by Olivier Truc
Nina looked shocked to hear her superintendent talk this way. Tor Jensen ignored her reaction.
“The Progress Party?” she said.
“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit. They’re gaining power and influence in the region. Up here, in the Red North! They’ve got the scooter lobby on their side.”
“The scooter lobby?”
The Sheriff turned to Nina, irritated by her questions. “You should know all about that, in the Reindeer Police. The scooter lobby, for Christ’s sakes! Tell her, Klemet. Do your fucking job.”
The Sheriff’s temper was clearly up, Klemet thought, with some amusement. He never swore, usually.
“Snowmobile users want the right to go riding around in the mountains on public holidays, like the Easter weekend, which is one of the best weekends of the year around here: still plenty of snow and bright sunshine, too. Norwegians from the coast come up for family outings. They spend three or four days in their little log cabins in the tundra, on the riverbanks. With their snowmobiles. But Easter is when the reindeer produce their young, and the herds need to be left undisturbed or the mothers might abandon their calves, which means big losses for the breeders. Which means a clash of interests. It’s not just about the snowmobiles, but that sort of sums up the kind of people you’re dealing with.”
“And the fucking snowmobile lobby carries a lot of clout in towns down on the coast,” added the Sheriff. “Easy pickings for the Progress Party when they’re looking for new voters.”
“It’s the same on the Swedish side, in Kiruna,” said Klemet. “There’s a powerful scooter lobby there, too. People who don’t want rules and regulations governing their free time—family outings, hunting, fishing—for whatever reason.”
“No way I’m letting Brattsen fuck everything up.” the Sheriff added, more to himself than to anyone else.
Klemet sat silent for a moment, watching his boss’s furious face in the firelight, then turned to Nina, who was sitting back on her heels. They exchanged a long glance, then she invited Klemet to speak, with a jerk of her chin.
“Good news and bad news this end.”
“Don’t play on my nerves, Klemet, this really isn’t the time.”
Klemet carried on regardless. “First the good news: we’ve reached a major breakthrough in the investigation. A very big breakthrough. Lots of people will heave a huge sigh of relief. Now the bad news: it may bring the whole of the rest of the case to a standstill. Or rather, the people at the top will take advantage of Brattsen’s arrests to call a halt there, drawing a line under the whole thing, on the eve of the UN conference.”
“You’ve found the drum?”
“In the chest behind you.”
Tor turned quickly to look.
“Steady,” said Nina. “It’s very fragile.”
The Sheriff lifted out the blanket and opened it carefully. He stared at the drum for several minutes. “Never seen anything like that before.”
Klemet explained how and where they had recovered it. The Sheriff nodded.
“Well, she’s guilty of harboring stolen goods, whatever you say. Anyone else know about this?”
“No one.”
“Hmm.” The Sheriff picked the drum up again. “So what does it tell us, this damned drum? Any idea?”
The officers’ blank looks told him all he needed to know.
“Well now, let’s see… Whole load of animals there. A snake. Something dangerous by the look of it. Seals over here.”
“I thought they might be birds. Crows, perhaps,” said Nina.
The Sheriff frowned. “Seals, crows, some sort of animal. Birds on the right there. Or mountains. There, over to the left, those are definitely tents, like on the cross. And some kind of sleigh pulled by a reindeer. The dots on the sleigh, what would they represent? Children? A swarm of mosquitoes. Or, no, what about iron ore? What do you think? And the stylized figures look as if they’re carrying, well, pistols.” The Sheriff gave a long sigh. “Got any kind of explanation for all that?”
“No, just a theory of Nina’s, for the moment.”
Klemet invited his colleague to elaborate while the Sheriff listened, nodding.
“A flooded mine, or a drowned village. It’s possible. Why not? In which case, our next question is whether the drum tells that story and nothing more, or whether it holds clues to the location of the village, or the mine. And what’s the link with Mattis’s murder?”
“Mattis was after the drum’s power. He wasn’t interested in its monetary value,” said Klemet.
