Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller Page 3

  “Dunno,” said Mattis.

  Klemet opened his bag and took out a set of 1:50,000 maps of the region. He pushed the cooking pot to one side and the empty bean cans full of cigarette butts. Mattis drained his cup, winced again, then filled it back up to the top.

  “Look, we’re here. That’s the river, there’s the lake you follow north for the migration. At the moment, Johann Henrik has his reindeer here, and here, in the woods.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mattis yawned.

  “And yours have got across the river.”

  “The river…”

  Mattis giggled, hiccuped, then straightened his face.

  “Well, the thing is, see, my reindeer, they don’t know how to read the lines on the map.”

  “Mattis, you know perfectly well what I mean. Your reindeer shouldn’t be on that side of the river. You know there’ll be all hell to pay in the spring when you have to separate your herd from Johann Henrik’s. You’ll get into a dispute, like before. You know what hard work it is separating the reindeer.”

  “And watching the herd all alone, in the middle of winter, out in the tundra, that’s not hard work, eh?”

  “Can you show me your winter pasture on the map?” asked Nina.

  Her knowledge of reindeer herding was theoretical for the moment—acquired during her brief training in Kiruna. As a little girl, she had often looked after the sheep her mother reared. That had been more for fun, really—the sheep were left to themselves at the far end of the fjord. Being a herder wasn’t work where she came from, more of an idle pastime. It was incredible to think the Sami herders would spend all night watching their reindeer in an icy gale. She needed hard, quantifiable facts to try to make sense of their lives.

  Mattis yawned again, rubbed his eyes, and drank a mouthful of spirit. He ignored Nina’s question.

  “And why’s Johann Henrik complaining?” he said, looking at Klemet. “He just needs to push his reindeer back toward the hill. He’s got people, he has.”

  “Mattis,” said Nina, “I asked you to show me your winter pasture on the map.” The young policewoman spoke calmly and quietly. She couldn’t begin to imagine that Mattis had ignored her on purpose.

  “Yes, he’s got people,” Klemet replied. “But still, you’re on his land. That’s how it is—you’re responsible for your herd.”

  “Well, it’s not me that drew them, those boundaries,” objected Mattis. “It’s the blasted bureaucrats at the Reindeer Administration, with their pretty-colored crayons and their rulers, in their centrally heated offices.” He drank another gulp, without wincing this time. He was annoyed now. “And me, I was out almost all night watching the herd. D’you think I do that for fun?”

  “Mattis, please can you show me where your pasture is, here on the map?” Nina’s voice was still calm.

  “Haven’t you got anyone who can help you?” asked Klemet.

  “Help me? Who?”

  “Aslak does, sometimes.”

  “Well, not this time. It’s been a rotten winter for everyone. He’s probably still cross at me. And the reindeer haven’t got enough to eat. They can’t break the ice to get at the lichen. And I’ve had just about enough, I have. And I haven’t got the money for the dry feed. So my reindeer, they go where they can to get food. They eat the moss off the tree trunks, in the woods. What can I do about it?” He took a longer swig of the drink. “I’ll go take a look later.” He drained the cup and yawned elaborately. “And the little miss—does she want me to tell her fortune?”

  “The little miss would like you to show her where your winter pasture is, on the map.”

  “Klemet’ll tell you. No fortune-telling, then? Well, I’m going to get some shut-eye.”

  Without further ado, Mattis shifted around on his bunk and lay down in his sleeping bag. Klemet rolled his eyes and signaled to Nina that it was time to go.

  Outside, he took a look at Mattis’s snowmobile, touched the engine, and stared at it for a moment.

  “Klemet, why wouldn’t Mattis answer me?”

  “Oh, you know, it’s a man’s world out here. They’re not used to seeing a woman out in the tundra in the middle of winter, still less one in uniform. They don’t know how to handle it.”

  “Hmm. And you do, of course?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” said Nina. “Nothing. So what about this winter pasture? Your pal in there said you’d show me how far it extends.”

