The police wouldn’t investigate my package thief, so I caught him myself

Earlier this summer, I was sitting at home listening to the cricket, looking out over the Thames toward Kew Gardens, waiting for a delivery. It was a new pair of £55 sneakers. I wanted to be outside, but the package had to arrive first. It did — and then, less than an hour later, it was gone.

That was my introduction to two of the most exasperating features of modern London life: package theft, and the Metropolitan Police’s apparent reluctance to do much about it.

The delivery driver apparently never rang the bell. Instead, he left the sneakers in a parcel box in the lobby of my apartment building. When I went downstairs, the box was empty. A shiver went down my spine. It had been there for under an hour.

Our building had been targeted repeatedly in the previous weeks. Thieves got in through a locked garage or a locked trash room and then had free rein of the property. In the building’s group chat, someone complained about a stolen package almost every day. One couple had lost more than £1,000 worth of deliveries. Another neighbor said she had been to the police and nothing happened. Several others said they did not see the point of reporting anything.

My block is technically in Hounslow, but it’s a stone’s throw from Richmond, which has the lowest crime rate in London. That made the thefts feel even more absurd. We were not living in a high-crime neighborhood by any standard measure. Yet parcel theft was happening openly, and no one was coming to help.

My neighbors had even sent police photos of suspicious people hanging around the back of the building, going through packages in broad daylight. Still, apparently, no action was taken.

It boiled my blood. Yes, there are worse crimes in London. But if you provide evidence of a crime being committed, why won’t the police act? I had worked for that £55, and I wanted justice.

I reported the theft myself. Then, hoping to give officers something concrete to work with, I did a little amateur sleuthing. I took two empty cardboard boxes from the recycling bin, sealed them like decoy deliveries, and left a pointed note on top: “Smile for the camera, you thieving c---.” I apologize for the colorful language, but the blatant lawbreaking was enough to make anyone blow a fuse.

I planted the boxes in the lobby and parked across the road with a long lens and plenty of snacks. I was ready for a long wait. The thief was bolder than I imagined.

It took 45 minutes for him to show up. A scrawny man in a bucket hat with weathered skin walked into the building. He went straight to the fake parcels, scooped them up, broke the lock on the parcel box next to them to check for more, and then took off.

I captured it all on camera. The lobby CCTV had it too. But I wanted to look him in the eye. I sprinted across the street and into the building. It was clear he had read my message. The decoy parcels were lying on the elevator floor, and a flustered neighbor said a suspicious man had just sprinted through the basement.

We followed and found him on a bicycle behind the building. He looked miserable. I had caught him red-handed, and he knew it. When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He just said, “I’m a crackhead, mate.”

I blinked. That’s not a defense. I told him to stop stealing and learn some manners. He responded with a few choice words, grabbed his crotch, and then threatened to “shiv” me — prison slang for stabbing someone with a homemade blade. I decided to retreat. I wasn’t sure he had a knife, but I wasn’t taking chances.

He got on his bike and rode away. As strange as that confrontation was, it was not the worst part of the affair. The worst part was the police response.

I went back to the police with photographs and a report that he had threatened to stab me. I want to be clear: I have a great deal of respect for police officers. Some of my friends are serving officers. Most of the ones I’ve met are good, hard-working people doing a thankless job.

But their response made it clear that traditional policing had effectively died. Instead of doing any digging or setting up a simple sting — which, after all, I had just done myself — I was told it was too hard to catch a thief unless he identified himself. Even with a photograph. Unless he had his name tattooed on his forehead, I should not get my hopes up. The man may have been a crackhead, but he was not that stupid.

When I called for an update, I was told the case had been passed to a local team and an officer might look at it. They would let me know if an investigation was launched. They never did.

I naively thought the threat to stab me might make the case more interesting. It didn’t. After another month of silence, I called again. The case still had not been assigned to an officer. The call handler said it was “low priority” and added, “I don’t know why it has taken so long.”

Then, in the past few days, the Met learned I was writing this article. Suddenly, an officer was assigned. For the first time, I was asked to hand over my photographs. She apologized for the delay and, after reviewing the facts, said, “You’ve done the hard work for us.” If police won’t investigate in the first place, is that really a surprise?

This isn’t just a story about one stolen pair of sneakers. Package theft is one of the most visible, everyday crimes in London. It rarely involves violence, but it leaves people feeling violated in their own homes. When police treat it as a low priority, they don’t just fail one victim. They tell an entire block that the law will not help them. That is corrosive. It pushes people toward self-help, neighborhood watch groups and makeshift poster campaigns — and, eventually, toward the conclusion that official justice is something you have to manufacture yourself.

Parcels are still being stolen here. But at least my neighbors and I — call us middle-class vigilantes — are making progress. We know what this thief looks like. Posters with his face, and those of other suspected thieves, are now up in the building. Delivery drivers are told not to leave packages in communal areas. If anyone spots boxes in the lobby, we pick them up and knock on doors ourselves.

A Met spokesman said: “We are sorry for the delay in assigning this investigation to a detective. We appreciate how frustrating delays can be for victims of crime and we know thefts like this are a concern to people. As part of our New Met for London plan, we are continuing to crack down on neighborhood crimes that matter most to those who live, work in and visit the capital. Since last April, theft across London has fallen by 21 percent.”

I still like to think most police officers spend their time doing useful work. But my experience raises an uncomfortable question: what exactly are police leaders asking their officers to do?

The man who stole my sneakers may have been a fool. But maybe the bigger fool is me, for still believing in a decent Metropolitan Police Service. The facts, so far, suggest otherwise.