“He wasn’t interested in money if it meant the pittance he earned selling the meat from a handful of reindeer,” said the Sheriff. “But the prospect of a great deal of money can change a man, Klemet. Even someone with no apparent interest in it, believe me. At any rate, for the moment, the drum is here with you, which is fantastic news. The case isn’t completely solved, but the fact that it’s been found will calm things down.”
“We weren’t planning to hand it back straightaway,” Nina corrected him.
Tor Jensen stared incredulously at the young woman. He glanced at Klemet, who seemed in agreement. The Sheriff realized they meant business.
“Nina’s right,” said Klemet. “If we give the drum back—coupled with the arrest of the breeders—it will effectively close the case. Everyone will be only too pleased to clear up the whole mess on the eve of the conference. But we know that’s not the end of the story. We need time. And we need you.”
“For God’s sake, Klemet, I’m yesterday’s man around here, and you’ve been taken off the case, dammit. Or have you forgotten that?”
“Double or quits,” Klemet retorted. “If we lose, we lose just a little bit more than we would have lost anyway. But if we manage to solve the case, you’ll get your share of the credit. People will say you did your duty in the toughest of circumstances, that you took brave, risky decisions. And everyone will be so happy with the outcome that all these…minor procedural irregularities will be forgotten.”
“Yes, but if we screw up?”
“If we screw up, you’re on the next boat to Spitsbergen. Without the remote-postings bonus.”
The Sheriff looked again at the drum, stroked its rim. “I’m going home. I haven’t seen this. And neither have you. You’d better keep Berit on a tight leash. Tomorrow, I’ll bring the rest of the dossier I’ve been compiling for you about your French geologist. I’ll give you three days, Klemet and Nina. Not a minute more.”
44
Tuesday, January 25
Sunrise: 9:18 a.m.; sunset: 1:45 p.m.
4 hours 27 minutes of sunlight
Johann Henrik’s trailer, Central Sápmi
Johann Henrik’s arrest was carried out smoothly, early in the morning, exactly as Rolf Brattsen had planned. The police had blocked every possible route off the site in case the breeder tried one of his trademark quick getaways, but the strategy had brought unexpected problems of its own. The cold was razor-sharp now, and one of the police officers suffered frostbite, while the others were badly chilled by the long, silent wait. The sky was clear, with just a few scattered clouds, and the thermometer had dropped to around minus 40°F. Johann Henrik wouldn’t have gotten far. In this cold, even Sami herders hesitated to go out. And Henrik could see he was trapped. He had sworn, spat, shouted threats, tried to make sure the police would be held responsible if his herd got mixed up with his neighbors’ animals. The officers carried out their instructions to the letter, making no concessions beyond a call to Henrik’s son, so that he could make arrangements to watch the herd in his father’s absence.
Olaf Renson’s arrest would be more complicated. But there, too, Brattsen had shown foresight and knew what to expect. Renson was an experienced media manipulator, with an excellent network capable of mobilizing quickly. Brattsen had supervised the operation, but was careful to remain in the background. Old Olsen had advised him not to show his face to start with. “If it all goes according to plan,” he told the acting superin
tendent, “you’ll have plenty of opportunities to show yourself in the right light. Your friends will know how to show their gratitude.” Really, Olsen thought of everything.
* * *
Kautokeino
Renson was eating breakfast at the Thon hotel when the police came for him. One of the officers informed him of the arrest warrant. As predicted, Renson reacted furiously, shouting in protest, calling on the hotel staff and a handful of guests at nearby tables to witness the scene. He cited his status as an elected representative of the Sami people, denouncing the arrest as a scandalous example of bare-faced discrimination. Brattsen had briefed his men: be firm, but use no physical force. And make no comment whatsoever. Don’t try to argue with him. The officers had been powerless to stop Renson asking the hotel staff to alert the media. After that, he had dragged out his departure, showing no overt resistance until Mikkelsen, the NRK reporter, arrived with a handful of press colleagues. With the journalists in place, Renson allowed himself to be taken away, remonstrating loudly about miscarriages of justice, accusing the officers of incompetence and racism, castigating them for the absence of genuine Sami police upholding Sami justice in the Sami territories.
