Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  Most of the red lines on the map showed Mattis going about his business in the immediate vicinity of his trailer, doubtless keeping an eye on his reindeer. The massed lines drew waves across the landscape, breaking against the boundaries of his neighbors’ pastures, with prolonged spells at the trailer in between.

  “For a breeder involved in neighbor disputes, Mattis spent plenty of time back at his trailer,” observed Klemet. “Too much time. He left his reindeer unattended—in the days prior to his death at least. Not surprising his neighbors had had enough.”

  Nina was the first to trace a line that shouldn’t have been there. Not at the time indicated for it, at least.

  “Didn’t Berit say she heard the suspect snowmobile outside the museum at around five in the morning?”

  “Yes, about then. The scooter’s headlamps lit up her bedroom. The driver was wearing orange site overalls.”

  “Yes. And now, look at the date of the last reading.” Nina zoomed in on the GPS map. “This was at four twenty-seven in the morning on Monday, January 10. The last time Mattis parked his scooter in front of the trailer,” she noted. “He must have spent a good part of the night watching the reindeer.”

  “True,” said Klemet. “And he couldn’t have been at his trailer at four twenty-seven and riding away from Juhl’s place after stealing the drum at five, given that there’s about a two-hour ride between the two.”

  “But then, what’s this return trip to Kautokeino, on Sunday evening?”

  “The evening or the night of the theft.”

  “Yes. Mattis’s scooter leaves Kautokeino at one fifty-two in the morning. So he took two and a half hours to get back to the trailer. Not surprising in the snowstorm that night. Conclusion,” Nina went on, “he can’t have spent the night watching his reindeer, as he told us.”

  “Which explains why he was so tired when we saw him.”

  The two officers pored over the lines again.

  “Perhaps he was telling the truth—someone else had borrowed his scooter?”

  “Someone who had been at the trailer beforehand?”

  Klemet frowned.

  “After all,” Nina went on, “we have the tracks of a second scooter, with two people on it. We don’t know anything about what time they arrived. Nor what they wanted. Perhaps they were breeders who had come to give Mattis a hand rounding up his reindeer. And they could have gotten into a fight over something or other.”

  “But Mattis said he didn’t have any help, remember. He said he’d been working alone all night. Why would he want to hide the fact that he’d had help? It doesn’t make sense, Nina. No. I can see only one explanation.”

  He looked at her and saw she understood, but couldn’t put it into words.

  “You mean Berit may have been mistaken as to the time she gave?”

  “Mistaken. Or she was lying deliberately.”

  “Berit? Lying? Impossible. She might have heard another scooter at five. The thief’s scooter.”

  “That’s one hypothesis,” admitted Klemet. “But the data shows Mattis’s scooter, with or without Mattis driving it, arriving outside Juhl’s—and Berit’s house—around ten on Sunday night. And it doesn’t move during the evening. That raises a lot of questions.” Suddenly, he looked at his watch. “It’s half past eight. Not too late to pay Berit a call.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Klemet and Nina pulled up outside Berit’s home, then sat for a moment in the car. It was pitch dark now, as it had been at 5 a.m. on the day of the theft. The Youth Hostel—scene of a drunken party that same night –was clearly visible across the narrow road.

  Berit’s small, yellow wooden house stood just a few dozen yards from the entrance to Juhl’s museum. Anyone standing at one of her windows had a clear view of its entrance. There were lights on inside the house. Berit went to bed early, but for the moment she was still up. Deep snow lay all around the walls, almost reaching the windowsills, the thick white drifts illuminated in the glow of the streetlights. A section of the snow cover on the roof had fallen away. Berit had cleared a path to her front door, but left the rest of the ground around the building untouched. Her car was parked in a small covered space that also sheltered a pile of birch logs.

  As they got out of the car, Klemet and Nina saw a silhouette pass slowly behind the kitchen window. Parallel scooter tracks ran into the snow under one window. Their footsteps creaked in the crystal powder. The temperature had dropped again, to almost minus 22°F. Klemet knocked on the door. They heard small noises inside and the door opened.

