Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller Page 5

  Rolf Brattsen knew where his regular suspects were to be found when they weren’t at school or at work. Or hanging around on the dole. They’d be practicing their Sami hip-hop or some such ludicrous nonsense. The best thing, he told himself, would be to put one of them under arrest, fast. At least hold someone at the station for questioning. In the run-up to the UN conference, that was definitely his best course of action. Unlike the Reindeer Police, he operated in plainclothes. But that didn’t change anything. Everyone saw him coming, knew who he was. That was the trouble with places where you’d spent too much time, he told himself. He thought about Karl Olsen’s remark on the number of years he had spent in the force. And what had he got out of it? What had he achieved? In Kautokeino, Norwegians always lost out to the Lapps. The government was stymied by its guilty conscience over the indigenous population and their supposed mistreatment in the past. Mistreatment, for Christ’s sake! The upshot was, everyone was too scared to strike hard when it mattered. I’m just here for show, Rolf Brattsen told himself. Reduced to going through the motions.

  He stopped his car behind the theater and was pleased to find three youngsters smoking and drinking beers. They showed no sign of running off when he got out of the vehicle.

  Brattsen knew all three. He had already had them in on minor charges. That was how he operated. Make them feel you were keeping an eye on them. If they put a foot out of line, they’d be carted off to the station to cool down and sober up. Keep up the pressure. Never let them think they can get away with murder just because they’re Lapps.

  “Studying hard for our exams, are we?”

  The youths carried on smoking their roll-ups. They looked at him, grinning. Unfazed, thought Brattsen.

  “Good weekend?”

  “Yep.” One of the youths ventured a reply. He was wearing canvas sneakers, in spite of the cold.

  “Few parties?”

  “Yep.”

  “Which party were you at on Sunday?”

  “Sunday?”

  The youth in sneakers was wearing a Canada Goose jacket, like a lot of young people in the town. He seemed to be giving the question some thought.

  “One you weren’t invited to, whatever…” The show of bravado prompted a burst of laughter from his friends. But his expression was anxious. For a whole host of possible reasons, Brattsen thought to himself.

  “Nice jacket you’ve got there,” he said.

  The youth made no reply, dragging on his cigarette.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  Brattsen examined the jacket and pulled on something sticking out of the sleeve. A feather. He looked at it carefully. Stared hard at the other youths, too, both of whom were now watching him nervously.

  “Looks like a flight of wild geese came through here recently,” he said. “Except it’s not the migrating season. Is it, lads?”

  The three youths stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “What do you kids take me for, a complete novice? These jackets are fakes. Fell off the back of a truck, did they?”

  A long silence greeted his words.

  “Can’t hear you, sorry…”

  “Well, there’s no fooling you, Officer,” said the youth in the sneakers, who had finished his cigarette and stood with his hands deep in his pockets.

  “Dear, oh dear, Erik, you’ve really decided to give me the lip today, haven’t you? Where were you Sunday night, what time did you leave, and which way did you go home? What else was going on, on Sunday night? I want to know everything, now! Or I’ll be sticking your black-market goose feathers right up your ass, one by one.”

  Erik shot a quick glance at his friends.

  “There was only one party Sunday, at Arne’s, at the Youth Hostel.”

  “Near Juhl’s place. Well now. Why don’t you tell me all about it back at the nice warm station, gentlemen?”

  * * *

  Patrol P9 left the church and climbed back into the car. Nina turned to her colleague. “You seemed to be having a hard time with the pastor.”

  Klemet looked at her for a moment, then put his index finger to his lip. “Hush. Not now. You’re going to spoil the most magical moment of the year.”

  Nina stared at him in blank incomprehension. Klemet picked up the Finnmark Dagblad from the floor and showed her the back page. The weather information. She saw straightaway what he meant, and smiled. There was less than a quarter of an hour to go. Klemet drove fast, past the police station and out of Kautokeino, taking a track that wound to the top of a hill overlooking the town. Cars and snowmobiles were already parked. Some locals had spread reindeer skins on the ground and were settled with thermos flasks and sandwiches. Children ran about, shouting. Their mothers told them to be quiet. People were well covered with parkas, rugs, chapkas. Some were stamping their feet to keep warm. Everyone fixed their gaze on the horizon.

