. They turned on the radio after stopping for a short break. They were in Finland now, but the radio was picking up a Norwegian station. The NRK regional news for the Finnmark would be on soon. Nina poured coffee while Klemet drove. The newscaster began with the weather forecast, followed by news of a catastrophic road accident in Alta. Two dead, including a young man from Kautokeino. Nina stared at Klemet, who shook his head as the victim’s name was read out.

  “A young breeder. Decent guy. A tragedy for his family.”

  The NRK newscast continued. There was important news from Hammerfest, the region’s gas port. A major investment had just been finalized, bringing one hundred new jobs. Then news of preparations for the UN conference, and a host of cultural events taking place at the same time all over the region. Local associations were also organizing to get their voices heard.

  “Difficult to imagine so much activity when all you can see is the empty tundra,” said Nina.

  Gradually, the sky turned an astonishing, intense royal blue, matching the new intensity of the newscaster’s voice, for the next item:

  “And some news just in: Kautokeino police superintendent Tor Jensen has been suspended and summoned to an emergency meeting at regional police headquarters in Hammerfest.”

  Klemet slammed on the brakes. Nina spilled her coffee but ignored the hot liquid dribbling down her snowsuit. She sat riveted, like Klemet, to the radio news.

  “Speaking from Kautokeino, NRK reporter Tomas Mikkelsen says the emergency summons is highly unusual. Regional police headquarters intervened following the theft of the Sami drum from the museum in Kautokeino. With the UN conference in Kiruna just days away, the drum has still not been found. The artifact was due to go on public display for the first time, as a strong signal of UN member states’ reconciliation with their indigenous populations.

  “Still in Kautokeino, the identity of the murderer of reindeer breeder Mattis Labba remains a mystery. The savage crime has shaken the local population. Signs indicate that Labba suffered torture, with both ears torn off. Anxiety and surprise at the slow police response have been growing in the region, with Superintendent Tor Jensen taking the brunt of criticism. Sources close to police headquarters suggest the summons to Hammerfest may lead to his permanent dismissal.”

  * * *

  10 a.m., Kautokeino

  Berit Kutsi concealed her surprise when Karl Olsen called her over to the house earlier than usual, while she was still in the cowshed. She worked for just a couple of hours on Saturdays, making sure milking proceeded without a hitch, and the cows were well supplied with feed and water. She had barely finished when Olsen yelled for her. Berit hurried out of the cowshed straightaway. The cold bit hard, and the cowshed was heated to the minimum, to keep down costs. Berit wore an old, dark blue wool tunic over her snowsuit. An unorthodox look, but practical for seeing to the cows in such extreme temperatures. Emerging from the barn, she saw Jonne and his inseparable friend, Mikkel, clad in mechanics’ overalls. The two young herders earned extra cash by doing maintenance work on the local farmers’ machines. They climbed into a small van and drove off the farm.

  “God almighty, Berit! Get a move on, woman!” shouted Olsen.

  Poor Berit scurried over to the farmhouse, a sizable, rectangular block in yellow-painted wood, its door and window frames painted white, its entrance protected by a carved wooden portico. She almost slipped on the ice in her reindeer-skin boots, saved herself as best she could, then hurried up the steps under the portico and in through the door, eager to get into the warmth. She removed her boots and went through to the kitchen. Olsen was waiting, in his usual chair.

  “You took your time. Can’t spend my life waiting around for you. There’s cleaning to do here. I’m expecting people. And you can do a bit upstairs, too. You haven’t been up there for years. Make sure you’re finished by lunchtime. Well, get to it, woman!”

  Berit turned and walked through to the back room leading off the kitchen. She collected the broom, the dustpan and brush, and the cleaning products. Olsen’s old wooden house wasn’t that big, but it was well maintained. The wooden floors, and the few pieces of furniture in the kitchen and sitting room, were all of pale wood. Long narrow rugs, woven by the local women and sold in the market, added a touch of color. The ground floor had an impersonal look. No mementos, no sign of family life. The few items lying here and there were all related to Olsen’s business: equipment, tools, trade magazines, parts in need of repair. Old Olsen didn’t entertain often, and his sitting room was more of a workshop than a reception room. When he did have guests, he would invite them into the big kitchen, where he himself spent most of his time.

  Downstairs, the cleaning was soon finished. Berit tidied up the sitting room but dared not touch the tools and dismembered parts, knowin
g the farmer would fly into a rage if she moved anything. She tidied the magazines and a handful of Progress Party tracts into a neat pile next to the television.

