by Olivier Truc
“But I mean, do you know them personally? Did you know them before you were in the Reindeer Police, for example?”
Klemet flipped the meat in the pan, taking his time. “A few.”
Blood from a stone, Nina thought. It was always the same, when the questions got too close. “Aslak and Mattis?”
“Yes…Slightly. We lost touch for years. Especially Aslak.”
“You had been close?”
“Close…no, not close.”
“Were you a breeder, too?”
Klemet stopped attending to the food and looked up. “No. My family was poor.”
Nina thought for a moment. “Mattis was a breeder, and he didn’t seem particularly wealthy to me.”
“But we weren’t alcoholics. If Mattis had kept a clear head, he might have given up reindeer breeding years ago—like my grandfather had to, because he couldn’t make enough to feed his family. Mattis was like all those Sami who think they’ve failed somehow if they aren’t reindeer breeders.”
Nina said nothing. Klemet was a harsh judge, she thought. Perhaps he was jealous, just a little.
“OK, we can eat. And then we’ll call the station.”
Nina understood he was drawing the discussion to a close.
“No one has a drinking problem where I come from,” she said. “Everyone watched out for everyone else on the fjord. My mother was a devout believer. Evangelical. There were a lot of them in the village. Sometimes, when the boats came in, the fishermen would drink and cause trouble. My mother hated that. She and the other women, her friends, would keep watch until the boats left.”
“Alcohol always brings trouble,” said Klemet, carrying the dishes over to the table.
They ate in silence.
When they had cleared everything away, Klemet spread a map out on the table and replaced the candles. He put in a few calls to the local breeders, then contacted the Sheriff on the loudspeaker, giving him a brief summary of their conversation with Johann Henrik. They would see Aslak tomorrow, at the earliest.
Klemet asked his colleague, “I’ve been thinking—do you have any ideas about Mattis’s scooter? Why burn it? And why not burn the trailer?”
“There might have been prints on the scooter…”
“But then it would have made sense to burn the trailer, too,” said Klemet.
The station had found the French collector’s details. He didn’t speak much English. Nina would have to dust off her language skills.
“She should call him as soon as possible,” the Sheriff insisted. “We’re getting nowhere. Oslo is already on my back. And the press has caught the scent. There are a few journalists in town, setting everyone on edge. Brattsen’s spoken to the two herders working for Finnman. They confirm that they spent Tuesday with him, out on the tundra. They were together the whole time, near Govggecorru. Too far to get to Mattis’s trailer and back around the estimated time of death. So no help there.”
Nina could hear the Sheriff muttering to himself. She pictured him helping himself from his bowl of salmiakki—the overpowering, salty black licorice sweets he always kept in his office. He dispensed further instructions, his mouth apparently full.
“Klemet, you have got to see Aslak as soon as you can tomorrow. He’s the only one of Mattis’s immediate neighbors we haven’t seen. If he can’t produce an alibi, you’ll have to bring him in. No two ways about it. And if it isn’t him, we really are in the shit.”
“Bring him in, bring him in… Ask Brattsen. He’d love to bring him in. It’s not really our job, you know that.”
“I know, but if you have to, you’ll do it, Klemet. And what about the reindeer thefts over the past two years?”
“Haven’t had time for that yet. In any case, we’d need to search back over ten years, twenty.… Reindeer rustling leads to vendettas. Blood feuds over generations. But I’ll work on it tonight. With Nina. Any news on clues at the trailer?”
Klemet heard the Sheriff rustling the bowl of salmiakki. He smacked his tongue on another sweet.
“Dozens of fingerprints, of course. Including yours and Nina’s. Estimated time of death around two in the afternoon on Tuesday. And the burned-out scooter is definitely Mattis’s. They tried to take a cast of the tracks under the top layer of snow, but nothing conclusive for the moment. And for your information, Olaf and his band of Sami elders are still occupying the crossroads. They’ve set up a camp with two trailers and tents. They’re planning to spend the night. A proper village fête. But the pastor’s calmed down.”