  The magnificent gleam intensified, reflecting more and more brightly against the scattered clouds lingering in the distance. Nina was entranced. She looked at her watch. It was 11:13 a.m. Now, a bright, trembling halo of light blurred the point on the horizon at which everyone was gazing. Instinctively, Nina reached for her camera. Then she saw the emotion on her colleague’s face and decided not to ask him to take her picture. She took a discreet photograph of Klemet instead and turned to enjoy the spectacle. The children had fallen quiet. The silence was as great as the moment itself.

  Down in southern Norway, Nina had grown up knowing nothing about this phenomenon, but she sensed its physical, even spiritual, power. Like Klemet, she leaned back against the side of the car to savor the first ray of sunshine. She turned to look at him. He was deep in thought, his eyes screwed up against the light. The sun seemed to struggle, keeping low on the horizon. Now he stepped forward, turned, and gazed intently at his shadow on the snow, as if seeing a magnificent work of art for the first time. The children began running around again. The adults clapped their hands together or jumped on the spot. The sun had kept its word. Everyone was reassured. Forty days casting no shadow by the light of the sun. The wait had not been in vain.

  * * *

  After sunrise—and sunset—Klemet and Nina went for lunch at the Villmarkssenter hotel, named for its remote location, out in the backwoods. Kautokeino was a Sami town of around two thousand souls, far from the coast, in the Sápmi interior. From the hills overlooking the town, on both sides of the river, the views extended far and wide across the vidda, though not far enough to give a true impression of the size of the municipality, which covered an area roughly the size of a country like Lebanon. A further thousand or so people, many of them reindeer breeders, populated the rest of the vast area, living in small, isolated hamlets.

  Patrol P9 chose the dish of the day: reindeer hash in brown sauce with cranberry jelly and mashed potato. Nina took a photograph of her plate before tucking in. She ate hungrily, asking a stream of questions about Sami cuisine. When she had finished, Klemet told her what had been on his mind since the beginning of the meal.

  “Nina, don’t try to defend me when we’re interviewing people. It was OK in front of the pastor, but never do that with a breeder. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t understand. If someone fails to show proper respect to a police officer, they’re not showing me respect, either. I can’t pretend not to hear.”

  “That’s not the point, Nina. The Sami have a very particular relationship with authority, you’ll see soon enough. It’s very…old school. People’s individual status is important.”

  Klemet hoped Nina would understand what he was getting at. But she stared at him expectantly, seeking further explanation. Mads, the proprietor, came over to serve coffee and sat down at their table.

  “So how’s business?” asked Klemet.

  “Quiet…pretty quiet. A Frenchman, a few truck drivers, an elderly couple—Danish tourists—the usual for the time of year. How’s business with you?”

  “Rather less quiet than usual for the time of year,” said Klemet, sm
iling. “I haven’t introduced you to Nina, my new colleague. She’s from the south, near Stavanger.”

  “Welcome, Nina! How do you like it here?”

  “Very much, thank you. It’s all new to me.”

  “And you’re off to a strange start, with this drum…”

  “Yes, but that’s not really our patch,” Nina corrected him. “We’re just helping out with the investigation. In fact, this afternoon, we have to go and take reports of some reindeer hit in a road accident in Masi. Ordinary Reindeer Police business comes first.”

  “And Mattis’s reindeer are all over the place,” said Klemet. “We need to call his neighbors to find out where they are now. And, Nina, we’ll call at the Reindeer Administration on our way back from Masi, too, to get the latest on the state of his herd.”

  “Still, the drum, what a business!” Mads persisted. “People are talking about nothing else.”

  “And what are people saying?” Klemet wanted to know.

  “Oh, you know, rumors. They say it’s the Russian mafia, or some of the older shamans… Load of old nonsense, in my opinion. Makes you wonder what was so special about this drum, anyway.”