  Berit was more curious to clean upstairs. She had been up there only once in ten years, at Olsen’s express wish, shortly after the old man’s wife had died. Olsen had asked her to fetch his wife’s clothes and do with them as she saw fit.

  “Burn them if you want, Berit, but get them out of here,” the old farmer had grumbled.

  It was no secret in town that the Olsens’ marriage had been cold, to say the least, for a good thirty years. Husband and wife had slept in separate rooms after their only son left home. He had gone to study engineering in Tromsø and never came back to Kautokeino after that. Olsen’s wife had been even more ill-tempered than her husband—a tigress by all accounts, a thoroughly uncompromising woman, harder and more moralizing than a platoon of Laestadian preachers bent on redemption.

  Cleaning upstairs in the past, Berit had seen one or two family photographs, pictures of relatives she had never come across in person. These had soon disappeared after his wife’s death. Olsen had been quick to stow the severe faces out of sight in a trunk, which he had taken to the attic.

  “The old scold wouldn’t even have portraits of my family on the walls.” Olsen had spat the words out. “Reckoned they were lost to the true faith. Degenerates, she said! Well, her lot can choke in there!” And he had slammed the attic door shut.

  Berit remembered that day well. She had seen no portraits since. So her curiosity was aroused when she noticed that the top landing and bedrooms had been hung with pictures again, but nothing like the ones she remembered. These were landscapes of the vidda. Berit was in a hurry to finish, but she lingered in front of each one, nonetheless. She identified one or two views of Olsen’s land: regular, well-maintained fields, their owner’s pride and joy. At the top of the stairs, Berit recognized a picture of his first-ever combine harvester. She went into his wife’s bedroom. There was just room to stand under the low ceiling. It was bare, apart from a mattress thrown onto the floor and some boxes piled in a corner. The room was unused since her death, yet it seemed clean and dusted. Berit crossed herself and closed the door behind her.

  “Haven’t you finished yet?” hollered Olsen from below.

  “Soon, soon. Just your room to do.”

  Berit slipped along the corridor and pushed open the door. The old farmer lived simply, and his bedroom was no exception. His bed stood immediately inside the door, fitted into an alcove in the old-fashioned way, the wooden panels painted and decorated with folk motifs. There were drawers underneath, and it was closed off with a curtain. Laestadians forbade curtains at the windows, but Olsen had found a way to get around his wife’s prohibitions by installing some for his bed, to shut out the endless summer light. Berit was not surprised that he still had none at the windows, even long after his wife’s death. That was like him. Anything to save money.

  Berit wiped a damp sponge and duster over the antique piece, opened the curtains, and shook the coarse sheets. She dusted the large, pale wooden wardrobe occupying the wall opposite the bed. She listened out for sounds elsewhere in the house, then opened it. The shelves were half empty. A few thick sweaters and shirts, pairs of jeans. Everything carefully folded. Berit dusted the shelves quickly.

  She looked around her and saw framed photographs on the other two walls. She went over and examined them all in turn. They formed a gallery of individual and group portraits. Olsen’s family, she thought, remembering the old farmer’s rage when he had thrown his wife’s pictures into the attic. One photograph of Olsen’s son showed the boy at his high school graduation, but there were no more recent pictures of him. Other, older pictures depicted what must be Olsen’s parents. Berit had never known them. A strict-looking couple, too. Olsen’s father wore a curious cowboy-style hat, unusual for a local farmer. He had been something of an eccentric, people said. Other photographs were of his grandparents. Berit dusted the frames.

  “Berit, for God’s sake, woman, haven’t you finished yet?”

  She dusted faster. When she had finished the frames, and a shelf supporting a scant row of books, she paused and looked around. At the far end of the room she saw a low door, possibly leading to a built-in cupboard that she had never noticed before. She listened, then moved toward the door. It opened outward, making no noise. It was dark on the other side. She felt for a light switch, revealing a small, dimly lit room. A cubbyhole, really. A tiny table with a rickety chair tucked under it were the only bits of furniture. The small space was cluttered with trunks, rolled-up documents, and maps. Moving these to one side, she found a small safe. Old Olsen probably didn’t trust the banks, she thought to herself. She wiped its top with a sponge, then carried on cleaning, intrigued but not daring to unroll the papers or open the trunks, in case Olsen crept up on her. I’m doing nothing wrong, thought Berit. Why should I be afraid? She shrugged nervously and dusted some more before stepping back into the bedroom and closing the little door behind her.

