Between the Dark and the Daylight

by Ed Gorman

  He stopped abruptly, tears in his eyes and shoulders shaking.

  Whitemore waited.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Pitcher said finally. “Honest. I never touched him. Not like … you know, like before.”

  “But you could have?” Whitemore said.

  Head down, Pitcher nodded.

  “Darren?”

  “Yes, yeah. I suppose … Yeah.”

  Still neither of them moved, and the rain continued to fall.

  On Christmas morning Whitemore rose early, scraped the ice from the windows of the secondhand Saab he’d bought not so many weeks before, loaded up the backseat with presents, and set out for the coast. When he arrived the light was only just beginning to spread, in bands of pink and yellow, across the sky. Wanting his arrival to be a surprise, he parked some houses away.

  The curtains were partly drawn and he could see the lights of the Christmas tree clearly, red, blue, and green, and, as he moved across the frosted grass, he could see the twins, up already, still wearing their pajamas, tearing into the contents of their stockings, shouting excitedly as they pulled at the shiny paper and cast it aside.

  When he thought they might see him, he stepped quickly away and returned to the car, loading the presents into his arms. Back at the bungalow, he placed them on the front step, up against the door, and walked away.

  If he had waited, knocked on the window, rung the bell, gone inside and stayed, seen their happiness at close hand, he knew it would have been almost impossible to leave.

  Emma Laurie appeared at the police station in early January, the youngest child in a buggy, the others half-hidden behind her legs. After days of endless pestering, she had allowed Pitcher back into the house, just for an hour, and then he had refused to leave. When she’d finally persuaded him to go, he had threatened to kill himself if she didn’t have him back; said that he would snatch the children and take them with him; kill them all.

  “It was wrong o’ me, weren’t it? Letting him back in. I never should’ve done it. I know that, I know.”

  “It’s okay,” Whitemore said. “And I wouldn’t pay too much attention to what Darren said. He was angry. Upset. Times like that, people say a lot of things they don’t necessarily mean.”

  “But if you’d seen his face … He meant it, he really did.”

  Whitemore gave her his card. “Look, my mobile number’s there. If he comes round again, threatening you, anything like that, you call me, right? Straightaway. Meantime, I’ll go and have a word with him. Okay?”

  Emma smiled uncertainly, nodded thanks, and ushered the children away.

  After spending time in various hostels and a spell sleeping rough, Pitcher, with the help of the local housing association, had found a place to rent in Sneinton. A one-room flat with a sink and small cooker in one corner and a shared bathroom and toilet on the floor below. Whitemore sat on the single chair, and Pitcher sat on the sagging bed.

  “I know why you’re here,” Pitcher said. “It’s about Emma. What I said.”

  “You frightened her.”

  “I know. I lost my temper, that’s all.” He shook his head.

  “Being there, her an’ the kids, a family, you know? An’ then her chuckin’ me out. You wouldn’t understand. Why would you? But I felt like shit. A piece of shit. An’ I meant it. What I said. Not the kids, not harmin’ them. I wouldn’t do that. But topping myself …” He looked at Whitemore despairingly. “It’s what I’ll do. I swear it. I will.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Whitemore said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  Whitemore leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “It’s hard, I know. And I do understand. Really, I do. But you have to keep going. Move on. Look — here — you’ve got this place, right? A flat of your own. It’s a start. A new start. Look at it like that.”

  He went across to Pitcher and rested a hand on his shoulder, not knowing how convincing his half-truths and platitudes had been.

  “Ben Leonard. You talked to him before. I’ll see if I can’t get him to see you again. It might help sort a few things out. Okay? But in the meantime, whatever you do, you’re to keep away from Emma. Right, Darren? Emma and the children.” Whitemore tightened his grip on Pitcher’s shoulder before stepping clear. “Keep right away.”

  It was a little more than a week later when the call came through, waking Whitemore from his sleep. The voice was brisk, professional, a triage nurse at the Queen’s Medical Centre, Accident and Emergency. “We’ve a young woman here, Emma Laurie, she’s quite badly injured. Some kind of altercation with a partner? She insisted that I contact you, I hope that’s all right. Apparently she’s worried about the children. Three of them?”

  “Are they there with her?”

  “No. At home, apparently.”

  “On their own?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe a neighbor? I’m afraid she’s not making a lot of sense.”

  Whitemore dropped the phone and finished pulling on his clothes.

  The house was silent — the blood slightly tacky to the touch. One more room to go. The bathroom door was bolted from the inside, and Whitemore shouldered it free. Darren Pitcher was sitting on the toilet seat, head slumped forward toward his chest, one arm trailing over the bath, the other dangling toward the floor. Long, vertical cuts ran down the inside of both arms, almost from elbow to wrist, slicing through the horizontal scars from where he had harmed himself before. Blood had pooled along the bottom of the bath and around his feet. A Stanley knife rested on the bath’s edge alongside an oval of pale green soap.