“All we get is a few token Sami, collaborating with the Norwegian system. I am the victim of appalling injustice—proof again of our desperate need for enhanced autonomy!”
Brattsen was delighted. Indirectly, Renson was implicating Klemet Nango in his arrest. Old Olsen was right. If the arrest proved unfounded, Nango would be held responsible in the eyes of the populace.
* * *
Nina and Klemet listened to Renson’s outraged declarations on the radio in Klemet’s car—an old red Volvo parked now outside his uncle Nils Ante’s house in Suohpatjavri. The two officers, in plainclothes, were keeping a low profile. This time, Miss Chang heard the car pull up and greeted Klemet and Nina on the doorstep, wrapped in a thick fleece blanket.
“Hello, Klemet! This is your girlfriend?”
“My colleague.” Klemet smiled, amused by the young Chinese woman’s easy familiarity. “Is my uncle in?”
“Come, he is finishing his breakfast.”
The three of them moved into the kitchen, from where Klemet heard the beat of music, played on instruments he couldn’t identify.
“Chinese instruments. What an extraordinary sound,” exclaimed Nils Ante. “I’m trying to incorporate them into a joïk I’m writing for Miss Chang-Chang’s grandmother. Ah, and here is your charming girlfriend, at long last!”
“Nina’s my patrol colleague.”
“And you’ve come patrolling all the way out here?”
“There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“Really. Well, listen to the beginning of my joïk first.”
Nils Ante cut the music. A melodious chant rose in his throat. He extended his hands toward his young companion.
The days are long
When I cannot be with she
To whom I have given my heart.
His voice rose and fell with the long, meandering chant, repeating the words over and over, modulating the sound each time. Miss Chang held his hand, brimming with tender affection, drinking in the enchanting sound. The joïk went on for three long minutes. Klemet began to lose patience.
“That’s just the first verse, of course,” said Nils Ante at length. “So, do you like it?”
“It’s very beautiful. As always,” Klemet admitted. “The last part is rather melancholy, but lovely.”
“And you, Nina, what do you think?”
Nina had sat listening, wide-eyed. “Umm, I didn’t quite get the meaning!” she admitted, laughing. Miss Chang laughed, too, quickly joined by Nils Ante.
“Is that joïk really for Miss Chang’s grandmother, or Miss Chang?” asked Klemet.
Nils Ante responded with a wink. “Wait for the next bit. Now, to what do I owe this second visit in such a short space of time? More vultures circling lower overhead?”
Klemet signaled to Nina, who placed a blanketed bundle on the kitchen table. “Can Miss Chang keep a secret?”
“As if my life depended on it. So—what have you got there?”
Nina lifted one fold of the blanket. Nils Ante greeted the sight of the drum with a long whistle. He put on his glasses and took a closer look. Before studying the signs and symbols, he turned the drum over and cast a discerning eye over the curve of the back, its contours and texture. He looked at the stitching and nodded, as an appreciative connoisseur.
“I didn’t know you were such a specialist,” said Klemet.
“Why bring it to me, then, uncouth nephew? You’re hoping I’ll be able to tell you a thing or two about it, aren’t you? I can’t guarantee its authenticity, if that’s what you’re after. But it seems to conform to all the usual criteria. You would need expert analysis to determine the exact nature of the materials used. The ink, for example. But it is very beautifully made. I imagine this is the one that disappeared from Juhl’s museum?”
Klemet nodded.
“The signs on this drum are quite fascinating,” said Nils Ante. “I’m no expert. I’m more of a joïker, as you know. But I can see two or three things of interest. The upper section is quite simple. You’ve got a hunting scene, with this man stretching his bow. He’s hunting two reindeer and surrounded by quite thick, bushy pine trees. This is a scene showing a good, successful hunt. And the triangles either side of the line, filled with dots––”
“They’re icebergs, aren’t they, with the submerged part and the visible part?”
“Nonsense. These are Sami tents, of course, and the dots symbolize their inhabitants. The tents are fully occupied. What you see there is a Sami camp with many people in it, and lots of game, and luxuriant pine trees symbolizing abundance and plenty. This is a happy scene.”