Klemet replaced his cell phone on the table, went outside to put diesel in the generator, then fired up the engine. They could hardly hear it inside. Nina had taken out her laptop and set up the satellite connection. The hut morphed from cozy candlelit diner to operations HQ. Klemet put his phone to charge next to Nina’s, took out his own laptop and connected to the police intranet. He punched in the passwords, entered some search terms, and quickly retrieved a long list of cases of reindeer theft. Sitting next to him, she followed his progress, unconvinced.
“Two hundred and thirty-five reports in two years. That seems a lot, doesn’t it? Is it really such a problem around here?”
Klemet said nothing for a moment. He rubbed his chin, staring at the reports at the top of the list. “Not to mention all the thefts we never get to hear about. You can easily multiply that by five, I’d say. It’s always been a problem. That’s why the Reindeer Police was created after the war, in fact. The Sami breeders had had enough of Norwegians stealing their reindeer. People were left with nothing to eat after the Germans slashed and burned everything when they withdrew.”
“And today?”
“Well, the Norwegians still steal the Sami’s animals. Usually in the autumn, when the reindeer are all fattened up on grass after the summer. Around September, before the migration to the winter pastures. That’s when the meat is most tender. There are always Norwegians from down on the coast ready to take out a reindeer on the roadside. One for the freezer. But those aren’t the thefts listed here. The Norwegians don’t venture out into the tundra in the middle of winter. That’s Sami territory.”
“It’s strange—I can’t imagine the Sami stealing reindeer. I didn’t think they would quarrel among themselves. I thought they would show solidarity.”
Klemet frowned.
Nina went on: “From what you say, we still have several hundred suspects among the other breeders, taking into account all the vendettas dating back over decades…”
“In theory, yes. Not only vendettas, though. If two herds get mixed up, a breeder might decide to slaughter the new animals from his neighbor’s herd. To save his own from starving. He just has to get rid of their ears, with the incised markings, and away you go: they can’t be identified, so no one can file a complaint and no one can investigate, either. That’s the way it is, very often. But people don’t like to talk about it, of course. And if you cream off a few reindeer from your neighbor’s herd, no one gets too worked up about it. Your neighbor will do the same. In the spring, young calves that have lost their mothers get the same treatment. An unmarked calf picked up in the middle of the forest, well, it’s finders keepers. Mostly, the breeders don’t think of that as theft. Not as we define it, anyhow.”
“Was Mattis implicated in cases like that?”
“Mattis, and everyone else. Then it’s a question of degree. There are people who’ll take one or two reindeer, people who’ll take ten, and people who double the size of their herd in a few years. The Finnman clan have a reputation for that, for example. Nothing’s ever been proved. But that’s what they’re known for in the region. I’m going to start sorting through the list. You should call France before it’s too late.”
* * *
Nina had spent nine months in France as an au pair, in the year before she joined the police. In fact, it was because of what had happened in France that she had decided on a career in the force. She had never told anyone, except the police superintendent who had int
erviewed her when she applied and who had supported her application subsequently. Keeping the secret. Nina felt ashamed of the incident in France. She had a very clear idea of right and wrong. The remnants of her strict upbringing, courtesy of her mother. She knew that what had happened was bad. And yet she had been lured into it, unable to resist, against her better judgment. She had lost control. She was ashamed even at the memory of that loss of self-control. She felt disgust for the man involved, disgust at herself. Why hadn’t she found the strength to refuse? Why hadn’t he listened to her?
She looked at the telephone number. Paris. It had happened in Paris. She punched in the numbers, adjusting her earpieces. A man’s voice answered after just a couple of seconds. When she opened her mouth to speak, she was surprised to find her French was still fluent.
“Bonjour, Monsieur, je m’appelle Nina Nansen.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” The voice was polite, distinguished, and quite young.
“I’m calling about a Sami drum you donated to the museum in Kautokeino.”
“The drum, yes, absolutely. Then you will want to speak to my father. The gift was his. I am Paul Mons, his son.”
“In that case, yes. Please.”
“Unfortunately, my father can’t come to the telephone. He is bedridden and has difficulty talking. He is very weak. What can I do for you?”
