Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller Read online

  “I’ll cook tonight,” he announced, taking no chances.

  “OK, great, thanks,” Nina replied. “I admit, cooking’s not my strong point.” She looked at the frozen-food bags piling up in the shopping cart and thought to herself that it probably wasn’t Klemet’s, either.

  “But we take it in turns, on alternate days. That’s the rule.”

  They carried on around the store, dipping into the freezers, consulting one another each time. Klemet stocked up on sweet-tasting polar bread and mysost, his favorite, soft-textured, caramelized whey cheese. Not forgetting the essential tubes of prawn- or roe-flavored paste for breakfast. Breakfast was important, too. He began to feel hungry. And eager to set off. Hurriedly, he added coffee, sugar, chocolate, dried fruit, ketchup, pasta, a few packs of low-alcohol beer. He hesitated over dropping into Vinmonopolet for a bottle of three-star cognac, then thought better of it.

  Next, they filled the scooters’ tanks and the jerricans. Nina did the honors at the petrol pump, while Klemet filled their water containers. Then he checked the straps on the snowmobile trailers, holding the storage boxes, jerricans, and water containers in place .

  They took the frozen “motorway” and climbed rapidly up the hill beyond the edge of the town, its summit bathed in dazzling light. Klemet had almost forgotten the sun had reappeared. It looked glorious. A good sign, he thought.

  The brilliant glare on the snow made driving hazardous at times, especially for Nina, whose sun goggles weren’t up to the job. She trusted to Klemet, following in his tracks.

  They reached their destination toward midafternoon. The sun had disappeared, but the light was still bright. Johann Henrik had been given advance warning of their arrival, by phone. At times of tension, as now, the breeders did not appreciate being taken by surprise. Henrik greeted them outside his trailer. Just as Klemet and Nina stepped off their machines, one of Johann’s sons mounted his scooter, wearing a chapka but no helmet. He nodded in their direction and accelerated hard, standing up, one knee folded on the broad saddle seat.

  Johann Henrik wore a three- or four-day beard. A cigarette stub clung to the corner of his mouth. He fetched a reindeer-skin poncho hanging outside the trailer, slipped it over his head without removing his cigarette, and moved slowly toward the police officers. He greeted them, still with the cigarette between his lips. He had small, cunning eyes, a lopsided mouth, and a narrow nose. His fur chapka was pushed back on his head, revealing strands of greasy hair. He had the deeply lined complexion of a man who has weathered many storms, and the expression of one who has seen too much.

  Klemet watched the herder pulling on his poncho, and understood that he had no intention of inviting them into the trailer, hoping to keep the interview as brief as possible. True to form, evil-tempered and stubborn as ever. Johann Henrik had always respected authority—like all Sami breeders—but he did nothing to facilitate the work of the Reindeer Police. Again, like all the breeders. They preferred to settle their own scores in their own way.

  “Where’s your son going?” Klemet fired the opening question.

  “The reindeer are nervous. Too much traffic about at the moment, what with you, and Mattis’s death, and the herders taking the dry feed to the animals. It troubles them. It’s no good.” He chewed the cigarette stub. “So you want to know if I killed Mattis?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  The two men observed one another. Henrik looked at the police officer through narrowed eyes. Took his time relighting the end of his cigarette.

  “Know what I think?” he went on, after a deep intake of smoke. “Whoever set fire to the scooter did it to attract attention. To sound the alarm. So that the body wouldn’t get eaten. That’s what I think. So there, I’ve answered the question you haven’t asked yet. Apart from that, I don’t know anything.”

  “You don’t know anything else at all––”

  “Nothing. Got any other questions?”

  Klemet looked at him. He did not like Johann Henrik’s attitude.

  A light breeze was blowing, but it was enough to bite the skin off your face. Klemet did not feel the cold. Long ago, he had learned not to be cold. Since childhood, he had known how the cold could rob a man of his reason, awaken unspeakable terrors. Like the dark. He could not allow himself to feel the cold. A personal oath, sworn a long time ago. Another story. He tried not to think about it, but he could never break free entirely.