Nina listened attentively. Klemet was fascinated, too. The drum’s hidden meaning was being revealed, bit by bit.
“But you surely notice something else?” Nils Ante went on. “The happy scene, the harmonious village, is concentrated in a tiny section of the drum, right at the top. This line, as you know, Klemet, separates the realm of the living from the realm of the dead.”
“We thought it might be something else,” said Nina. “The surface of the sea, perhaps, or a lake. A lake that might have drowned a village, or flooded a mine.”
“—separating the living from the dead, then,” Nils Ante went on as if he hadn’t heard. “And this realm of the dead is vast. Bigger than anything I remember seeing on other drums. But again, I’m no specialist. One thing is very clear, though. In this bottom section, below the tents with the dots representing the people, the same tents are overturned and empty. As if the inhabitants had been evacuated. Or were dead. And the realm of the dead is huge and terrifying here. The shaman would have had his work cut out with this. Times must have been hard indeed for those poor devils.”
“What do you mean?” asked Klemet.
“A magic drum includes a whole host of figures, and through these signs the shaman communicates the philosophy of life and the life of men. And the message here is very dark. This snake, for example, is very disturbing. It must symbolize evil—you know we have no snakes here in Sápmi. And you see these small figures here?”
“The other tents, you mean?” said Klemet.
Nils Ante heaved a sigh. “Goddesses, O twice-uncouth nephew! But if they’re the ones I think they are, their presence is surprising, because mostly they go about in threes, and here there are only two.”
“So?”
“So I’m going to give you the name of someone who will be able to help you. Go and see him, say I sent you. A rather odd character. He has dedicated his life to these drums.”
Nils Ante scribbled a name on a piece of paper and searched for a number on his phone. “Hurri Manker. If he’s still alive, he’ll be able to tell you one or two interesting things, I’m sure of that. He lives in Jukkasjärvi.”
“The place with the Icehotel?” N
ina recognized the name. Jukkasjärvi was not far from Kiruna, in Swedish Sápmi. Before achieving fame as the site of the Icehotel, the little village had been a vital center for Sami trade. It was built on the banks of a river, making it ideal for commerce and transport at a time when roads had been nonexistent.
“Call him first,” Nils Ante advised. “He often goes out hiking in the region. And come back and see me afterward. I may have finished my joïk by then.”
They left Nils Ante’s house, after a series of hugs from Miss Chang. Klemet called the number straightaway. A quavering voice replied. Briefly, Klemet explained his request, without going into too much detail. Patrol P9 was in luck. Hurri Manker was on a daylong visit to Karesuando, a village in Swedish Lapland. If they hurried, they could see him that afternoon, before he headed back to Jukkasjärvi.
Klemet and Nina drove due south. The drum still held plenty of secrets. Their visit to Olsen’s place, checking the old man’s photographs, could wait. Klemet thought about the landscape clues Eva Nilsdotter had given them. Identifying the location and catching up with Racagnal would be well-nigh impossible.
45
Tuesday, January 25
Central Sápmi
André Racagnal reckoned he had spent enough time at the first site. He’d made some interesting discoveries. He would have to take a detour via Malå to check the data and see what the core samples had to say, if any existed for the places in question. The trouble with gold, as Racagnal well knew, was that it had been sought by mankind for thousands of years. Specialists usually worked on the assumption that every major seam had already been discovered long ago. If a rich seam lay undiscovered in Lapland, it would cause a sensation in the mining industry.
He and his Sami guide had set off early that Tuesday morning. The geologist had explained where he wanted to get to and what sort of fault lines he was looking for. They had ridden for two grueling hours in near-zero visibility. Incredible as it might seem, that Sami devil in his four-pointed hat had taken him to the exact spot he sought. The snow was a faint blue now, tinged with a lick of fire. The sun would rise at 9:18 a.m., but its flaming rays already flickered along the eastern horizon, in a brutal clash of color. Racagnal liked the acid contrast of blue and orange. A perfect match for his vision of the world.