While it was still dark enough to go unnoticed, Firdy jammed the crowbar between the front door and the frame and worked it, tearing wood from both. He worked hard, sweating, and then leaned his shoulder into it.
It didn't give.
Why wouldn't Sarah just answer her phone?
He'd even rung the bell and knocked on the door in a bid to gain access legally.He'd done everything he could, but there wasn't time for patience.
He gave the panel his heftiest kick. A bigger man might have sent the door flying open, might not have needed a crowbar at all, but his best kick only had the effect of advancing the door another half-inch from the doorframe. Furious now, he retrieved the crowbar, like pulling a knife from a wound, and gave the door the final half a dozen shoves it needed to swing open.
Inside, he shut the door behind him and listened. A baby was crying in the house next door and a cat mewled in the street. He didn't hear any people, but after all the noise he had made he suspected it wouldn't be long before he was disturbed.
He crept through the hallway, checking each room. They were pristine, plain and perhaps somewhat old-fashioned, but aside from that it was almost like a house he might have seen in a magazine. The signs of inhabitance seemed deliberate, like the ultimate fighting magazine on the coffee table. They were show rooms. Fake.
The kitchen was the same. Although he could smell fried food, no-one appeared to have ever cooked or eaten in here. There were no used frying pans, no dirty dishes. The draining board was empty. Dry. No crumbs on the sideboard.
There was, however, a comprehensive selection of Sabatier kitchen knives. One by one, he slid them from the wooden block, until he found one intended for slicing meat, large but light, and sharp. Big knives always created the right impression.
On the stairs he kept to the wall where the boards were less likely to creak and he was careful to avoid brushing against the wedding photos hanging on the wall.
The bathroom was vacant.
He tried another door and found the water heater.
Neat piles of fluffy blankets.
That left only two more doors.
Although breaking into the house and the possibility of being caught were good reasons for his elevated heart rate, he knew that the root of his excitement was his proximity to the Sarah. Behind the door to his right, all was silent, but he could smell a mixture of her and her room, a sweet, musty odour. It dizzied him, a pleasurable sensation, except that it came with anxiety, because he could smell Simon too. He looked over his shoulder, but there was no-one on the landing but him. Alive or dead, Simon was in his bedroom in Essex.
He took a final deep breath, knowing that he had to move quickly now. As soon as Sarah realised it wasn't Simon walking in, she would scream and attempt to escape. He adjusted the knife so it would be visible. He would rush in, put his hand over her mouth and tell her to be quiet. That was all. Assertive and in control.
Above all, in control.