by Olivier Truc
“What do you mean by that?” Nina continued. “It seems to me we’re making progress, even if no one’s been arrested.”
“Oh yeah, making progress, are you? News to me. Truth is, we’re a laughingstock.”
“And what’s your suggestion?” Klemet hadn’t taken his eyes off Brattsen since he entered the room. “Because you’ve obviously got an idea up your sleeve. Go on, let’s hear it.”
* * *
12:30 p.m., Kautokeino
Olsen’s silence was even more disturbing than his usual violent outbursts of rage. The old man seemed to be sizing her up. Berit felt utterly transparent, as if he was trying to see into her soul, read her intentions. She lowered her eyes to the floor.
“I just finished,” she said quietly. She walked quickly past Olsen, who watched her go, rooted to the spot, turning his head until the pain of his stiff neck cut in.
“Dear God. Get on home! Wretched woman! And don’t think you’ll be cleaning up here again. You’re not needed!”
Berit wasn’t arguing. She hurried downstairs and busied herself dusting the hallway one last time. Olsen followed, grumbling under his breath. He pushed past her, watched as Berit finished what she was doing and climbed into her car, then went back into the kitchen.
He was waiting for Rolf Brattsen to drop by with the latest news. The old farmer had called up all his contacts on the previous evening. He’d spoken to Prince Charming at the council offices, too. Even managed to convince him this was a great opportunity for the Progress Party to stir things up a bit. He hinted strongly that his fellow councillor should contact his good friend, the Conservative member for Kautokeino and Alta, and use the current session at the regional assembly to make some noise about the whole business of the drum, and the murder. No harm dramatizing things a bit. Olsen had been suitably flattering, hinting that with the municipal elections coming up, he was thinking of stepping down as head of the Progress Party list in Kautokeino.
Prince Charming had been quick to take his meaning. Started sounding off as if he was already the town mayor. He had forced himself to listen, responding with great enthusiasm to his colleague’s vacuous ideas. He had advised caution, too, before the kid seized the telephone, calling contacts, pulling strings. Ideally, Olsen had suggested, with heavy emphasis, the intervention at the assembly should come from the Conservatives. Prince Charming had failed to see why the Progress Party should hide behind their center-right colleagues. Olsen had been expecting that.
“Like this, you can gauge reaction, lad,” he said. “If the assembly goes our way, you can get out your big guns, and then you’ll be in the front line when they’re handing out the plaudits—you’ll be the man with the solution.”
Olsen’s benign mask had almost slipped when Prince Charming fixed him with his usual, incomprehending stare. The solution? What solution? He was eager to know.
“I’ll explain later, lad.” Olsen was evasive. “But if the question falls flat, public opinion will come down hard on the Conservatives, see? Your backside’s covered!”
Now his colleague understood. Especially the bit about saving his own backside. Olsen had to admit, Prince Charming had acted with lightning efficiency after that. He had got the message out and the Conservatives had fired the question straight as an arrow during other business at the end of the session. It had struck home even better than Karl Olsen could have hoped.
The old man had rubbed his hands in satisfied glee for a good half an hour, all alone in his kitchen, when his colleague had called to report back. He grinned to himself and massaged the nape of his neck. The Conservative Party man had got all fired up, it seemed, the more so because he had been sent packing thirty minutes earlier by a Labor councillor over some business about funding for a community association. Everything had fallen into place perfectly after that. Now for the second phase of his plan. Olsen massaged his neck hard, looked at his watch, and cursed that ass Brattsen for his late appearance.
* * *
6:30 p.m., Kautokeino
Klemet was hungry for more. He wanted to find out what Brattsen was planning, what he really had in mind to sort this business out, as he had put it. Brattsen had come over all indignant and walked out, after which everyone had headed home. They would have to wait until Monday morning for more news. Klemet and Nina had already used up quite enough of their weekend. The investigation would resume on Monday, when the Sheriff’s fate became clearer.
