Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller Read online

  Klemet followed her gaze. “A breeder would never steal one of the knives,” he said. “A Sami will steal a man’s reindeer, but never the equipment needed for the sleds. You don’t touch anything that could save a man’s life out in the vidda. Or so my uncle Nils Ante taught me. That’s a line the herders will never cross.”

  Nina thought again of Mattis’s severed ears and found it hard to countenance such barbarity in her own country. She pulled on a thin pair of gloves and took hold of the first knife, removing it from its sheath, then did the same with the other three. All were clean. She returned to the bench.

  “Perhaps we should take fingerprints, all the same,” she said. “Good grief, Klemet, I was told the Reindeer Police were mediators, anticipating disputes, preventing trouble. But trouble like this? Killings? And torture—the ears?”

  “It’s rare,” Klemet admitted. “There have been cases of herders exchanging potshots, especially when drink is involved. But there’s never been a death, at least not as a result of a direct killing. Not that I know of, anyway. And the ears…”

  “Why did they do that?”

  Klemet was silent for a moment. “Theft.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the reindeer are marked on their ears. Both ears. As you know. And we need the marks from both ears to identify the owner. Reindeer thieves cut off the ears so that the animal can’t be traced to its owner. No proven owner, no reported theft.”

  “And no reported theft, no inquiry,” said Nina.

  “Or if there is an inquiry, it’s over and done with very quickly,” he said.

  “So this was an act of revenge? Mattis was stealing reindeer? He was being marked as a thief?”

  Klemet frowned. “There are thieves and thieves. He did a bit of rustling, if you like. But he’s just a poor, lost soul. I mean, look at the trailer, the dirt, the mess. And he was an alcoholic. Revenge? Perhaps. Times are hard for everyone at the moment. We’ll have to go and talk to Johann Henrik. He’s another hard case.”

  “Do you think he could have done this?”

  “Mattis was involved in disputes with all his neighbors. He didn’t keep a close enough eye on his livestock. He was all alone. Aslak helped him out sometimes, but otherwise he was on his own. And no one gets far on their own in the vidda.”

  “How many neighbors did he have?”

  Klemet opened his snowsuit and pulled out the 1:50,000 map of the area. He spread it on the table and pointed to the location of Mattis’s trailer.

  “Remember,” he said, sliding his finger across the map, “this is the wood where Johann Henrik keeps his reindeer, and here’s the river that Mattis’s herd crossed. Mattis’s pasture covers this part. And here’s Johann Henrik, from here—the river—to this lake. Aslak is on the other side of the mountain. And another herder, Ailo. He’s a Finnman.”

  “The Finnman clan? I’ve heard about them,” said Nina. “Even in Kiruna.”

  Listing Mattis’s nearest neighbors, Klemet reflected that fate had dealt the breeder a poor hand. A winter pasture hemmed in by those three was no recipe for a quiet life.

  8

  Wednesday, January 12

  Sunrise: 10:53 a.m.; sunset: 12:02 p.m.

  1 hour 9 minutes of sunlight

  Central Sápmi

  Four Reindeer Police patrols had been called in: from Karasjok and Alta in Norway, from Enontekiö on the Finnish side, even from Kiruna in Sweden. Klemet directed operations. Nina was the only woman present. The faint glow of the predawn twilight allowed for an early start, in tolerable conditions.

  It took ten police officers to round up Mattis’s reindeer. A day had been set aside for the work. Luckily, the herd was not large, and the steep terrain all around had prevented the animals from straying too far. By prior agreement with the neighboring breeders, the reindeer were guided in small groups to an enclosure about six miles southeast of Mattis’s trailer.

  They began with the simplest task—identifying the head reindeer, easily recognizable by his age and antlers. He was down by the side of a lake, surrounded by the major part of the herd. From experience, Klemet knew that Mattis’s reindeer could be nervous. It would not be easy to get close without the animals taking fright and bolting. He indicated to the other officers to contain them by approaching in a circle. The reindeer would not cross the invisible line closing in around them and began circling this way and that, as they always did when trapped. Klemet moved forward very slowly on his snowmobile, then left it a few yards from the jostling herd and continued on foot, holding his orange lasso. The reindeer moved away as he drew near, but continued their slow, circling dance, grunting and trampling the snow. Klemet glimpsed their huge, startled eyes in the shafts of light from the other snowmobiles. But still, they made no attempt to break out of the circle.