“This is the Norwegian police. I’m calling because the drum was stolen on the night of Sunday to Monday, from Juhl’s museum in Kautokeino.”
“Actually, I know. Your colleagues called the next day. They gave me to understand that someone who could speak French would call back. A very strange business. Have you found it?”
“No, sir. That’s why I’d like to ask your father a few questions.”
“Well, if I can help you, I’ll be happy to answer them. Otherwise, I will pass your questions on to my father.”
“The museum hadn’t opened the sealed case, in fact. So we have no idea what the drum looks like. We’d like to know what was special about it. What might have interested anyone.”
“Can I call you back on this number in few minutes? I’ll go and speak to my father.”
Nina ended the call and turned back to Klemet’s screen. Her partner was scrolling through the files of registered reindeer thefts. According to police records, Mattis’s name had come up three times in the past two years. Out of curiosity, Klemet had then searched the entire database of digitalized reports dating back to 1995. Twelve incidents had been reported. Of the twelve, nine were unresolved due to lack of evidence—par for the course in cases like this. The thefts were mostly small-scale. Most of the complaints had been registered by Mattis’s direct neighbors: the Finnmans (cheeky, thought Nina, given their reputation), and Johann Henrik in the case of two more serious thefts. None were from Aslak. She hadn’t met him yet, but Nina was not surprised: a reluctance to involve the police fitted her mental picture of the man about whom she had heard so much.
Nina’s phone rang again shortly afterward. Paul, the collector’s son, had been able to ask his father a few questions. Apparently, he had received the drum directly from a Sami man, shortly before the war, during a visit to Lapland.
“My father took part in several expeditions at the time with the explorer Paul-Émile Victor, to Greenland and Lapland. That’s why I am called Paul, in fact. My father’s admiration for him was lifelong and quite boundless. He is very weak now. As I understand it, he promised Paul-Émile he would return the drum to Lapland when the time was right. He did not volunteer any further details. I sent it to the museum. According to my father, there was some sort of problem with the drum. But as I have said before, he is quite weak, and I don’t like to trouble him with too many questions at once. I did not understand the exact nature of the problem. I shall have to call you another time, to tell you more. This is all I know for the moment.”
“Could you ask him who the Sami man was, and what was depicted on the drum?”
Nina ended the call. She had never heard of Paul-Émile Victor, but she was intrigued by Paul Mons’s reference to the unidentified Sami man, and to a problem with the drum.
“Paul-Émile Victor? No idea,” said Klemet, when they resumed their conversation.
He sent a radio message to Aslak, letting him know they would call on him the next day. Aslak had no cell phone and no landline, just an old radio set—NATO surplus. Klemet had no idea whether he was listening in and took it for granted that Aslak wouldn’t answer the call in person. In fact, the call forced Klemet to prepare himself for tomorrow’s visit. He didn’t like meeting Aslak.
He got up to put more wood on the stove. The hut was thoroughly warm now. Through the small window, Klemet could see nothing but thick, black night. A faint, greenish light glimmered in the sky over to his left, but nothing extraordinary. Tomorrow would be clear and bright. He thought of his uncle, Nils Ante. Without being able to say why, the splendors of nature and the Northern Lights always put him in mind of his uncle. Uncle Nils Ante, who could describe the phenomenon in wonderful words, while he, Klemet, always felt clumsy and incapable. And not only when faced with the spectacle of the natural world, if he thought about it. He banished the aurora from his thoughts.
Nina was making instant coffee, her fresh features concentrated on the task, her long blonde ponytail dancing against her bulky sweater, which nonetheless revealed the outline of her breasts. She reminded Klemet of the tall, wholesome, uncomplicated girls he had so desired when he was a young man. But they had been far beyond his reach. He had felt so different. Awkward. Clumsy… It always came back to that. Even here, in the hut, far from anywhere.
“Is everything OK, Nina? Do you feel all right?”
Nina turned, flashing her dazzling smile. “Fine, thanks. Three sugars, as usual?”
“Three. Thanks. I mean, do you like it here?”