  “Indeed,” said Klemet, indicating it was time to go.

  * * *

  The sun’s brief appearance was a distant memory by the time Patrol P9 returned to base, late in the afternoon. Nina had filled out a reindeer accident report for the first time. She was surprised to see the specially designed form, with a diagram of a reindeer. Whoever filed the report had to circle the parts that had been hit. They had brought back the animal’s ears, too, and deposited them in the Reindeer Police freezer, with all the other pairs. Evidence from the scene of the accident. Proof, too, that the breeder had not applied for compensation twice for the same animal. At the Reindeer Administration offices, they had been treated to an extended presentation on the precise status of Mattis’s herd. Fascinating stuff.

  They were getting back into the car when Klemet’s cell phone rang. He listened and ended the call quickly. Nina was unprepared for his expression of shock.

  “We’re leaving right away. Mattis’s trailer. He’s been found dead. Just now.”

  7

  7:45 p.m., Central Sápmi

  Klemet and Nina pulled up on their snowmobiles and left the headlights on full. She hesitated to move away from the warmth of the engine, feeling completely exhausted. They had made the journey back to Mattis’s trailer in pitch darkness, taking extra care along the route. She looked at Klemet. Seeming impervious to the cold and fatigue, he was already heading straight for the trailer, caught now in a halo of light from the headlamps of their machines. Nina saw the same clutter they had left the previous morning. If anything, it looked even worse. Jerricans, plastic containers, piles of wood, bits of rope, lay strewn about outside.

  “Well now! Here come the Mounted Police.” A man stepped out from inside the trailer, wearing a thick snowsuit and chapka. His tone was not calculated to please. Nina could not see who it was at first. Then she recognized Rolf Brattsen.

  There were traces of snowmobile tracks. Dry, powdery snow swirled in the shafts of light. Shadows shifted. The whole place looked unreal.

  “Rounded up all your reindeer, did you? Found yourselves at a loose end?” taunted Brattsen.

  It was clear he disliked Klemet, though Nina had no idea why.

  “He’s like that with everyone,” Klemet whispered, anticipating her question. He looked around, putting the unfriendly welcome to the back of his mind.

  “So, Chubby-chops, since when are the Reindeer Police playing with the big boys? What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “Sheriff’s orders,” said Klemet. “A possible dispute between herders.”

  “A dispute between herders. Ah yes! Drunken brawl would be more like it.”

  “Chubby-chops?” Nina grinned at her colleague.

  “Nina…”

  “Yes?”

  Klemet wasn’t smiling. “Just get on with the job.”

  Nina smiled again, to Klemet’s intense irritation. He decided to ignore her. “It’s quite sweet, actually,” she said.

  “Nina!”

  “Only kidding.”

  Klemet walked around the trailer. Two other police officers were going about their business on higher ground, farther up the slope that sheltered the site from the east wind.

  “Hi, Klem,” said one of the policemen.

  “Hi.”

  “Take a look—bet you’ve never seen anything like this.”

  The body lay across a large, flat rock on which the snow had been partly cleared away.

  “Dear God…”

  Klemet recoiled. Behind him, Nina stood stock still. The cold wind seemed to dull her senses, fortunately for her. Mattis lay on his back, his body blue with the cold, unless the livid hue of his skin was an effect of the headlamps, casting deep, unnerving shadows across his face. One of the other officers blew away the fine dusting of snow. Nina saw Mattis’s wide-open eyes and the shocking act of mutilation, so completely at odds with the peaceful, magnificent landscape: his ears had been cut away. The raw flesh had already frozen solid. The holes marking the openings of the ear canals were half concealed by snow.

  “We haven’t found them,” said the officer, following his colleagues’ gaze. “The pathologist hasn’t arrived yet, but we estimate the time of death at less than six hours ago. He was stabbed. You’ll see inside the trailer, it’s been turned upside down. Obviously been searched.”

  He indicated Mattis’s burned-out snowmobile.