  Whitemore crouched down. There was a pulse, still beating faintly, at the side of Pitcher’s neck.

  “Darren? Can you hear me?”

  With an effort, Pitcher raised his head. “See, I did it. I said I would.” A ghost of a smile lingered in his eyes.

  “The children,” Whitemore said. “Where are they?”

  Pitcher’s voice was a sour whisper in his face. “The shed. Out back. I didn’t want them to see this.”

  As Pitcher’s head slumped forward, Whitemore dialed the emergency number on his mobile phone.

  Downstairs, he switched on the kitchen light; there was a box of matches lying next to the stove. Unbolting the back door, he stepped outside. The shed was no more than five feet high, roughly fashioned from odd planks of wood, the roof covered with a rime of frost. The handle was cold to the touch.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said, loud enough for them to hear inside. “I’m just going to open the door.”

  When it swung back, he ducked inside and struck a match. The three children were clinging to one another in the farthest corner, staring wide-eyed into the light.

  Darren Pitcher had lost consciousness by the time the paramedics arrived, and despite their efforts and those of the doctors at A & E, he was pronounced dead a little after six that morning. Sutured and bandaged, Emma Laurie was kept in overnight and then released. Her children had been scooped up by the Social Services Emergency Duty Team and would spend a short time in care.

  Tom Whitemore drove to the embankment and stood on the pedestrian bridge across the river, staring down at the dark, glassed-over surface of the water, the pale shapes of sleeping swans, heads tucked beneath their wings. Overhead, the sky was clear and pitted with stars.

  When he finally arrived home, it was near dawn.

  The heating in the house had just come on.

  Upstairs, in the twins’ room, it felt cold nonetheless. Each bed was carefully made up, blankets folded neatly back. In case. He stood there for a long time, letting the light slowly unfold round him. The start of another day.

  JOHN HARVEY is the author of eleven Charlie Resnick novels, the first of which, Lonely Hearts, was named by The Times (London) as one of the 100 Best Crime Novels of the Century. In 2007 he was awarded the British Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for sustained excellence in crime writing. He lives in London with his partner and
their young daughter.

  Permissions

  “The Year in Mystery: 2008,” copyright (c) 2009 by Jon L. Breen

  “Father’s Day,” copyright (c) 2008 by Michael Connelly. First published in The Blue Religion. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Walking the Dog,” copyright (c) 2008 by Peter Robinson. First published in Toronto Noir. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Lucky,” copyright (c) 2008 by Charlaine Harris, Inc. First published in Unusual Suspects. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “A Sleep Not Unlike Death,” copyright (c) 2008 by Sean Chercover. First published at www.thuglit.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The First Husband,” copyright (c) 2008 by the Ontario Review, Inc. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Between the Dark and the Daylight,” copyright (c) 2008 by Tom Piccirilli. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September/October 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Cheer,” copyright (c) 2008 by Megan Abbott. First published on www.storyglossia.com, May 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Babs,” copyright (c) 2008 by Scott Phillips. First published in Las Vegas Noir. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Ms. Grimshanks Regrets,” copyright (c) 2008 by Nancy Pickard. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Skinhead Central,” copyright (c) 2008 by T. Jefferson Parker. First published in The Blue Religion. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Bookbinder’s Apprentice,” copyright (c) 2008 by Martin Edwards. First published in The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “I/M Print: A Tess Cassidy Mystery,” copyright (c) 2008 by Jeremiah Healy. First published in At the Scene of the Crime. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Devil’s Acre,” copyright (c) 2008 by Steve Hockensmith. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, February 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Instrument of Their Desire,” copyright (c) 2008 by Patricia Abbott. First published on www.beattoapulp.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Crossroads,” copyright (c) 2008 by Bill Crider. First published on www.hardluckstories.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Kim Novak Effect,” copyright (c) 2008 by Gary Phillips. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Opposite of O,” copyright (c) 2008 by Martin Limón. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, July/August 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Patriotic Gestures,” copyright (c) 2008 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch. First published in At the Scene of the Crime. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Quick Brown Fox,” copyright (c) 2008 by Robert S. Levinson. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “What Happened to Mary?” copyright (c) 2008 by Bill Pronzini. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September/October 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Jonas and the Frail,” by Charles Ardai. First published on www.blazing adventuresmagazine.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Pig Party,” copyright (c) 2008 by Doug Allyn. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March/April 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Perfect Gentleman,” by Brett Battles. First published in Killer Year: Stories to Die For. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Road Dogs,” copyright 2008 by Norman Partridge. First published on www.subterraneanpress.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Rust,” copyright (c) 2008 by N.J. Ayres. First published in At the Scene of the Crime. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Skin and Bones,” copyright (c) 2008 by David Edgerly Gates. First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “La Vie En Rose,” by Dominique Mainard. First published in Paris Noir. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Sack O’ Woe,” copyright (c) 2008 by John Harvey. First published in The Blue Religion. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  About the Editors