Klemet wanted to invite Nina over, to mark the end of an intense week, but he didn’t feel he could ask her back to the tent again. Not after his recent blunder.
“Nina, do you fancy getting something to eat at the Villmarkssenter?”
“I’m exhausted, Klemet. Not tonight. I’m off to get some sleep. I’ll take some of the GPS data, you take the rest. See you on Monday!”
He found himself alone at the station. He had got used to that, ever since his younger days. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to his own company. He was hardened to it. It had even become a strength. He had understood: there was no one to rely on but himself. He had steered his own course. Other people thought of him as a solitary type, a little shy, perhaps. He didn’t see himself that way. Thought he was pretty friendly, really. He always spoke. It didn’t matter what people thought of him.
He wondered whom he could call tonight for a drink in the tent. He thought of Eva Nilsdotter. Too far away to invite, though they could talk on the phone. A terrific woman, a real character. Who else?
He switched off the light in his office, stood for a moment in the corridor. He pushed the door opposite, leading to the map room and the chest freezer packed with exhibits from the Reindeer Police patrols. He lifted the lid. Mattis’s frozen ears were in separate plastic bags, labeled individually and tied together with string. Small chance of confusing them with the dozens of reindeer ears piled alongside, he thought. He took the bags out and examined them from all sides. The incisions hadn’t kept their shape. Thoughtful, he put them back in the freezer and left the room. He went back to his office and reached for the handbook of breeders’ marks on the shelf. Some Sunday reading. Tonight, too, perhaps. He was tired. He wouldn’t call anyone.
The blue afterglow had disappeared by the time Klemet crossed the road on foot. Greenish lights flickered fitfully in the sky on the church side of town, quite low overhead, seeming to spring from out of the mountain. A lively night in store up there, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pushed open the door to the Villmarkssenter. He had hesitated to go alone. But he wanted to talk to Mads, ask after his daughter. The restaurant was busy, as always on a Saturday evening. In the corner farthest from the cash register, the biggest table was occupied by a group of twenty men. Klemet recognized some workers from the quarry taking shape along the Finnish border. The Saturday evening menu was always the same: reindeer hash with chanterelle mushrooms and potatoes. Sami families occupied the other two tables in the bay windows overlooking Kautokeino, each generation wearing traditional dress. A handful of other clients were scattered at tables around the room. A band was busy preparing the small podium.
Mads emerged from the kitchen and raised a hand in greeting when he saw Klemet, who took the table nearest the cash register. Apart from the quarry workers, he knew everyone in the room. The two families came from the same siida to the west of town, three generations sitting down together. The meal was a special occasion—the men were home just for this afternoon, before returning to the vidda. They came back to take a shower, fill their snowmobile tanks and jerricans with gas, and shop for supplies for the week ahead at the trailer. A chance to see the wife, kiss the children. Klemet looked at the youngsters. Two of them were about seven years old. The age he had been when he started boarding school in Kautokeino. Seven years old. Plunged into a strange world where people he didn’t know spoke to him in a language he couldn’t understand.
He stared out of the bay windows. The lights of Kautokeino shone at his feet. The town stretched
along the valley with the church to his right, picked out in floodlights. He couldn’t see the boarding school from here. It was lower down, beyond the center of town, near the banks of the Alta. But Klemet didn’t need to see it to remember every nook and cranny.
Mads interrupted his thoughts. The hotelier slipped a plate of reindeer hash in front of him, brought a couple of beers over to the table, and sat down opposite. The two men clinked their glasses and drank in silence. Klemet put down his glass and began to eat, savoring the melting flavor of the chanterelles on his tongue. He nodded appreciatively. Mads raised his glass again in Klemet’s direction, acknowledging the compliment.
“Is Sofia around?”
“In her room.”
“How is she?”
Mads thought for a moment, shaking his head slowly, as if weighing up his reply. He sported a thick brown mustache, a rare enough attribute in the locality. His face was full and round, and he had lost most of his hair. Local rumor held that one of his grandfathers might have been Italian.