  Snow was falling again, despite the bitter cold. Klemet spread the map on the seat of his snowmobile and showed Nina the pasture.

  “But then, if his reindeer need woodland right now, he could take the herd northwest. There’s a much bigger wood there, and it’s in the middle of his zone, a long way away from Johann Henrik.”

  “Perhaps… Or perhaps they’ve already been there. And perhaps most of his herd is still there. We can go and take a look, if you like,” said Klemet. “And after that, we’ll call on Johann Henrik.”

  They climbed aboard their snowmobiles. A few minutes later, Klemet stopped in the middle of the frozen lake, taking advantage of the signal to call his voice mail. The first message was from Johann Henrik, who sounded exasperated. The second, from headquarters in Kautokeino, was briefer still. Patrol P9 was to return to base immediately. Johann Henrik would have to wait.

  4

  Noon, Kautokeino

  Karl Olsen had left the engine running on his pickup. A few miles outside Kautokeino, the turnout was empty apart from an abandoned trailer in front of the reindeer enclosure, unused at this time of year. It could not be seen from the road. He poured another cup of coffee, drank it scalding hot, and looked around. Soon he would have to start checking the equipment. He pushed his cap back high on his forehead. Above the brown leather peak, the green crown bore the logo of a large fertilizer company. He scratched his head slowly, squinting. Yes, he would need a lot of barley this year. He wanted to try tomatoes under polytunnels, too. There were EU subsidies up for grabs. Not for the local market, of course, but tourists always went for that kind of thing: genuine Lapland tomatoes. He grinned to himself.

  The theft had been headline news at 9 a.m., and it was still top of the midday newscast.

  “This was the first traditional Sami drum to be returned to Sami territory as part of a permanent collection,” explained the German museum curator on the pickup’s radio. “The drums were used by shamans. This one was tremendously important for the local population. It’s a tragedy for them. For years, people have been fighting to get the drums returned to their ancestral lands.”

  Karl Olsen sneered as he listened to the interview.

  “‘Their ancestral lands…’ Damn Kraut. Fine one to talk about ancestral lands.”

  His coffee had gone cold, and he tipped the dregs out of the window. Nothing new since this morning, then. He poured himself another small cup.

  A few minutes later, a sky-blue Volvo parked next to Olsen’s Korean pickup. A slim man with a mustache got out and settled himself into Olsen’s passenger seat.

  “Coffee?”

  “Thanks,” said the new arrival, pulling off his knitted hat. “So what’ve you got? Make it quick—I haven’t got much time.”

  “This business about the drum?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s on edge.”

  “You know, Rolf, I knew your father well. A really decent man. I think he liked me, too.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “How long have you been in the force, now, lad?”

  “Seventeen years. What’s this about? Call me up here to listen to my life story, did you?”

  “And it’s been, what, three years since you came back home to Kautokeino?”

  “A bit longer than that, as you well know.”

  “Listen, kid, this business with the drum is a pain in the ass.”

  “Yes, of course it is. So?”

  “Everyone’s going to get worked up about it, see.”

  “Everyone’s already
worked up about it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I just heard that idiot Kraut: ‘a tragedy, a tragedy.’” The elderly farmer rolled his Rs, imitating the museum director’s accent. Rolf Brattsen was no fan of the German curator, either. The man was too preoccupied with the blasted Lapps, not enough with the true Norwegians.

  Karl Olsen turned a little further toward the policeman. He cursed the stiffness in his neck, which forced him to twist his whole body to look at the person next to him. He peered sideways at Brattsen.

  “Listen, Rolf. I’m going to tell it like it is. Because that’s the way I am. I say what’s on my mind. You know me. You know I’m a member of the Progress Party. And you know what the party thinks about the Lapps and all their nonsense.”

  The policeman said nothing.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Rolf. But I know what your father thought, too. And your father and I, we thought the same way. Your father was a good Norwegian, you know that? Eh? And you, you’re a good Norwegian too, lad. Aren’t you, though? Eh, lad?”

