Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  “That joïk reminds me of something,” said Nina.

  But Klemet got to his feet, glaring at his uncle in exasperation. “Is that what you’ve come wasting my time for?” he burst out. “To sing me the final version of the joïk for your Chinese girlfriend? Come on, Nina, we’re going.”

  He took two paces forward, then spotted Hurri Manker’s wicked look. Manker grabbed his sleeve.

  “Listen to your uncle. You may learn something.”

  “That’s not Miss Chang’s joïk,” said Nils Ante crossly. “Really, you hardly listened when I sang it before. And I would ask you to show her a little more respect, Klemet. She’s not my ‘Chinese girlfriend,’ she is my precious Miss Chang-Chang.”

  Klemet gave an exasperated sigh. “So?”

  “The joïk, there was a joïk,” explained Manker. “I paid no attention to the symbol at first. The rest was so richly allusive. But it’s prominently displayed, in fact, right in the middle of the sun—you know, the cross, supporting the figures of Madderakka, the king, the soldier, and the pastor. I couldn’t be sure if it was of any significance, but I wanted to be certain. We did some research, your uncle and I. He’s a remarkable man, with a remarkable, encyclopedic memory for joïks. And your uncle’s stroke of genius was to make the connection with Mattis. And one of Mattis’s joïks.”

  “The joïk you were singing, Nils Ante! It’s the same one Mattis sang when we visited him, just before he was killed,” said Nina.

  “And Mattis was singing his father’s joïk, which was his father’s joïk before him,” said Nils Ante, delighted to have stopped his nephew in his tracks. “I found it among my old recordings. If you listen to it out of context, without the drum, it seems like one more joïk among many. A dark joïk. Very dark, in fact, but there are plenty like that. But it talks about a very precise location. A mountain stream flowing into a lake, and the shore of the lake describing the shape of a bear’s head, and an islet in the lake.”

  “I think,” said Hurri, “that the joïk gives precise directions to the place indicated on the drum. I truly believe so. And the joïk says that the story should never be forgotten, from generation to generation. It’s a warning from beyond the grave. The maker of the drum—which dates from the late seventeenth century, I’m certain of that now—had to ensure the message was passed on. As you know, at the time the Sami had no written language. This man knew how to make drums, and he was a joïker. We shall never know what became of him, sadly. But thanks to his joïk, he could be certain that one day, someone would discover the drum and the secret it held. And the song says: ‘Andtsek made coffee on the western slope. The sun rose. Their herds mixed on both sides of the valley. The other Jouna was on the other side of the valley.’ We think that this is the information missing from the drum. You said you wanted confirmation as to which of the two remaining zones to search in?”

  Klemet took out both maps from the patch pockets on his fatigue trousers and spread them over his knees. His uncle peered at the contour lines.

  “A valley with two fords and two pastures. Here.” Nils Ante pointed to a precise spot on one of the maps.

  53

  Friday, January 28

  Intersection of Highways 93 and 92

  The P9 patrol car drove fast along Highway 93, heading north. Racagnal must have passed that way to reach the territory he planned to explore. The quick succession of events in recent days, from the discovery of the drum to its successful decoding, had left Klemet feeling something close to euphoria. For a time. But the more he steeped himself in the background to the case, the darker his mood became. Was the tragedy that had decimated Sami villages in the seventeenth century poised to repeat itself today? The mobilization of Sami politicos like Olaf Renson, in the 1980s, against companies like Mino Solo, showed that things were different now. To an extent. The Sami hadn’t had to stage a full-scale revolt, as they had back in the mid-nineteenth century, for example. But recent events showed that progress could be reversed only too quickly. Would the region be able to resist the lure of a rich uranium mine, even if the risks were huge?

  Klemet indicated and parked in front of the Renlycka cafeteria, run by Johann Henrik’s wife. Henrik was still being held for questioning, but the examining judge—who had remained in Kautokeino for the time being—had told Klemet that he and his fellow detainee Renson would be released that evening. With a gala reception due to open the UN conference on Sunday evening, everyone agreed that the freeing of the two Sami herders was an excellent idea. The judge wanted to hold them just a little longer, all the same, until Mikkel and Jonne could be brought in for questioning instead. The arrest of two more Sami could easily pass for harassment, but the oil stains provided tangible evidence, in this case at least.