  Berit greeted them with an air of surprise. Then her face creased into a smile, as she recognized Nina.

  “Don’t stay out there—come into the warm, you’ll die of cold.”

  The officers stepped inside and took off their shoes. Berit led them straight into the kitchen and invited them to sit at the small pine table. She was wearing a royal blue wool-cloth tunic cut in a pretty, flaring shape. A band of red velvet was sewn around the hem, flounced like a theater curtain and edged by a fine fillet of gold braid. Around her shoulders and across her chest she wore a richly colored scarf in the Sami livery of red, yellow, green, and blue, fastened with a brooch. Her red wool headdress was also stitched with strips of gold braid, lighting up her deeply lined face and brown eyes.

  Berit remained standing, her hands clasped in front of her, glancing from Klemet to Nina with a questioning look.

  “Coffee?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she turned and prepared the French press. The kitchen was modestly furnished, like the rest of the house, in varnished pine. Klemet guessed there would be two bedrooms upstairs, at the very most. The sitting room would be about the same size as the kitchen, or very slightly bigger. A laundry room would complete the layout, doubtless behind the small door to the left of the antiquated fridge. The floor was covered with brown linoleum. The few visible utensils were tidily arranged in places they had doubtless occupied for years. Apart from a packet of coffee and a small basket containing two apples, there was no food to be seen. The kitchen table was covered with a square of checkered PVC cotton, puckered in places and crisscrossed with cuts.

  Nina felt sure her mother would have admired Berit’s simple life, although the dim light gave no feeling of cozy intimacy, only heightening Nina’s impression of gloom and loneliness. Berit was a woman to whom life had not been kind. She contented herself with the strict minimum. Her solitude was not the only explanation: her Laestadian faith did not encourage the acquisition or display of material wealth.

  Berit smiled again at the officers and took out two cups. Then with a knife she cut the two pieces of fruit into thin slices, which she placed on two plates, one in front of each of them. She lit a small candle and set it in the center of the table, then poured herself a glass of water. But she did not sit down. Klemet and Nina sat in silence, respecting the solemnity of the moment. They said nothing but watched the older woman closely, trying to decipher the expression on her kindly, lined face, framed by the glowing colors of her outfit.

  Berit was the first to break the silence. “How can I help? Do you have any news about Mattis’s murderer?”

  “The investigation is progressing,” said Klemet. “And I hope you can help us, Berit. In fact, I’m sure you’re going to be able to help us.”

  Berit smiled, her hands joined in front of her. “Well, I’ll be happy to, God willing.”

  Klemet nodded and took a map from out of his rucksack. Something to back him up. Berit moved forward to take a look.

  “You see, Berit, you said you heard the thief’s scooter at around five o’clock in the morning, on Monday. But we haven’t found any tracks to confirm this. Which is strange. On the other hand—we know another scooter was here a few hours before that.”

  He paused. Berit maintained her slight, attentive smile. But her knuckles whitened, clutching at her glass of water.

  “Really, are you sure?”

  “You know there was a party goi
ng on at the Youth Hostel?” Nina intervened for the first time.

  “A party?”

  “Do you remember the weather that night?” Klemet added quickly.

  Berit looked confused and uncertain now, caught off guard by the quick-fire questions. She placed a hand on the back of the chair in front of her, as if to steady herself.

  “A party, the weather…I don’t understand any of this. Please. I’m old and tired.” Her eyes half closed and she looked suddenly lost. A figure of pity.

  “Berit, you said you were woken up by the sound of a snowmobile engine,” Klemet persisted. “Did you hear our car pull up tonight?”

  “I…Yes…No, I don’t know. I think I wasn’t paying attention. I was tidying up.”

  “Berit, there was a storm that night. The wind was blowing very hard. You couldn’t have heard the snowmobile driving away from the museum. The gale would have covered the noise. That’s the truth.”