  A silhouette loomed in the doorway beyond the bed. Berit started and stifled a cry: Olsen had climbed the stairs silently in his stockinged feet. He looked at her, saying nothing, his legs planted firmly apart, arms hanging loosely at his sides.

  39

  Saturday, January 22

  2 p.m., Kautokeino

  Patrol P9’s pickup drove down the main street in Kautokeino. The sun had set, but a steely afterglow clung to the tops of the low mountains surrounding the little town. The buildings followed the curve of the Alta River, slumbering under the ice. On the west side of town, the ground rose steeply from the river to a summit barring the horizon, below which the sun had disappeared, silhouetting it now in a gleam of deep, clear blue. The western slope was home to Juhl’s museum, the Villmarkssenter hotel, the new Sami University College, and the gas station. The opposite bank offered a broader expanse of gently sloping ground rising to the eastern mountains, much further away and already shrouded in darkness. The advancing shadows had stolen over the church and the comfortable villas scattered along the western shore. Olsen’s farm stood near the river, on the edge of town. People joked that Olsen guarded the south, while the church guarded the north. The Sami had always lived mostly to the west, though many people had spilled over to the east side in recent years.

  On a normal Saturday afternoon, the police station would be standing empty. Police budgets didn’t allow for 24/7 manning, and the station’s public opening hours were those of any public administrative building—nine to five, Monday to Friday. In summer, you were lucky to find anyone there on a Friday afternoon, either. And in the moose and partridge seasons, absenteeism rocketed.

  Klemet pushed the door and found the station open. News of Tor Jensen’s summons to Hammerfest had sent shock waves through his small team. Klemet knew Tomas, the local NRK reporter, quite well. Well enough to know that the Sheriff’s official reprimand was more than hearsay. Tomas Mikkelsen was a newshound; he knew everyone, and his friends in the Labor Party, the controlling force in the region, made sure he got the gossip on every local intrigue. Klemet had thought about giving him a call but held back.

  He spotted the station receptionist. She looked utterly defeated. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of Klemet, and she burst out sobbing when he comforted her with a hug, patting her on the shoulder.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Oh!” Her words stuck in her throat.

  Klemet patted her on the shoulder again, then walked on down the corridor. Nina hugged the receptionist briefly and followed him in the direction of the Sheriff’s office. Klemet pushed the door. The room was as empty as Jensen’s bowl of salmiakki. There were voices coming from the kitchen where a group of officers were discussing the matter. They fell silent when they saw Klemet. He was about to ask them all what was going on when the kitchen door opened again and Rolf Brattsen entered. He glanced around, spotted the steaming coffee pot and filled a mug, taking his
time. Klemet’s hackles rose. Brattsen looked a little too sure of himself. The other officers said nothing. Cups and biscuit tins littered the big table. A plate displayed the crumbs of a round of pastries. One of the officers picked at them.

  Nina broke the heavy silence. “What’s happened with Tor?”

  Brattsen stood cradling his mug in both hands, blowing lightly across the surface of the coffee, eyes flicking around the room. One of the officers glared at Brattsen, then looked up at Nina.

  “Tor left early this morning for Hammerfest. It all happened very quickly. The chief ordered him in straightaway. Sounded pretty angry, from what the Sheriff said. The guys at the station in Hammerfest think it’s all politically motivated. Something came up during a sitting of the regional council yesterday evening, it seems. Completely unannounced. Not even on the agenda. The Conservatives, the Progress Party, and the Christian Democrats all demanded an explanation from the Sheriff about the ‘unbelievably slow police response to the exceptional events sullying the region’s reputation in the run-up to the UN conference.’ Their exact words. People are saying it all started here.” He caught Brattsen’s eye. “In Kautokeino, I mean, not the station.”

  “Why would the regional assembly get mixed up in this?” Nina wanted to know.

  “They get mixed up in matters that concern them,” Brattsen cut in suddenly, banging his mug down on the yellow plastic tablecloth. “We’re treading water here. And you can’t blame the politicians for getting edgy, with the UN conference around the corner. It’s what I’ve been saying from the start. We’ve been taking this too easy. Making too many allowances for the Sami. We’re cops, for Christ’s sake, not fucking ethnologists, zookeepers, mediators, or whatever else they’d have us be. Things need to get moving!”