  Two heavy-goods vehicles stood parked outside the cafeteria, one Russian, one Swedish. Klemet and Nina went inside. Johann Henrik’s wife was installed behind the cash register, as usual. A man sat alone at a table in one corner. He nodded a greeting to the two police officers, who nodded back. Klemet and Nina approached the counter and ordered coffee. Johann Henrik’s wife did not seem overjoyed to see them.

  “Have you seen this man?” asked Klemet, showing her a photograph of Racagnal.

  “Yes.” Her response was immediate. “He was sitting in the same place as the Russian truck driver, over there in the corner, with all sorts of maps. He spent a long time here.”

  “Can you remember when? Which day?”

  She thought for a moment. A cheerful whistle sounded from the toilets, accompanied by a flush.

  “It must have been a Friday, or a Tuesday. I remember because the truck driver whistling in the toilet stops here every Tuesday and Friday. This is his regular route. And I remember he had words with the man in your photograph.”

  “And do you know where he was going?”

  “All I know is that he wanted to go to Aslak’s camp. He didn’t say anything else.”

  “Has he been back since?”

  “No.”

  Klemet paid for the coffees. He and Nina took a seat just as the toilet door opened. The driver of the Swedish truck emerged, whistling and clicking his fingers.

  “Get my sandwiches ready, darlin,’ I’ll be back in five minutes. Gotta get off after that. Hej, Igor—hands off my sexy Sami while I’m out of the room!”

  The Russian trucker laughed and raised a hand. The driver left the café, still whistling. Klemet recognized him as the Swedish trucker with the tattoos, the small-time trafficker. He whispered in Nina’s ear. The two police officers watched the Swede leave. Outside, he pulled on a fur-lined work overall and opened a metal box fixed underneath his trailer. Klemet put down his coffee cup. The driver had just taken out an oil can. Brand name Arktisk Olje. The same as the cans in Olsen’s garage. Nina spotted it, too.

  The driver emptied the can using a funnel and carried it over to a refuse container on the parking lot. Then he came back to the cafeteria, whistling and wiping his hands energetically on his filthy overalls.

  * * *

  Brian Kallaway had never felt such excitement in his life. Success! The deposit he had just discovered, or rediscovered, would put his company at the top of the global game. And he, Kallaway, had tracked the boulders to the mother seam! Though the discovery was also thanks to Racagnal’s hunter instincts, he had to admit. Kallaway was overjoyed. He and Racagnal had returned to their snowmobiles. He felt as if he was walking on air. Euphoric. He had even forgotten all about Racagnal’s evil moods. He clapped the Frenchman on the shoulder, laughing out loud. He was delighted. Absolutely delighted.

  The Canadian set up the radio in the snowmobile trunk and put a call through to headquarters in La Défense. He simply had to share this fabulous discovery. He turned to Racagnal, all smiles.

  “No offense, André, but I see now why the guys call you the Bulldog. You’ve done a great job.”

  He turned back to the radio, adjusting the frequency, ready to make the call. Kallaway didn’t hear
Racagnal quietly asking him what he intended to say over the airwaves. Full of the thrill of his announcement, Kallaway didn’t hear, either, when Racagnal said he shouldn’t have called him the Bulldog. The last thing he saw was the swift movement of a long, thin shadow in the ground on front of him. He barely had time to feel the explosion of pain when the Frenchman’s rock hammer shattered his skull.

  * * *

  Questioning the Swedish trucker had proved a lively business. The young man put up a fight, yelling loudly and insulting the two officers. Finally, Klemet forced him to the floor and straddled him while Nina fastened the handcuffs behind his back. With his overalls pulled tight across his chest, he was unable to cry out. The Swede calmed down eventually, but he continued to shower the police officers with insults and obscenities. Klemet left him inside the café with Nina, who called the station. The Sheriff promised reinforcements within fifteen minutes.

  Outside, Klemet pulled on a pair of thin gloves and opened the truck’s passenger door. He climbed into the cabin, settled himself in the seat, and looked around before making a careful, systematic search of the bunk and cupboards. He turned everything over, leafed through the porn and mechanics magazines, checked the cigarette cartons and half-empty bottles of vodka. At last, he found what he was looking for.

