This month it’s Tom Ripley, sponging off his friends and stealing their identities. Last month, it was little Oliver Quick sponging himself off in the claw-footed bath and inveigling his way into Saltburn. A few years ago, Anna Sorokin was faking it and making it as a pseudo-heiress in Manhattan, before being banged up for grand larceny. A decade back, we got Catfished.

We are fascinated by impostors. We fear them; we love them; frequently, we vote for them. What is it about our lives that make theirs so appealing? How is the Ripley tale – a tale starring a loathsome, multiple-murderer main character, and which seriously expects us to believe anyone could live under the name “Dickie Greenleaf” (the 50s were a wild time) – still relevant, long after the era when you could forge a will, bump off your best friend and swan off to Florence?

Because we want to be conned.

This is my conclusion, having studied the form for over a decade now. After years of research into grifters, scammers, con-artists and pretenders, I’ve finally added my own contribution to the field. My new book is about a young man called Al – he’s more The Talentless Mr Ripley to be honest – who lives in empty, luxurious second homes without the owners’ knowledge. Regardless of our long national property-market nightmare, there’s no doubt my main character is a criminal. Al’s a squatter and scammer, and he preys on the goodwill of wealthy idiots who haven’t invested in home security. He doesn’t steal anything, but that’s not the point. He’s misbehaving, he’s a crook, and yet I love him. I don’t think I’m alone in this feeling.

I think I know why generic anti-heroes are popular. We all jib at the world and the demands it makes of us. There’s a thrill in the idea that........

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