  He prepared his lasso and tossed it in the direction of the head reindeer, but caught the antler of another animal. It struggled furiously. The rest of the herd began revolving around Klemet and the frantic reindeer, while the police moved around the herd. Two perfect, concentric circles. Soon, the sun would rise above the horizon for the second time that year. Klemet moved slowly toward the reindeer as it reared and tossed its antlers. He tightened the rope and brought it down to the ground, forcing the animal to kneel, then immobilized its head while he removed the lasso. Immediately, the reindeer bounded away to rejoin the herd. He repeated the operation twice over before finally catching the head reindeer. The animal was bigger but less energetic. And, crucially, more accustomed to this sort of treatment. Klemet played out a good length of rope and drew the reindeer over to his snowmobile, then set off slowly. Docile now, the head reindeer walked quietly behind. Instinctively, the others followed suit, forming an elongated triangle behind their leader. The police officers surrounded the formation, driving forward the stragglers and strays. The Finnish patrol, who had brought a special trailer, were forced to catch two young reindeer who failed to follow the rest, and tie them aboard.

  A few miles from the enclosure, four police officers moved on ahead to prepare for the arrival of the reindeer. They pulled back the barriers to form an opening and installed plastic-mesh fencing to either side, as high as a man’s shoulder, forming a broad funnel that extended several dozen feet out from the entrance. As they approached the enclosure, some of the reindeer bringing up the rear became nervous again. The patrols accelerated hard on their snowmobiles to keep them in check. The four police officers stood motionless behind the mesh barriers. Any sudden movement would draw attention to their presence, frightening the reindeer, which might turn around and bolt despite the scooters. Then the whole operation would have to begin again. The animals suspected nothing, and the four officers on foot ran heavily through the snow, bringing the mesh barriers together behind the last of the reindeer, to close them in. After that, the reindeer were ushered into a much bigger, adjoining corral.

  And so the day progressed. The rest of the herd was scattered in five smaller groups. Each time, the officers reconnoitered the surrounding terrain, observed the animals’ behavior, and identified the best approach for the snowmobiles, so that they could drive the reindeer ahead of them in the desired direction, looking out for side tracks that would have to be blocked to prevent the herd from pouring off in the wrong direction. The day wore on. It was a race against time in the fading light, but with night-vision binoculars the officers carried on working. By midevening, the bulk of the herd had been secured in the main enclosure.

  The ten officers gathered at the foot of the tall barriers, having chopped wood and dug a hole in the snow to light a fire. Nina was exhausted. She felt the creeping onset of the cold, but watched in fascination as the heavens sprang to life. The Northern Lights seemed to reach out and take possession of the firmament. Faint, ghostly curtains of greenish light hung high above them, rippling slowly, always in the same direction. Everyone fell silent. The aurora gathered pace. Successive trails of light snaked across the sky, hesitant and slen
der. The slow dance spread wider, flickering and pulsing, a cavalcade beneath a cone of striated light convulsing in luminous waves.

  Hot coffee was quickly prepared. The officers’ thoughts turned again to Mattis. There were bound to be a few, isolated reindeer left, and others that had mingled with the neighboring herds. They would be identified in the spring triage.

  “What will happen to the animals now?” asked Nina.

  “The men from the Reindeer Administration are coming tomorrow,” said Klemet. “It’s up to them now. They’ll feed the herd and decide what to do with them.”

  Mattis had no surviving family. No one close, anyway. The reindeer would almost certainly be sent for slaughter. Ironic, really, thought Klemet as he reflected, exhausted, on the scorn Mattis had heaped on the Administration employees shortly before his death. The animals looked half starved. Mattis’s herd was known as one of the worst kept in the region. Again, Klemet pictured Mattis’s corpse, his gaping mouth and missing teeth. The herd was in its owner’s image.

