As Sarah approached the gated community of Slayton Crest, she was grateful she was driving the job Ford Focus, instead of her battered red Mini. With their well-kept lawns and perfectly trimmed bushes, these exclusive communities wouldn’t look out of place in LA. Some even had swimming pools, dotted with exotic trees. But they could not buy the weather, and Sarah flipped her windscreen wipers as a speckle of rain came down.

Manoeuvring the car up to the red-brick gateposts, Sarah identified herself to the CCTV camera, which was operated remotely. The black electric gates rolled back on their runners, allowing her access. This was a place where every move was monitored, and apart from the occasional domestic incident, police were rarely needed inside. There were standards to be kept and rules written into the deeds of each property. In Slayton Crest, your house was not your own. Despite the hefty price tag, homeowners were expected to keep their properties uniform in design. There were no caravans on the drives of the lavish properties, no exterior home improvements allowed, and pets were limited to one per household. Unlike in Lower Slayton, there were no signs of children or dogs on the streets. People didn’t pop next door for a cup of sugar. In Slayton Crest, privacy was everything and the most you could hope for was a wave from across the exclusive street.

She drew up outside the two-million-pound property, the biggest on the close. It was perched at the end with stunning views of the back of the woodlands surrounding Blackhall Manor. This house was the home of local entrepreneur, Simon Irving. He was a bit too flashy white teeth and fake tan for Sarah’s liking. Sarah parked next to his manicured front lawn and walked past the expensive-looking Range Rover on their drive. It was most likely a status symbol, used for the school run.

The front door was opened immediately by a woman that Sarah recognised as Mrs Irving, and Sarah was ushered into the family living room. The scent of oranges and jasmine was a distinct improvement on the Febreze that Sarah sprayed on her sofa once a week to chase away the smell of cat. Claudia Irving sat before her, playing with a long gold chain around her neck. Her fingers were dazzling with diamonds, her forehead no stranger to Botox, by the look of it. Not that Sarah was judging. She could do with a few jabs herself.