“I think she’s feeling a bit better. When was it you came by? We’re Saturday. It was––”
“Thursday.”
“Yes. She shut herself up all day after that, didn’t eat anything. Dear God, Klemet, I didn’t see it coming.”
“I know.”
“Same thing yesterday morning. I wondered whether to send her to school or not. But I thought it would be better for her to go, rather than brood here.”
Klemet nodded, chewing his food. “You did the right thing,” he said, his mouth half full.
“Yes, I think so. She was better when she came back in the afternoon. And she spent the evening with a girlfriend in her class. And the same girlfriend spent the day with her today. They did a lot of talking, apparently. All highly top secret, but they talked.”
“Good, that’s better.”
“And…that character, the Frenchman. Did you get him?”
“Not yet. He’s out in the vidda somewhere, prospecting, but we don’t know exactly where. We’re looking. We’ll get him soon enough. I should warn you, Nina’s really on her high horse about this, and she’s right, of course. But if the guy denies everything, there’s not a lot we can do.”
Mads nodded, taking another sip of beer. The group’s opening chords filled the room. Klemet pushed his empty plate away.
“I wouldn’t mind a quick word with her, if that’s all right?”
Mads got to his feet, took Klemet’s plate and the glasses, and led him into the kitchen where his wife was emptying one of the dishwashers. Klemet saw Berit peeling potatoes, raised a hand in greeting, and reflected that he would have to question her on Monday. No need to let her know in advance. No point in worrying her. They went through to the private wing of the building. Mads tapped on a door. Heard no reply. Knocked harder. The door opened. Sofia peered around it, with an annoyed expression that turned quizzical when she saw Klemet.
“Hi, Sofia.”
“Hi.”
“Just wanted to say hello.”
She stood inside the doorway, poking her head into the corridor, and smiled. “So, hello then. That it? Can I get back to my friend now?”
“Could I just have a quick word?”
Sofia sighed. “OK, OK.” She turned back into the room. “Just a minute.”
The girl failed to get her friend’s attention—she was obviously listening to music, earplugs in place. Sofia yelled, “Ul-rik-a! I’ll be back in a minute!”
Then she stepped out into the corridor, keeping hold of the handle, leaving the door slightly ajar.
“Is that Lena’s younger sister, the one who works at the pub?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I just wondered how you were?”
“I’ll leave you to talk, if you prefer,” said Mads. “I’ll get back to the dining room.”
Sofia watched her father disappear along the corridor. “So did you get that creep?”
“Not yet, Sofia. But we’re on his trail. He’s out in the vidda, not easy to find, as you can imagine. But we’ll find him and bring him in for questioning.”
“Questioning?”
“Yes, to hear his version of events.”
“Why? Mine’s not good enough?”
“Well, no, we have to hear everyone and then we decide. Well, the judge decides. Well, if it gets that far, of course. How can I explain—cases like this can be…complicated.”
“What’s so complicated?” Sofia cut him short. “The guy’s a creep and a bastard. Nothing complicated about it. Honestly.”
“That’s just how the justice system works, Sofia. I thought I should warn you. We take cases like this very seriously, I can assure you. Nina is just as angry as you.”
“And you’re not?” Sofia retorted drily.
“Sofia, listen. I have to tell you that in the judge’s eyes, ‘wandering hands’ won’t be enough to convince him the Frenchman is a bastard who needs to be put behind bars.”
Sofia’s expression changed abruptly. She glanced quickly behind her into the bedroom, then quietly shut the door. She was standing right under Klemet’s nose now, her chin lifted almost horizontally, staring up at him, straight in the eye.
“The guy’s a bastard. A real bastard! You’ve got to catch him and put him in jail.” Then she turned on her heel and disappeared back into her bedroom, slamming the door.
