When I get to the entrance, Google sends me through two large pillars that lead into a small community of red brick houses. I read the plaques on the walls at the top of each street until I find Sycamore Gardens. Eight semi-detached houses line both sides of the narrow road and I wonder will I be able to tell which one it is? They all look the same.

It doesn’t take long for me to spot the house. There’s no crime scene tape, or cop standing outside anymore but I remember the fabulous flower pots lined up across the front. Reds, yellow, blues, purples, whites. They look out of place, glowing in front of the house where death has so violently paid a visit.

I slow my car down to have a good gawk. A young boy walks out of a house a couple of doors to the left catching my attention. He’s carrying a sports bag and wearing football shorts and a T-shirt. Could that be Kenny? Is that the family friend’s house who took him in while his long-term care is being arranged? The kid’s hair is black but other than that I don’t see any features that resemble his daddy’s. I wish I had paid more attention to the picture of him in the photograph. But I was so busy staring in disbelief at my husband smiling back at me that the kid’s features never really registered. I think he was a bit fuller than the skinny little rake who is now walking out of the garden with his bag threatening to pull him to the ground.

‘Hello,’ I say with my head out the window. The young boy is now swiping through something on his phone and he can’t hear me with the headphones in his ears. ‘Hello,’ I shout louder this time but I don’t get any response.

He walks past immersed in his music unaware that there’s a mad woman calling out to him. Continuing my slow progress down the road, I watch each house with interest, wondering if Kenny is behind one of those doors.

Reversing in the small cul-de-sac at the top of the road I drive back down the street and see a woman walking out of her garden. She’s making sure to pull the latch on the iron gate at the bottom of her yard before walking down the road. I guess people around here will be nervous for a while, while the killer is still at large. Wondering if he will want to kill again. Or she.

My plan was to ask one of the neighbours for the local take on the murder but considering they may all be living on their nerves at the moment, a stranger pulling up alongside them in a car may not be a good idea.