  The Swede hadn’t made much of an effort, really. The heavy dagger, in its holster, was fixed to a wide leather belt hanging in a small, fitted storage space behind the driver’s seat. Klemet lifted it carefully and withdrew the blade, examined it closely, then pushed it back into the holster and carried it to the cafeteria. The Swede was still lying facedown at Nina’s feet. She was taking the Russian driver’s details and photographing his papers before letting him go. Klemet showed Nina the knife and thrust it under the Swedish driver’s nose. The man’s face turned ugly. He spat.

  “Perhaps you have something to tell us, before things get really nasty for you,” suggested Klemet.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Brattsen would have made some joke about the charge of the Light Brigade. Shortly, the reinforcements from Kautokeino filled the small parking lot outside the cafeteria. Johann Henrik’s wife sat impassively behind her cash register, smoothing her small Sami pinafore.

  “So?” said Klemet, brandishing the dagger under the driver’s nose a second time.

  “You of all people should know a fucking Lapp dagger when you seen one.” The Swede leered cockily now, determined to keep up the repartee. Then his face drained white. The Renlycka’s door had opened to admit the Sheriff and five officers from Kautokeino bringing in two Sami herders. The young men hung their heads, avoiding eye contact. Mikkel and Jonne.

  Jonne looked utterly broken. “It was the first time we’d met in front of Olsen’s barn, Klemet. I promise. What you saw, it was the first time. It was stupid. Just a bit of booze and cigarettes, that’s all. Nothing to get worked up about.”

  “I’m not interested in that. I want to talk to you about Mattis’s death.”

  Jonne’s eyes opened wide in horror. He stared wildly at the Swede, then at Mikkel, who looked fit to explode.

  “It wasn’t me!” Mikkel’s voice was raucous and much too loud. “Not me! We were just supposed to get the drum back, that’s all. That’s all! I swear it wasn’t me!”

  “Who for?” Klemet was shouting now, right in Mikkel’s face.

  “For Olsen!” Mikkel squeaked in terror. “And Mattis hadn’t got it. He was pissed, Mattis was, pissed as a rat. But I wouldn’t have hurt him, never. I didn’t want to go out there on my own. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me, I swear. I didn’t even have a knife. It wasn’t me,” he said, breaking down in sobs. “I just set fire to the scooter. That was all I did. Like Olsen said—destroy the GPS, so no one could see where Mattis had been on Sunday night.”

  “And what was Aslak doing there with you?” Klemet hollered again.

  “Aslak? Aslak? There was no Aslak. He wasn’t there, not Aslak,” wailed Mikkel. “It was just me and…”

  Across the room, on the floor, the Swede had fallen silent. He turned his head and spat in Mikkel’s direction.

  54

  Friday, January 28

  Central Sápmi

  Aslak saw the Frenchman return to the bivouac alone. His clothes were stained, his face expressionless, apart from one thing. His pupils were fully dilated. He was carrying his hammer, covered in blood, and made no attempt to conceal it. He took the radio set and spoke to someone in Swedish, in a dull monotone, giving his position.

  “Not far from the deposits. Come quickly before the storm closes in. You won’t be disappointed.”

  He ended the call. Aslak watched him, never once taking his eyes off the man. Evil itself. He thought of his wife. What was she doing now? He had been gone too long. She would have no food left. How would she cope? Aslak had to leave. If the men on the radio came here, perhaps there would be no one back there to threaten Aila. Aslak’s knife was still tucked inside his reindeer-skin boot. It never left him. The man with the hammer thought Aslak had accepted his authority. But a man like Aslak would never accept evil.

  He pictured the sign his wife had drawn in the dust. He had understood there and then that he had to act. Perhaps his wife would find peace at last. Perhaps not her reason, but peace of a kind. She had known too much misery to hope she could ever know happiness again. She was misery itself. And suffering. And shrieking.