  ED GORMAN has been called “one of suspense fiction’s best story!-tellers” by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, and “one of the most original voices in today’s crime fiction” by the San Diego Union. He’s been published in many magazines, including Redbook, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Poetry Today. He has won numerous prizes for his work, including the Shamus award, the Spur award, and the International Fiction Writer’s award, as well as being nominated for the Edgar, the Anthony, the Golden Dagger, and the Stoker award. His work has been featured by the Literary Guild, the Mystery Guild, the Doubleday Book Club, and the Science Fiction Book Club. He lives with his wife, author Carol Gorman, in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

  MARTIN H. GREENBERG is the CEP of Tekno Books and its predecessor companies, now the largest book developer of commercial fiction and non-fiction in the world, with over 2,000 published books that have been translated into 33 languages. He is the recipient of an unprecedented three Lifetime Achievement Awards in the Science Fiction, Mystery, and Supernatural Horror genres — the Milford Award in Science Fiction, the Bram Stoker Award in Horror, and the Ellery Queen Award in Mystery — the only person in publishing history to have received all three awards.

  If you liked Between the Dark and the Daylight check out:

  By Hook or By Crook

  THE MYSTERY IN 2009

  By Jon L. Breen

  Call 2009 the Year of Landmark Anniversaries. Eighty years have passed since the September 1929 issue of Black Mask presented the first installment of a serial that would become one of the most influential detective novels in history, Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon. Whether intended to mark that occasion or not, two of the best novels of the year paid homage to Hammett, one to his style and fictional world and one to his personal character. (See Gores and Atkins respectively in the best-of-the-year list below.) A key reference book on Hammett’s San Francisco had a new and expanded edition: Don Herron’s The Dashiell Hammett Tour: Thirtieth Anniversary Guidebook (Vince Emery).

  The bicentennial of Edgar Allan Poe’s birth in 1809 was celebrated throughout the year in Baltimore with such events as a Poe funeral reenactment, various theatrical presentations, and The Cask of Amontillado Wine Tasting, apparently successful enough to be repeated in 2010. The Mystery Writers of America recognized the birthday with two volumes: In the Shadow of the Master (William Morrow), edited by Michael Connelly, which gathered some of Poe’s best-kfnown tales, accompanied by essays from present-day writers influenced by the father of the detective story; and On a Raven’s Wing, edited by Stuart Kaminsky, featuring homages to Poe by many of today’s top writers.

  Speaking of Poe and MWA, the organization’s leadership made a surprising decision regarding one of his namesake Edgar Awards. There is no shortage of awards in the mystery genre, as the compilation at the end of this piece demonstrates. While there may be no need to add more, those that are unique, prestigious, and/or longstanding ought to be maintained. The Edgar for Best Motion Picture, given every year save two since 1946, has been scuttled for reasons never revealed to the membership.

  The first film honored, in 1946, was the previous year’s Murder, My Sweet, scripted by John Paxton from Raymond Chandler’s novel Farewell, My Lovely. Subsequent years honored such classic films as The Asphalt Jungle, Rear Window, 12 Angry Men Psycho, The French Connection, The Last of Sheila, Chinatown, Witness, The Silence of the Lambs, Pulp Fiction, and L.A. Confidential, and such screenwriters as Donald E. Westlake, Dennis Potter,
Joseph Wambaugh, Michael Crichton, William Goldman, and Truman Capote. Honored for best of 2008, from a very strong list of nominees, was Martin McDonagh’s script for In Bruges. But there will be no Edgar Award for the best of 2009, the award having been put “on hiatus” by the MWA Board of Directors without explanation.

  Recent years have taken an unusually heavy toll on the crime fiction community. In reviewing 2008, I noted the passing of no fewer than five MWA Grand Masters. In 2009, they were joined by another from that exclusive club, the prolific and versatile Stuart M. Kaminsky, and in early 2010 by two more, Dick Francis and Robert B. Parker.

  Other mystery-world deaths in 2009 included novelists William Tapply, Barbara Parker, Robert Terrall, Lyn Hamilton, Celia Fremlin, and Sister Carol Anne O’Marie, and short-story specialists Barbara Callahan and Dick Stodghill. An important figure in mystery scholarship, Ray B. Browne, a pioneer of the study of popular culture as writer, publisher, and Bowling Green University professor, died at age eighty-seven.

  Best Novels of the Year 2009

  Before unveiling the fifteen best new books I read and reviewed during the year, here’s the boilerplate disclaimer: I don’t pretend to cover the whole field — no single reviewer does — but if you have a better list of fifteen, I’d love to see it.

  Ace Atkins, Devil’s Garden (Putnam). San Francisco of the 1920s and the complex personalities of Pinkerton operative Dashiell Hammett and manslaughter suspect Roscoe (Fatty) Arbuckle are central to a remarkable fictionalization.