  Berit gripped the chairback, saying nothing. Her mouth worked in small, strange movements, as if she was biting the inside of her lower lip. But she remained silent. Klemet decided the moment had come to force her hand.

  “The thing is, Berit, we know that Mattis’s scooter was parked here for a good part of that evening. From ten o’clock on Sunday night until around two twenty on Monday morning. Does that seem strange to you? Like the scooter tracks in the snowdrift outside, as if someone had piled into it without stopping in time. Very strange, don’t you think?”

  “Oh dear God, my God…” Berit’s voice was shaking. With trembling hands, she placed her glass on the table, spilling a few drops of water.

  Nina stood up and took the older woman gently by the shoulders. She pulled out a chair and helped her to sit down. Berit let herself be guided by the policewoman. Nina held Berit’s right hand in hers.

  “Can you tell us, Berit,” she asked, “did Mattis come to see you here on that Sunday night?”

  “Oh dear God, my God, almighty Lord.”

  Berit shot a desperate look at Nina, who tried to coax her with an encouraging smile. Berit stared at her, then shifted her gaze to Klemet, who was leaning across the table. She looked back to Nina, who sat watching the Sami woman attentively.

  “Oh Lord help me!”

  Berit burst out sobbing. She wept freely, invoking almighty God, shaking her head, unaware of her tightening grip on Nina’s hand. The young policewoman kneeled close to Berit’s chair, clasping her hand in return. Klemet looked for a roll of kitchen paper, but could find only a tea towel. He got to his feet, fetched it, and held it out to Berit, who was still crying, nodding, and shaking her head, her whole body trembling now. Nina took a corner of the cloth and gently wiped the corners of Berit’s eyes. The Sami woman seemed to recover herself. Her tear-soaked face cleared for a brief moment. She smiled sadly, sniffed, and placed a trembling hand on Nina’s cheek. Then she looked at Klemet.

  “Yes, Mattis was here that night. That was the last time I saw him.”

  She burst out sobbing again. The police officers exchanged glances. Nina was deeply moved by the older woman’s reaction. Her eyes were filling with tears, too. Klemet invited her to speak first, with a jerk of his chin.

  “Tell us about it, Berit,” said Nina.

  Berit took the tea towel and blew her nose into it at some length.

  “Oh Lord, my Lord…”

  Her voice was calmer now. She shook her head a little.

  “Mattis, that poor, poor man. He never had any luck in life. He was desperate that night. And he’d been drinking. God knows, he’d been drinking.”

  “What happened?” asked Klemet. “Why had he been drinking?”

  Berit wiped her eyes. “The drum, Klemet. The drum. He was obsessed with drums, you know that. But it was different with the drum at Juhl’s place. That one was genuine. And someone had got it into Mattis’s head that he could harness its power and become an even greater shaman than his father. Oh dear God, Klemet, the Lord knows I tried to reason with him. But he had been drinking that night, and…he went outside. I saw him come back again not long afterward. He was carrying something wrapped in a blanket, and he went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. I heard him chanting, grumbling, shouting, then chanting joïks again. And he became angry. I heard the sound of a breaking bottle at one point, and then he was crying. He went on like that for perhaps two hours. It was horrible, it went on and on. I started to feel really worried at one point. I went upstairs. I didn’t even dare open the bedroom door. I looked through the keyhole. Oh dear Lord, the vision of it! I came straight back downstairs.” Berit looked shaken. “I sat down here on this same chair, and I prayed. And I prayed.”

  Berit drank some water. She seemed calmer now and had stopped crying.

  “Finally, he came down. The poor man. He looked so unhappy, so desperate. There was no life in his eyes. I don’t think I had ever seen him like that. He came into the kitchen, and he was still crying a little. He cried on my shoulder, weeping like a child. And then, all of a sudden, he straightened up, and he said, ‘At any rate, it’ll cost him if he tries to get it back now.’ That was all. But he looked thoroughly decided. He collected his things and left.”

