I say hello to the young parakeets through the crack in the curtains - our daily routine. I estimate these small birds are just over six weeks old. They usually caw playful shades of cornflower blue and buttercup yellow balloons back. Today, they preen their feathers and chatter among themselves. They're ignoring me because I didn't protect them. Only two in the tree and five adults - far, far fewer birds than usual. One's pecking at the empty feeder, willing it to spew out seed. It can't understand what's gone wrong.
I don't open my curtains completely in case Richard Chamberlain's eavesdropping men are watching me. I take a quick peek. Two little girls in blue uniforms run out of number 24: Molly and Sara live at this address. A woman chases after them - probably their mum, Cindy. She always dresses the girls in similar clothing - even at the weekends - so I never know which one's Molly and which one's Sara from up here.
I can't see any vans on our street. Or police cars. No detectives banging on the front door of Bee Larkham's house.