  The breeder chewed on his cigarette, drawing on it more frequently now, to keep it from going out. He stood motionless, squinting, in his fur cloak. Nina felt excluded from their silent standoff. Klemet could see that, but for the moment there was nothing he could do to include his young colleague.

  The tension was palpable. Johann Henrik was a hard man, one of the old school of breeders who had known the time before snowmobiles, and quad bikes, and helicopters. The time when the herders watched over their animals on skis, in all weathers, spending hours rounding up their herds; now, the same task could be accomplished in minutes aboard a snowmobile.

  Out of consideration for Nina, Klemet decide not to prolong the confrontation, which was proving fruitless in any case.

  “When did you last see Mattis?”

  “Mattis? I could have done with seeing him a bit more often. His reindeer were always around and about, unlike him…”

  Klemet said nothing, waiting for Johann Henrik to answer his question. Nina stood stoically by. She was a tough kid, thought Klemet. She didn’t seem bothered by the cold. Her cheeks and the upturned tip of her nose were bright red, her eyelashes tinged with frost, but she stood her ground.

  Johann Henrik took his cigarette stub between his thumb and forefinger, cradling it in the hollow of his palm. He spat into the snow, took another drag. But still he said nothing. He stood stubborn as a rock, his mouth half-twisted to one side.

  “Your reindeer OK?” asked Klemet suddenly.

  The breeder’s mouth twisted further askew. Almost a nervous tic. “Of course they’re OK. What’s that got to do with it?” His mouth twisted again.

  “Nothing. Nothing to do with it. I was only asking,” said Klemet. “It’ll be a hard task sorting out Mattis’s reindeer. Bound to be a few left, scattered all over the district. Probably some in with your herd, too. All that, coupled with the murder inquiry now.”

  “What does that have to do with my reindeer?”

  “Oh, I’m not interested in your herd as such. Of course not. But I need to know how many of Mattis’s reindeer are still alive and exactly what state they’re in. All the signs point to a spot of rustling behind all this, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And people would kill a breeder for that?”

  “You were shot at yourself, ten years ago.”

  “That’s not the same thing at all.”

  “Well, that remains to be seen. We’ve rounded up most of Mattis’s animals, at any rate. But we still need to inspect the neighboring herds.”

  Klemet let that hang for a moment, watching Johann Henrik’s curled lip, still with the cigarette hanging, though it had gone out. Then he spoke again, as if passing sentence:

  “Johann Henrik, we will have to round up your herd and count the animals.”

  “The hell you will!” exclaimed Henrik, almost by reflex, and spat his cigarette butt into the snow. The blackened end landed within Klemet’s shadow. Klemet moved aside so it lay in the lights of the snowmobiles. He cursed his superstitious nature, sometimes. It looked idiotic in a policeman. But he kept his shadow untainted.

  He had decided to let Henrik stew for a while. “Think about it. We’ll stop by again later.”

  “I didn’t kill Mattis. What more do you need to know?”

  Johann Henrik fidgeted beneath his fur cloak. The breeders hated anyone taking too close an interest in the numbers of their reindeer. It was like asking someone how much money they had in the bank. Henrik was caught in a trap, and he knew it.

  “Only one way to find out whether you’ve got any of h
is reindeer,” said Klemet, just to be sure the breeder had got the message.

  Henrik’s mouth twisted again, a defiant leer. After more than half a century on the tundra, he was used to low cunning, more than the policeman could possibly imagine.

  “The last time I saw Mattis, he worried me,” Klemet went on. “I need to find out how he was doing. I know you had problems with him, but you knew him well, too.”

  Johann Henrik seemed to be evaluating the proposition. Mattis was dead. And he had no desire to have his reindeer counted by the police. He had enough trouble already with the nit-pickers from the Reindeer Administration, haranguing him with their absurd quotas, sending him letters by registered mail.

  “Mattis was at the end of his tether,” he said. “If his ears hadn’t been cut, I would have bet on suicide.”

  Johann Henrik began rolling another cigarette. He had fallen silent again, taking his time.