  Klemet sat in silence, blowing on his coffee, though it had long since gone cold. On high, the flickering mosaic set the kingdom of the dead ablaze with the dazzling lights of heaven.

  9

  Thursday, January 13

  Sunrise: 10:41 a.m.; sunset: 12:15 p.m.

  1 hour 34 minutes of sunlight

  9 a.m., Kautokeino

  It had been a short night’s sleep for Klemet Nango and Nina Nansen. The Sheriff had called a 9 a.m. meeting at headquarters. Brattsen was there, too. Two flasks of coffee stood in the middle of the conference table. Everyone helped themselves. The Sheriff did not seem in a good mood. He said nothing for the moment, waiting until everyone was served. But Klemet knew him well enough to guess he had been on the receiving end of a stiff warning from Oslo.

  Finally, the Sheriff rose impatiently from his seat. “OK. We have a big problem.”

  He stressed the word big.

  “Two important cases in the space of twenty-four hours. No problem hitting our performance targets this year,” he added drily. “A robbery—and not just any robbery—followed by a murder. Exceptional, you’ll agree. Oslo’s in a panic over the conference, and with Mattis’s ears cut off, I wouldn’t mind betting the press will be here in droves, from Oslo, Stockholm, even further afield. Especially after the sex abuse stories two years back. So, what have you got?”

  Brattsen was the first to speak. “On the murder side, we’ve begun questioning the neighbors. Only Ailo Finnman for the moment. We still don’t know the exact time of death. Finnman says he was here in Kautokeino. We’re checking that. But there’s the rest of the clan, too. Five of them are taking turns out in the vidda at the moment. He says he hadn’t quarreled with Mattis over the pasture, but he reckons it wouldn’t have been long coming, given the way the lazy son of a bitch looked after his animals. Finnman’s phrase, you understand,” he added quickly, with a brief grin.

  “When will you finish checking the other Finnman clan members?”

  “Tonight, I hope. There are two herders out in the tundra. We won’t see them before then.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Johann Henrik and Aslak,” said Klemet, getting in before Brattsen could say anything else.

  Brattsen shot him a cold stare. “As Chubby here says—” he left a deliberate pause for effect “—we need to speak to those two as well. We haven’t been in touch yet.”

  “Any clues?”

  “No scooter tracks until we reached the scene. The snow obliterated everything. But we may find some under the top covering of snow, which is fairly light. We’re looking for fingerprints. The scooter was set alight. We’re taking samples. We don’t know whether the fire is linked to the murder or not. The machine might have burned before the murderer arrived. We just don’t know. The ears suggest a revenge attack between herders. Makes perfect sense to me. But over to our local expert on that one,” he added, with heavy sarcasm.

  “I find that theory hard to believe,” Klemet responded. “Mattis seemed more and more depressed recently. He was in a state close to despair when we saw him before his death. I’d never seen him drink like that before.”

  “Yes. Well, we’re not talking ritual suicide here,” said the Sheriff. “What else have you got?”

  “We’re going to check every reported case of reindeer theft over the past two years,” said Brattsen.

  “I’m not sure there’s much point in that,” Klemet interjected. “In most cases, the breeders don’t register an official complaint. They know it’s pointless, and they prefer to settle their own scores without the police.”

  “Too right, Chubs. I’m not the only one who thinks the Reindeer Police are a waste of time.” Brattsen couldn’t resist that one.

  “Check back over the cases anyway,” ordered the Sheriff. “Got to start somewhere. So, to sum up: we have a breeder apparently tortured to death. Why torture him? To exact revenge. Or get him to confess to something. Revenge for what? A theft? Or something else? Confess what? That he stole something? Reindeer, or something else entirely? What do we know about Mattis, anyway? Klemet, I want you to dig deeper, come up with some answers. And I want you to find the other two breeders, especially this Johann Henrik, the one involved in a dispute with Mattis. Apart from all that, anything new on the drum?”

  “Huh! The Sami moo-box.” Brattsen grinned again.

  Another officer spoke up. “The drum was in a sealed case. It was a gift to the museum from a private collector. A Frenchman, apparently. We’re trying to contact him. According to the museum director, no one so far had had the time or opportunity to photograph it. The museum wanted to get it treated first, prior to handling, and they were going to do that in the next couple of days. So no photos of the drum itself. Not here, at any rate. We don’t know what the drawings on it showed.”