Klemet stood in the corridor, stunned and perplexed. Had he handled things that badly? He was never at ease with cases like this, he had to admit. He should have told Sofia that he, too, took the case very seriously. He reached for the door handle, then hesitated. Should he apologize or not? He didn’t like making apologies. But she was just a kid. He should make an effort. There were no adults around to see.
He took a deep breath, gripped the door handle, hesitated again. Had Sofia told him everything? Had the Frenchman gone any further? Had Ulrika been giving her ideas? He released the pressure on the handle. Stared at it. He would talk about it to Nina.
He returned to the restaurant. A folk song was playing. In the kitchen, Berit was still peeling potatoes. She worked from morning till night, he thought. She wasn’t much older than Klemet, but she belonged to that sacrificed generation that had had virtually no access to education. Berit turned around, as if she had felt his gaze on her back. She saw him, watched him closely for a moment, then nodded and went back to her potatoes.
Klemet crossed the dining room. Mads was clearing the quarry workers’ table. The men were watching the musicians, talking and laughing. The children clapped their hands to the music. He collected his parka in the hallway and prepared to leave the building.
A group of young people hurried inside at the same moment, jostling him as they passed. He pressed himself to the wall to let them through. There were at least twelve of them, with a handful of girls, laughing and cursing the cold. He saw they were wearing miniskirts, in this cold, under their parkas. They took off their fur-lined boots and donned reindeer-skin ankle boots. The men were mostly young reindeer breeders. Ailo Finnman, apparently the group leader, led one of the girls onto the small dance floor in front of the band. They began to dance, to general applause. Klemet spotted Mikkel, too. And Jonne. The inseparable trio. He remembered he wanted to tell Mikkel something, but couldn’t remember what it was exactly. Two other young men Klemet didn’t recognize were with them, one busy removing his leather jacket, the other shuffling out of a set of filthy mechanics’ overalls. He saw a tattoo on one of the men’s arms. In a flash, he remembered. The truck driver who had insulted an elderly Sami woman at the crossroads. He went over to Mikkel, who had just finished taking off his snowsuit, took him by the elbow, and led him aside.
The herder started in surprise, then glared at Klemet’s hand on his arm.
“Mikkel, that guy with the tattoo…Friend of yours?”
“Er, not really. I know him a bit. That’s all.”
“If he’s a buddy, make sure you tell him to mind his language next time h
e talks to his elders and betters.”
Mikkel exhaled deeply. “Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“You were in his truck the other day, weren’t you? He’s a Swedish trucker, isn’t he? The day of the protest—remember what he said to the old lady?”
The young man reddened like a guilty child.
“I’d appreciate it if you made sure he didn’t talk that way again. Let him speak to your granny like that, would you?”
“I’ll tell him, Klemet. You can count on me, honest. He won’t do it again.”
He seemed relieved that was all Klemet wanted and was ready to promise anything.
“Good kid. You promise. And no acting disrespectfully. I’m serious about this, OK?”
Klemet put on his chapka and stepped outside. In a way, Mikkel reminded him of Mattis. Small-time herders, on the margins of Sami society, unable to make a go of it, liable to sink at any moment. Hard times for people like them.
Before climbing back into his car, he looked up to see how the Lights were doing. The aurora had expanded, rippling across almost half the sky, drawing strange motifs. Messages from space, he thought. As indecipherable as the cuts on Mattis’s ears. He drove away.
40
Monday, January 24
Sunrise: 9:24 a.m.; sunset: 1:.39 p.m.
4 hours 15 minutes of sunlight
8:15 a.m., Kautokeino
Tor Jensen, alias the Sheriff, was a popular chief, close to his team. His departure in such murky circumstances left his troops anxious and confused.
No one had any news, and the Sheriff’s cell phone was switched off. He was still in Hammerfest, it seemed. The whole squad was called in earlier than usual to receive urgent announcements “in the interest of the service.” Klemet had spent part of Sunday reviewing the local breeders’ earmarks one by one, heightening his sense of frustration. He had tried every possible combination, even the most unlikely, and ended up throwing the handbook across the sitting room.