  “The smoke was what alerted us. Well, it was Johann Henrik, his nearest neighbor, in fact. We were lucky he saw it. He was the one who called us. He had tried to contact you, apparently.”

  “It looks as if he might have been tortured,” said Nina. “It’s barbaric.”

  “You two must be some of the last people to see him alive,” said Rolf Brattsen suddenly, coming up behind them. “Make yourselves useful. Try to see if there’s anything missing compared with what you can remember from yesterday.”

  “It was a mess when we were here,” Nina remarked.

  Brattsen spat into the snow and made no reply.

  Nina gazed at the body, lingering on Mattis’s face, his wide-open eyes and mouth. The expression he wore just before he was about to speak, she remembered. Had he been about to plead with his killer when he was stabbed? What had he tried to say? His hands were clenched and twisted. Already, the holes left by his severed ears looked less horrifying, somehow.

  “We’re lucky with the cold and the snow,” said Klemet. “It’s stopped the blood flow and the smell. The birds and foxes have held off. Usually, that’s how we find the reindeer carcasses, with carrion circling overhead.”

  “I didn’t notice the dark rings under his eyes yesterday,” said Nina.

  “Bruises—perhaps he took a beating,” ventured the other police officer. “Or the cold. Don’t know, really. The body reacts strangely at times.”

  Mattis’s gaping mouth was missing some teeth, but no more than the day before.

  “Mattis died as he lived,” said Klemet, looking at the body. “Like a pauper. Death didn’t even see fit to close his mouth. A poor bastard with a bad set of teeth, right to the end.”

  Klemet looked at Mattis’s eyes, too, and noticed the dark rings. Focusing closely on them, he bent down and examined the ear holes.

  “A clean cut,” he observed.

  “We haven’t looked under his clothing yet,” the other police officer went on. “But there’s a knife wound, apparently. Very powerful and accurately placed on the first strike, despite all the layers.”

  Gently, Klemet touched the area around the ears, frozen hard in the snow. Again, he scanned the face and Mattis’s deeply ringed eyes, then began walking back to the trailer.

  “Get fingerprints!” Brattsen called out to the police officer taking photographs of the body and its surroundings. Then he walked over to Klemet, standing no
w at the entrance to the trailer.

  “Hey, Chubby, no need to waste your time here, come to think of it. This isn’t for you. Best get along and see to the old drunk’s reindeer. They’re going to cause a lot of bother for everyone, now there’s no one to watch over them.”

  Rolf fastened his crash helmet and set off cautiously on his snowmobile, followed by another police officer. The camp was darker now. The only scooters left belonged to the scene-of-crime team and Patrol P9.

  “What should we do, Klemet?” asked Nina. “Are we going to take care of the reindeer?”

  “Brattsen’s not my superior,” grunted Klemet. “We take orders from Kiruna, and the Sheriff, if I feel like it. Not from him. No way.”

  “Yes, but the reindeer. He’s right.”

  “We’ll go and see to them soon enough,” said Klemet, entering the trailer. “We’ll have to call up the other patrols. Can’t do it all by ourselves. We’ll call once we get back down to the lake.”

  He sat in the same seat he had occupied the previous morning. The trailer looked in an even worse mess. The interior was brightly lit by a gas lamp. The clutter originally piled on the top bunk had been pulled to the floor or thrown out through the door. The same went for the sleeping bags and blankets on the bottom bunk, where Klemet and Nina had left Mattis preparing to sleep. Even the stove had been overturned. Either there had been a fight, or everything had been meticulously searched. Or both. Mattis’s snowmobile had been set alight, but not the trailer. Why?

  “Notice anything, Nina?”

  She had copied her partner and sat in the same place as the day before, to get the same view of the scene.

  “It’s an even worse mess.”

  She stared around the trailer, taking in every detail, then got up and took three steps forward. “They don’t seem to have touched this shelf.”

  Some plastic containers and tins of food had been thrown to the floor, but the leather straps and pieces of wood were still tidily arranged. The finely engraved Sami knives, too, were all in place. Nonetheless, it was hard to tell if anything was missing.