  Aslak saw the man with the bloodstained hammer and understood. The sky was obscured now by heavy, dark gray cloud. The storm was approaching. Like the day his grandfather had left. He had set out alone one night, during a winter storm, like all old people who had become a burden to the clan. They would set out alone across the tundra and were never seen again. Aslak scanned the clouds. A storm like the one when he was seven years old, at the boarding school in Kautokeino. On the same day his grandfather had left, Aslak had left, too. At seven years old, he had leaped from a window in the school building, out into the storm, never to return.

  He thought of his herd and his dogs. He had failed. A good herder never abandoned his animals. He looked at the Frenchman, standing motionless, thirty feet away. And he thought of Mattis. He thought of Mattis’s body as he had discovered it, alerted by the smoke from the snowmobile. He remembered what he had told the Reindeer Police. Mattis had been killed by the laws of men. Their rules. Their insatiable greed. People like the man facing him now had wrought the downfall of herders like Aslak. Mino Solo had brought evil and sorrow. And he, the man with the hammer, had brought evil and sorrow twice over. He would pay.

  * * *

  Johann Henrik’s wife missed nothing from her vantage point behind the cash register. She saw how Mikkel had betrayed the Swedish driver. She approached Klemet.

  “Olsen came by here this morning. Very early. He came in to fill his thermos with coffee. Your colleague was with him, in his car. The Sami hunter. And they went that way.”

  She pointed along Highway 92, to the northeast, in the direction of the gathering clouds.

  * * *

  Klemet and Nina set off immediately, followed by an extra patrol from Kautokeino. The Sheriff called the judge back at headquarters, asking him to search Olsen’s safe. They were likely to make some interesting finds.

  The patrol cars drove to a fork in the road and parked. The officers worked quickly. Everyone knew exactly what they had to do. A few minutes later, four snowmobiles had been unloaded from the trailers and began threading along a rift marking the bottom of a small hill, the hard, glittering flank of snow covered with twisted, skeletal scrub. The four scooters turned onto a frozen river, winding for a few miles, then turned again to make the climb to the high plateau. Klemet could see Aslak’s camp in the distance. The quiet was unnerving. He couldn’t see any smoke. He accelerated. What had driven Aslak to commit an act like that on Mattis’s body? Aslak was capable of extraordinary things, as Klemet well knew. Acts no one else would dare attempt.

  The four scooters slowed on the ap
proach to Aslak’s tents. Everyone drew their weapons: the Sheriff had brought them from the safe back at the station in Kautokeino. The gun felt strange to the touch, thought Klemet. This was the first time he had gone armed since joining the Reindeer Police. The other two officers made their way around the outside of the tents. There was no noise from inside. Klemet signaled to Nina to lift the flap on the main lavvu. His gun trembled slightly in his hand. Nina pulled the canvas back sharply, and Klemet dived inside but stopped instantly. Nina followed and saw why. Klemet stood with his gun held loosely against his thigh, gazing down at Aila’s body. Nina kneeled beside her. Aila’s face was tinged with blue. She had been dead for several days, it seemed. The fire was completely cold. She lay on her back, her arms held up, as if trying to catch something beyond her grasp.

  Nina stayed kneeling on the floor, pointing out something to Klemet. He followed her gaze. Near the hearth, someone had written two letters with their finger on a smooth patch of earth. MS. For Mino Solo.

  “The other marks on the ears,” he said quietly.

  55

  Friday, January 28

  Central Sápmi

  André Racagnal watched the Sami guide. The guy had been watching him, too, from the start. He was still watching him now from under his four-pointed hat, with his lasso slung across his chest. Except Racagnal didn’t need him anymore. Now, everything would work out. He’d make sure the farmer kept his side of the deal, the old bastard. Everything would work out fine. He’d exploit the fucking mine, with the world at his fucking feet, and he’d have himself a fine brace of little minxes when he got back.

  The wind had risen, and thin flakes of snow whirled around him. Fuck, it was cold! He rubbed his face with his livid, red-stained hand. He felt hot. And that bastard’s looking at me still. He picked up his hammer and moved toward the Sami. The bastard wasn’t moving. Racagnal didn’t need him now. All over for him. He’d served his purpose. He could toss him aside. He stepped forward again. The other man stared straight at him. Fuck him. Racagnal moved slowly. Finally, Aslak got to his feet. Racagnal saw his eyes, his clenched jaw, his wrinkled nose. The wolf was biding his time.