“Very much so.” She poured the coffee into the brightly colored plastic mugs. “Actually, I don’t know why there aren’t more candidates for the north, fresh out of police academy. I really like it here.”
“That’s good. It’s good for us to get people from the south. Especially women. We don’t have enough women up here.”
She smiled again but said nothing. Klemet felt like an idiot now. Infuriated to find himself behaving like his own, gauche, twenty-year-old self. He never hit on the right thing to say. Or too late, when someone else had already made off with the booty. He moved toward her, to collect his mug.
“Yes, there aren’t many pretty girls like you around here. Are you planning to stay?”
Nina seemed impervious to her colleague’s efforts. Damn it, thought Klemet. She kept smiling, stirring the powdered milk into her coffee.
“I feel good here. What I’m learning about the Sami, and the Norwegians, really interests me. I wouldn’t at all mind staying a few years. I’ll have to discuss it with my boyfriend, though.” The same beaming smile.
Jesus, thought Klemet. What a fucking idiot. Why had he brought the conversation around to this? Nina was oblivious, apparently, but that only annoyed him more. He remembered an old friend who could charm any girl he liked, whenever the time was right. Klemet had never known what to do. He was saved by a cell phone ringtone. This time it was Nina’s.
12
10 p.m., Kautokeino
André Racagnal managed to get out of the police station after about an hour. The deputy superintendent was a hard case. It was written all over his face. Stubborn and hard. Racagnal’s blood ran cold when Brattsen asked him what he had been doing on Tuesday. He thought fast, running through the events of the day in his mind. But the policeman was after something else, it turned out. Brattsen had made the object of his inquiries clear: he was looking for leads on the reindeer breeder’s murder. Racagnal was overcome with relief but let nothing show. The policeman had suspected nothing. He resumed the detached, ironic, cynical tone he affected with everyone. But the policeman had insisted. It wasn’t enough that Racagnal had a conc
rete alibi for the Tuesday afternoon in question. Brattsen had asked a load of questions about his work as a prospector.
There was a simple enough reason for Racagnal’s absence from Kautokeino on Tuesday, the day of the Sami breeder’s murder. He had made a round trip to Alta, an hour and a half north on the coast, to get his car serviced, and the vehicle had been stuck at the garage because the garage owner had closed it for a Progress Party march. The first demonstration in the area for a quarter of a century, and there he was, stuck! A demonstration that “couldn’t be missed,” said the garage owner, who had taken his two mechanics along with him. Idiot. The man had felt it necessary to explain all about the demo to André—how the Norwegians were taking action because they had had enough of the Lapps getting on their high horses about their blasted drum, and because the stolen drum in Kautokeino had worked everyone into a fever of excitement, and the Lapps were so damn keen on proclaiming their rights, but they, the Norwegians, they had just as many rights, too, dammit, and if they kept on giving more rights to the Laplanders, they’d have to start giving them to the damn Somalis, too, and then where would we all be? Right, or not?
Stupid bastard, Racagnal thought. Personally, he couldn’t give a damn about the Sami, the Norwegians, the Somali immigrants, or the drum. He couldn’t give a damn about the whole stupid lot of them. But he wanted his four-by-four. Worse still, the garage owner seemed convinced that the visitor from France, of all places, would be delighted to see that Norwegians were capable of taking to the streets and protesting, too. Fool.
Racagnal had used the time to buy equipment, said he would be back later, then spent the day making a tour of the pubs in Alta. Which didn’t take long. He had started at the Nordlys hotel, then taken his taxi driver’s advice and wound up at the Han Steike pub and café, in the center of town. Things had looked up around midafternoon when a group of giggling Norwegian schoolgirls came in. Racagnal sized them up and down in detail, taking care no one noticed. One of the girls caught his eye more than the others. A pageboy haircut neatly framing her face, bangs falling into her eyes. She wasn’t the prettiest, but of all of them she was the one who’d be ready and willing, with her bangs down to her eyes, so that she had to lift her chin to see out. As ready as they came. A real little minx. As a rule, he preferred girls with curly hair. But the little blonde with the bangs excited him.
