With no murder and no mystery, Playing Nice is a different type of thriller. One that makes you question your own stance on the nature vs nurture debate, on the differences between motherhood and fatherhood, on what you would do in such a horrific situation.

Grace Ofori-Attah’s nimble adaptation of JP Delaney’s novel had faith in its excellent cast’s ability to illuminate deep feeling with subtle looks, gestures and evasions.

It’s more-ish, though, one of those bingeably implausible dramas that you will thoroughly enjoy if you surrender to it rather than yelling: “But that would never happen!”

There’s nothing particularly groundbreaking or memorable about Playing Nice, nor does the drama have anything especially profound to say about parenting. You’ll likely remember your frustration with it far longer than any of its plot specifics. And yet, while you’re watching it, you’ll still find yourself desperate to know what happens next.

The main problem, oddly, is Norton (also an executive producer). Not only does Pete’s accent go walkabout from Penzance to Surrey; he is such a soggy dweeb, lamenting away in his Seasalt Cornwall separates, that it feels like a misguided ruse to guard against Norton being typecast for ever as Tommy from Happy Valley. McArdle, however, is convincingly menacing: all faux-bonhomie and granite-hard eyes.

There’s a good human thriller buried in there, about the interpersonal challenges of unriddling an unthinkable situation. But what we get, instead, is another whiplash-inducing, overripe shock fest, which privileges handbrake turns over steady handling.

Playing Nice is clearly unconcerned with interrogating real human emotions or examining what it actually means to be a parent. Instead, it’s the worst of modern television: a witless mystery overly reliant on insidious ambience and really nice houses.