  Tired of twisting around, the farmer leaned forward to tilt the rearview mirror. Now he could look Brattsen in the eye without straining his neck and back.

  “So listen. I know you’re a good kid. Your father was a good man. We gave the Commies a run for their money back in the day, he and I. You know all about that. Well, the Lapps are no different. Damn Communists, the lot of them. All their nonsense about land rights. Me, I know about the land. And the land chooses its own master. It belongs to whoever takes good care of it, no one else. You understand me? I look after my land. And they’ll all be waking up now thanks to that damned drum. ‘My drum, my land,’ the whole blasted mess. It’s no good to us once they start. It’ll bring all the shit stirrers up from Oslo, too. We don’t need the suits up here, eh? We’re better off among our own kind. Better off still without the Lapps, too, that’s a fact.”

  The farmer paused to tip his cold coffee out of the window and pour another cup, steaming, from the flask.

  “Well, you don’t have much to say for yourself, lad. Just like your father. Oh, he was a good man. Absolutely straight up and down. Trustworthy, you know. Ha! Those Commies. We gave them what for. You look like him, you know? He’d be proud of you, lad.”

  “Look here, Karl,” said Brattsen suddenly, “I don’t like the fucking Lapps any more than you. And I don’t like the fucking Ruskies sniffing around here either, or the fucking Pakistanis overrunning our country. But I’m a policeman, OK?”

  “Steady on there, lad.” Olsen smiled indulgently, pleased with the turn the conversation was taking at last. “Of course you’re a policeman, and a good one at that. I just wanted you to know you’re not alone. It won’t pay them to do too much thinking, that lot. And me, I‘d say it won’t do any harm if the Lapps never get their drum back. It’ll give them ideas otherwise. They’ve already got their own police force…”

  “The Reindeer Police? Some crack squad, they are. Can’t even think straight, half of them. Bunch of fake cops.”

  Brattsen had dropped his guard now.

  “Right this minute,” he went on, “the Kautokeino contingent are over at that tramp Mattis’s place. Idiot spends all his time chanting and drinking when he should be watching his herd.”

  “Is that where they are?” Olsen struggled to turn in his seat, then checked himself. “Talk about a degenerate drunk. He’s your man. Well, it’s the inbreeding, isn’t it, though? You knew Mattis’s father?”

  “That crazed old guy people said was a shaman?”

  “That’s what people said, lad. Fact is, Mattis’s father was his uncle. His mother’s own brother, you get me?”

  Rolf Brattsen shook his head. “Got to get back to the station,” he said. “I didn’t know you and my father knew each other that well.” For the first time, he turned to look closely at Olsen. “He never talked about you.”

  Olsen stared straight ahead.

  “Get back to your work, son.” He looked away. “Never forget who your real people are. And don’t be in any hurry to get that drum back. It’ll only get them all agitated. Blasted Lapp Communists.”

  5

  4:30 p.m., Kautokeino

  Klemet Nango and Nina Nansen entered the town from the southeast. They took the “motorway,” as it was called in winter, riding up the broad, frozen river that passed through the middle of Kautokeino, and stopping at the police station right in the center. The public entrance was next to Vinmonopolet, the government-run liquor store, whose clients frequently veered in through the wrong door.

  The sun had long since sunk back from its zenith just below the horizon, but a faint blue glow remained. Klemet and Nina left their snowmobiles in the parking lot and carried the storage boxes between them, one by one, to the garage, then headed upstairs to the offices.

  “Perfect timing—the meeting’s just starting in the Sheriff’s office,” said the station secretary, passing them on the stairs. “I’m rushed off my feet. This drum business.”

  “What drum?”

  “Haven’t you heard? You’ll see,” said the secretary, brandishing a wad of papers. “Back in a minute.”

  Nina and Klemet dropped their equipment at the lockers and went to the meeting room. They were greeted by Superintendent Tor Jensen, known to all as the “Sheriff” thanks to his habit of rolling his shoulders and sporting a leather cowboy hat when he wasn’t on duty.