  “Aslak,” he said. He moistened the paper with his tongue, watching Klemet as he did so, his eyes lively with curiosity, testing the policeman’s reaction. “Aslak had Mattis right where he wanted him. You have no idea. Mattis worshipped him like a god. But heaven knows, he was terrified of him, too. Oh yes, terrified. It bothered me, every time I saw them together.”

  “What do you mean, exactly, ‘terrified’?” Nina asked.

  To her astonishment, Henrik looked her straight in the eye. He glanced at Klemet, finished rolling his cigarette, then turned to Nina again and replied, “You’re new.”

  It was an observation, not a question.

  “Have you come across Aslak yet?”

  “No,” said Nina, intrigued now.

  “You’ll find out all about him soon.”

  Johann Henrik had lost his earlier, suspicious look. Apparently, the mention of Aslak affected him, too, however hard-boiled he appeared.

  “Aslak is not like the rest. He lives far out on the tundra, with his reindeer and his wife. No one else lives like them today.”

  Klemet said nothing, but nodded. He could feel Nina’s eyes on him. He had never spoken to her about Aslak, though he had known him for a very long time. Nina seemed to sense something. Her curiosity was obviously aroused, but she was careful not to let it show in Henrik’s presence. Klemet appreciated that.

  Johann Henrik dragged on his cigarette and spoke again.

  “Aslak frightened Mattis the same way he frightens everyone in the vidda. Me, I am not afraid of him, because I know. I have seen it. Aslak is half man, half beast. I saw him one day, on all fours, in among his herd. He’s the last one on the vidda to castrate his reindeer with his teeth. Did you know that, Klemet?”

  He turned again to Nina. “You won’t find a better wolf hunter anywhere in the region. I saw it with my own eyes one day. He followed a wolf, one that had killed several of his reindeer. He tracked it for hours in the snow, to wear the animal out. He got rid of his gun, so that he wouldn’t be weighed down by it. All he had was a big stick. When he caught up to it, the wolf threw itself at him. I was a long way off, on the other side of the valley, but I watched it all through my field glasses. How do you think he killed it? When the wolf pounced, with its jaws wide open, he thrust his fist forward and stuffed his hand down its gullet, right up to his elbow, and with the other hand he smashed its skull with the stick. Can you imagine? His arm right down the animal’s throat!”

  “How was he with Mattis?” asked Nina.

  “You will understand, perhaps, when you meet Aslak. People are overawed by him. And Mattis was very impressionable. You know that Mattis’s father, Anta, was a shaman? Klemet didn’t tell you? A throwback to an earlier time. Strange. Anta kept himself to himself, but he was well respected. He’s been dead a long while. Mattis grew up in that world. But he had no gift, no talent, nothing. The son of a shaman. But that won’t get you far today. He was not respected, Mattis. I think that’s why he drank. Well, that’s what I say.”

  Johann Henrik relit his cigarette. The wind had dropped. It was a little less cold. Klemet felt stiff, but his reindeer-skin boots kept the cold out. Nina’s standard-issue police boots were less effective. She stamped on the spot to warm up. The conversation had lasted longer than planned. Johann Henrik had opened up, talking more freely now, but he still hadn’t invited them into his trailer.

  “Aslak liked Mattis, in his way. He used to spend time with Mattis’s father before. They were close. And Aslak and Mattis are both exiles, each of a kind. Mattis was excluded by other people, and Aslak excluded himself. He helped Mattis with his reindeer sometimes.”

  “But not recently?”

  “When Mattis was drinking, he would retreat into himself. He didn’t dare ask Aslak for help—he was ashamed for Aslak to see him in that state.”

  “Did they ever quarrel?”

  “How shall I put this—Mattis’s quarrel was with the whole world. He had disagreements with everyone, at different times. Recently, he had been doing very little. I know Aslak was annoyed by that, and he made sure Mattis knew it. Mattis told me so last week. He was afraid. I don’t think Aslak would ever have hurt him, but Mattis felt intimidated. Aslak would pass comment, and Mattis would imagine terrible things.”

  “So why do you say we should be thinking about Aslak?”