  Berit pressed the tea towel to her mouth for a moment, unable to speak.

  “And I never saw him again.” Her voice sounded choked and she broke down, sobbing all over again.

  The two officers let her cry. Nina took her hand once more.

  “What time was it when Mattis left?” asked Klemet.

  Berit recovered herself. “It must have been the time you said just now, about two or two thirty in the morning. I was exhausted.”

  “So he went outside for a moment around midnight?” said Klemet. “Can you say for certain where he went, and what was under the blanket?”

  Berit looked at him. “You know perfectly well, Klemet. He went to the Juhl Centre, and he was the one who took it, the cursed drum whose power he had been told could be his. Oh dear God, that whole night he tried to control the drum. I could see what he was doing. He wanted it to obey him, but it wouldn’t—the poor man—of course it wouldn’t. And it tore him apart that he was not up to the task.”

  “Do you know to whom he was referring when he said, ‘It’ll cost him if he tries to get it back’?”

  “No. No, I have no idea. But I do know that’s what killed him.”

  42

  Monday, January 24

  9:50 p.m., Kautokeino

  Rolf Brattsen’s new orders had been carried out with exemplary rapidity. Brattsen had been crystal clear. No hanging about. Action. Fast, effective action. They needed results.

  “We’re going for it,” he said.

  Brattsen would have liked to authorize his men to carry their firearms, but he recognized that might be taking things a little too far. According to the information obtained to date, Olaf Renson was still at the Sámediggi in Kiruna. Brattsen saw little point in putting his Swedish colleagues onto the case. It would only complicate things, and he hated bureaucracy almost more than he hated the Lapps and Pakistani immigrants. Might as well wait until Renson came back to Kautokeino. The latest session of the Sami parliament had ended earlier in the afternoon. Brattsen had made discreet inquiries and discovered Renson would be back in town the following morning.

  Two teams were sent to corner Johann Henrik, before the breeder set out into the vidda from his trailer. They would camp as close as possible to his pitch, ready to act in the early hours of the morning. Discretion was vital. In any case, Brattsen didn’t expect the breeders to put up much of a show of resistance. He was counting on the Lapps’ natural respect for authority. The only one likely to cause trouble was Renson. That idiot was capable of rallying the media and coming over all indignant and horrified, as only he knew how, like last time when he was arrested for planting explosives under the minehead in Sweden.

  If all went well, Rolf Brattsen would be the man putting the two Lapps behind bars, by Tuesday. Even earlier than planned. Fucking b
rilliant work, he told himself. Old Olsen was right—his intuition had paid off. And if everything continued to plan after that—if the Frenchman and Aslak proved equally effective, out there in the tundra—he would soon be a rich man.

  * * *

  10:10 p.m., Central Sápmi

  Aslak and the geologist turned in for the night after another, even longer, day’s work. The Frenchman kept to his own corner of the tent, examining carefully the rocks he had collected. He made notes in his book, looked at maps, added symbols, consulted other books, peered at the stones through a magnifying glass, took measurements, made more notes, swearing continuously.

  Aslak did not know the science of stones like this stranger—who seemed like a man possessed. But he knew which stones were soft enough to carve, though he preferred to work with reindeer antlers. He had learned the art from his grandfather, following the animals on their migration, when the old man, unable to help him with the reindeer any more, spent his days in the camps they installed at each stage of the journey—after long treks or much shorter distances, as the reindeer saw fit. The family followed this ritual twice a year. The first was in spring, when the herds left the vidda after the birth of their calves, heading north to the coast and the rich green pastures of the inshore islands. The reindeer fled the summer heat of the vidda and the mosquitoes that tormented them. For the herders following them, the journey could take up to a month. The return trip took place in the autumn, when the summer pastures were exhausted. The reindeer obeyed their instinct, moving back to the vidda. Winter feed was meager. Lichen was made edible only because it was soaked and softened in the snow.