“I dropped off my son’s gym bag, drove home again, same detour. I passed the end of Elmhirst Road on my way back, so I had a nosey—I was curious to see if the police were still there, and they were. Then I hadn’t been home more than five minutes when I got another phone call saying that my daughter had been sick. I wanted to get to school quickly to check she was OK, so I stopped again at the junction of Elmhirst Road and Lupton Road to have a look. I thought maybe the police would be still there but not stopping people. I might have risked it if I’d seen drivers sailing past, but no such luck. They were still stopping every car and saying something to whoever was inside it—I figured there was no way they wouldn’t notice my missing mirror, so I took the long, inconvenient detour again. And on the way back, and on my way to collect the kids from school at the end of the day, and on the way back. I drove to school and back four times yesterday—eight journeys in total. If you’re thinking that’s a ridiculous way for an intelligent woman to spend her day, I agree with you.” As soon as I’ve said this, I feel horribly guilty; I would drive any distance, repeat any journey a hundred times, if my children needed me to.

Then later you’d attend to your own needs by emailing a man your family knows nothing about.

A few flattering, greedy words on a screen from a stranger who wants me without having met me—why do I need that so badly? Why can’t I give it up?

“Your story matches our CCTV,” Sam tells me. He looks pleased: as if he was hoping I’d turn out not to be a liar.

Sorry, Sergeant. Thanks for being fooled, and don’t worry—I’ll hate myself on your behalf.

Why does everybody prize honesty so highly? Does anyone ever stop to ask themselves why lying is wrong, or do they just assume it is? What are we supposed to do when the world requires us to be a particular way and we can’t manage it?

Someone should invent a new word that means the same thing as lying except with positive connotations. Deceit needs a fresher, more upbeat image.

Waterhouse and Sam are staring at me. I realize I’ve neglected a crucial aspect of my deception. I need to demonstrate that I’m worried about side-mirror repercussions, as no doubt I would be if that were all I had to fear. “Listen, the last thing I need right now is to be done for a driving offense,” I say solemnly. “Is there any way you could let me off if I promise not to drive the car again until it’s fixed?”