  The Sheriff waited for them to take their seats. There were four other police officers in the room. Klemet noticed Deputy Superintendent Rolf Brattsen was absent.

  “On the night of Sunday to Monday, a Sami drum was stolen from Helmut Juhl’s place,” Tor Jensen began. “As you know, this is a very special drum, the first to be returned to Lapland as part of a permanent collection. I’m not Sami, but this is very important for them, apparently. Important to you, is it, Klemet? You’re the only Sami here.”

  “I suppose, yes. Perhaps.” Klemet was embarrassed.

  “There’s been a great song and dance about it, in any case. The Sami are saying their identity has been stolen all over again, they’re being discriminated against, as always, et cetera.… And Oslo isn’t happy, of course, especially with a major UN conference on indigenous peoples about to start up here in three weeks, and the Sami being our very own dearly beloved indigenous people, as you well know. Taught you all about that at police academy, did they, Nina? Be surprised if they did. Well, our Oslo friends are getting tetchy. They like being teacher’s pet and top of the class at the UN, especially where the handouts are concerned, and they don’t want their knuckles rapped over a stupid business about a drum.”

  “Do we have any idea who’s responsible?” asked Nina.

  “None,” replied the Sheriff.

  “Are there any leads, or theories?” asked Nina.

  “Begin at the beginning. We’ll get on to that in a minute.”

  The secretary entered the room and distributed five stapled sheets of paper to everyone present.

  “So the drum was in a sealed case,” the Sheriff continued. “A private collector had sent it to the museum just recently. The drum has disappeared with the case. Apparently nothing else was taken. There was a break-in. The thieves broke through two doors. The main glass door was shattered to pieces (photograph number one). And then the door to the archives (photo number two), which was forced. We don’t know how. There’s a plan of the museum premises. That’s your lot. See what you can do.”

  Klemet leafed quickly though the sheets of paper. Thin pickings indeed. A rushed job.

  “Remember: political pressure big-time from Oslo, but also the Sami politicos here. Not forgetting the Far Right who are trying to score points off the Sami, laying it on thick, too. You guys can get over to the museum and investigate.” He indicated the other officers in the room. “Klemet and Nina, you’ll be reinforcing the street patrols in town. Things are quite lively, it seems.”

  “And the leads, any theories?” asked Nina, with a sweet smile. F
or the second time today, her questions had been ignored and it was starting to annoy her.

  The Sheriff looked at her for a moment in silence.

  “All we know is that a woman living next to the museum…” he glanced at the slim report “…Berit Kutsi, heard a snowmobile in the night. Nothing unusual in that, what with the breeders coming in and out at all hours, but it’s unusual in that location. The tracks were obliterated by the snowstorm. Oh, and Rolf is in charge of the investigation. I want to see everyone report back tomorrow morning.”

  “Klemet, how are things out in the vidda?” asked the Sheriff, when the others had gone.

  “Getting a little tense. It’s been a bad winter. It’s very hard for the small-time breeders. I think we’ll be seeing an escalation of fights and disputes.”

  “Klemet—we don’t need any major trouble with this conference just around the corner. You get my meaning.”

  Klemet frowned. “Try telling that to the reindeer.”

  “And you try telling that to the breeders. Do your job. Meanwhile, take Nina into town. In a professional capacity, you understand.”

  “Got any new jokes, Sheriff?”

  “I know you, Klemet.”

  * * *

  Klemet and Nina rode a few hundred yards on their snowmobiles along the Alta road, as far as the crossroads. Everyone referred to Kautokeino’s main intersection as “the crossroads.” The Alta road came in from the north, along the riverbank, leaving town in the direction of Finland and Kiruna in Sweden. The big trucks used it as a direct link between southern and northern Norway. It had the advantage of running in a straight line: the route crossed two national borders, but it was better than the interminable road around the Norwegian fjords. Perpendicular to it, another route led to the supermarket car park and, in the opposite direction, to the road serving the industrial estate. Beyond that, it circled the imposing wooden church, visible from all over the town.