  “I say—I say…that there are things I don’t know.”

  “And the drum. Any ideas about that?” asked Klemet.

  “The drum?” Johann Henrik dragged on his cigarette, spat into the snow. “We don’t need any drum around here. That’s all over now. Who wants to reawaken the past? That’s just fancy dress for the tourists. You think I’ve got time to worry about some old drum? Name me one herder who has time for that all that crap.”

  “Olaf is very committed to it.”

  “The Spaniard? The man’s a joke! There’s no such thing as a part-time breeder, believe me. I wonder how he does it, really I do. And what would he want with this drum, if ever they find it again? Much good it did Mattis!”

  “What do you mean?” asked Nina in surprise.

  “Mattis was fascinated by drums. With his father a shaman and all that. He was unhinged, Mattis. It was a kind of obsession with him. The power of the drums. The power of the shaman. All that stuff. When he should have been taking care of his reindeer.”

  Swiftly, Henrik took a pair of field glasses out from under his fur cloak and scanned the valley. He tossed his cigarette away.

  “I need to go.”

  “Johann Henrik, where were you on Tuesday, during the day?”

  The herder stared angrily at Klemet as he adjusted his reindeer-skin gloves.

  “I was watching the reindeer with my son, all day. And with Mikkel and Jonne, the Finnman herders. We tried to push Mattis’s herd back. They were everywhere. That ought to do for an alibi, no?”

  He spat into the snow, climbed aboard his snowmobile without waiting for a reply, and accelerated hard. Seconds later, he was a mere dot in the valley.

  10

  Thursday, January 13

  8 p.m., Kautokeino

  The customer leaning on the zinc bar seemed no longer to notice the small man who had been gesturing at his side for some time now. He wasn’t doing any harm, just gesturing. Nothing aggressive, although the smaller man did look exasperated from time to time at the lack of response. Then he would burst out laughing all of a sudden, pounce on his beer glass and drink deep, then start gesturing all over again next to the man at the bar, propped on his elbows.

  The pub in Kautokeino occupied one room on the ground floor of a building right opposite a large chalet put up recently by a fundamentalist splinter group from the church. Some found their close proximity strange, to say the least, but ultrareligious types and hardened sinners needed one another, after all. The pub was furnished with ten mismatched tables, square and round, though together they created a certain stylistic unity. The same went for the chairs, all different. The thick log walls were hung with a curious mix of framed photos of cars from the 1950s and 19
60s, images of Elvis and a handful of other rock legends, and paintings of Sami motifs: encampments of reindeer herders, reindeer, and the Northern Lights. Antlers of every shape and size filled the space above the bar. Overhead, red bulbs cast a dim light reflected in the melted snow that gleamed on the dark red linoleum underfoot.

  The pub hosted its usual clientele for a weekday evening—it was almost empty. Two tables were occupied. At one, three men sat hunched in worn-out snowsuits, silently draining their beer glasses. One sported an orange lasso looped across his chest and a chapka pushed back on his head, revealing a strand of hair plastered down with sweat. To judge by their outfits and exhausted air, the men were breeders back from a vigil not too far from town. At the other table sat a woman in traditional, colorful Sami dress, wearing the local headgear. The man at the bar noticed she drank no beer, just coffee. She seemed out of place, glancing frequently in the direction of the small, gesticulating man, as if keeping an eye on him.

  The young waitress behind the bar spoke to her, in Sami. “Berit, do you want a refill?”

  Berit shook her head and lifted one hand in a gesture of thanks.

  “Could you call your brother off, do you think? I wouldn’t want him to frighten away our new customer.”

  The customer put down his glass. “He’s not bothering me,” he said.

  “You speak our language,” said the girl in surprise. “And Swedish, too. But your accent isn’t Swedish.”

  “No, French. But I lived in Sweden for years.”

  “Oh! French…” The girl gave him a pretty smile. “Another beer?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “We don’t get many strangers here. Even fewer who can speak Sami.”

  “I can believe that,” said the man, raising his glass to drink and taking a good look at the girl’s prettily rounded figure.