  “Fucking unbelievable!” Brattsen burst out. “This is the age of Google, for Christ’s sake. We can scan every fucking scrap of toilet paper behind a bush, from space, but there’s not one picture of this blasted drum, which is apparently so important? Not even for the insurance?”

  “Agreed. That is surprising,” said the Sheriff.

  “I could try to talk to the collector,” suggested Nina. “I worked as an au pair in France. I could brush up on my French.”

  “Fine. What other leads do we have for the moment?”

  “There was a drunken party at the hostel near Juhl’s place on Sunday night. One of the kids lives there. It finished late, but definitely not at five in the morning.”

  “Berit didn’t say anything about that,” Nina observed.

  “Perhaps not, but it happened,” Brattsen insisted. “None of the kids was involved in the robbery, it seems. Their stories match and, given what I’ve got on them, they’re not likely to go telling fibs.” He gave the company a knowing smile. “Apart from that, this might be something to do with an illegal trade in artifacts, stolen to order for another collector—these drums are pretty rare, after all.”

  “Yep. Money in it for someone,” said the Sheriff. “Nina, you can check that out with your Frenchman. Might be worth seeing if any other drums have been stolen.”

  “Apart from by Swedish and Norwegian pastors, who’ve been at it for three centuries,” Klemet blurted out.

  The Sheriff stared at him in surprise. The heartfelt comment was very unlike Klemet. He smiled, noticing Brattsen’s weary sigh at the same time.

  “But locally? Who stands to profit from the disappearance of the drum?”

  “Well, we know the pastor wasn’t too happy about its being here in the first place,” said Klemet. “Thought it would raise the old demons, lure his flock away. Afraid of a reawakening of the old religion. Something like that.”

  “Can you really see the pastor committing a theft like that?” asked the Sheriff.

  “No more nor less than anyone else.”

  “And what about Olaf?” Brattsen volunteered. “The theft would suit him down to
the ground. Gives him a pretext to get everyone worked up, regurgitate all his old grievances—human rights, land rights, any damn rights. And just before a UN conference, too. What a happy coincidence. People like him dream of kicking us out of here. I heard him on the radio just now, all indignant and outraged. He said that in any case the drum had no place in a museum, that it belonged to the Sami people. The guy’s queer in the head, a regular Commie. He manipulates everyone. He’s the one who’s done time, don’t forget, for when he tried to blow up that pithead in Sweden.”

  “You know perfectly well that was never proved, and he was released after four days,” said Klemet. “And you know as well as I do Olaf represents a tiny minority.”

  “Perhaps, but he still couldn’t lie straight in bed. And you know as well as I do that he got mixed up with the IRA during the demonstrations against the Alta dam. No, I wouldn’t put it past him to steal a drum if he thought it would stir things up a bit. A good old-fashioned bit of Commie provocation.”

  * * *

  11:30 a.m., Kautokeino

  Klemet and Nina stopped at the supermarket in Kautokeino to stock up on food before setting off on patrol once again. They had decided to start with a visit to Johann Henrik. He was Mattis’s nearest neighbor and probably one of the last people to see him alive. After that, they would call on Aslak.

  Shopping was an important part of life in the Reindeer Police. Patrols could take several days out in the tundra, bivouacking in trailers—or huts, if you were lucky—in bitter cold, with long, exhausting hours riding snowmobiles. Meals were important, and officers took care and trouble over their preparation. Not haute cuisine (or seldom): hearty, sustaining food was essential in case you had to skip a meal on a longer-than-expected excursion.

  Klemet liked shopping. Selecting a bag of frozen potatoes invariably set him thinking. Nice with cutlets—he took another bag out of the freezer—and béarnaise sauce, he would need a packet of that. Perfect for this evening’s meal, after two or three hours on the scooters. He wouldn’t overcook the cutlets, no way, and he’d add a sprinkling of garlic to the potatoes. A hot tip from a colleague who vacationed regularly in Majorca.