There was a time when a supermarket worker stopping a thief would have been treated as a sign that at least one adult in the building still recognised the difference between right and wrong. In modern Britain, it can apparently get you sacked.
Within days of each other, a long-serving Waitrose employee and a long-serving Morrisons store manager have found themselves at the centre of public rows after intervening against shoplifters. Waitrose defended its decision on the basis of staff safety and a no-intervention approach; Morrisons’ manager says he was dismissed for breaching the company’s “deter-and-not-detain” policy.
That is the approved doctrine now. The thief steals. The staff member observes. The manager de-escalates. The security camera records. The police may or may not appear before retirement. Everyone then gathers for a workshop on wellbeing.
Naturally, this arrangement is sold as enlightened. It is all about safety, we are told. Safety for staff. Safety for customers. Safety for the thief, one assumes, who must be protected from the appalling trauma of being meaningfully interrupted while helping himself to someone else’s property. Waitrose says its policy is there because confronting shoplifters creates a serious risk to employees. Morrisons says its procedures are designed to protect both staff and customers.
Now, to be fair, there is a real point here. Retail workers should not be expected to play rugby in aisle 7 with some violent lunatic who has just filled a bag with steaks and shampoo. Even police guidance aimed at shops says that if you see someone stealing, you should only speak to them if it is safe, use a neutral tone, and back off if threatened. Once you are sure they are a shoplifter, call 999. The College of Policing and NPCC guidance is likewise framed around evidence, identification and police action, especially where violence is involved or a suspect has been detained.
Fine. Sensible enough, as far as it goes.
But here is the problem. It does not go nearly far enough, because the cost of this theatre of non-intervention is not borne by the board, the policy writer, or the public relations department. It is borne by the customer. It is borne in higher prices, more locked cabinets, fewer staff on the floor, more surveillance, more delays, more hassle, and the slow, filthy normalisation of theft as just another feature of retail life.
So let us stop pretending that this is some morally neutral arrangement. It is not. It is a choice. A choice to tell staff not to act, while telling customers to absorb the financial consequences. A choice to reclassify passivity as professionalism. A choice to shift the burden of disorder onto the honest majority and then charge them for the privilege at the till.
This is where the supermarkets deserve a proper public embarrassment. Because their line, underneath the concern and the legal wording, is basically this: Please continue paying inflated prices while we explain to you that nobody on the premises is actually allowed to stop the person nicking the goods. Thank you for shopping with us. Your loyalty matters. Security, less so.
And then we come to the police.
The official line is that shoplifting is not decriminalised, that low-value theft can still be dealt with properly, and that the Retail Crime Action Plan is meant to prioritise attendance where violence has been used, where a shoplifter has been detained, or where evidence needs securing. The government has explicitly said there is a misconception that low-value shoplifting was somehow effectively legal, and that this has never been the case. NPCC reporting has said police attendance improved in cases involving violence or detained offenders.
Splendid. A fine crop of press releases.
The public, meanwhile, have eyes.
They can see the repeat offenders. They can see the casualness. They can see staff learning the new national ritual of helpless observation. They can see the gap between what is formally promised and what is actually felt on the ground. They can see that for too many prolific thieves, the working assumption is still that they will be back tomorrow, and probably before lunch.
Which brings us to local justice.
If somebody is a repeat shoplifter, especially one using threats, intimidation or violence, the answer is not another policy review, another retail partnership forum, or another laminated notice near the meal deals. The answer is brutal in its simplicity: arrested on day one and before the beak on day two. Not in six months. Not after a twelve-stage evidence appreciation exercise. Not once the file has toured the kingdom like a medieval relic. Day one, day two.
That is what justice is supposed to look like in an orderly society. Swift, visible, and sufficiently inconvenient to the offender that the rest of us can resume behaving like a civilisation rather than a hostage population.
And please spare us the managerial whimper that this is all terribly complicated. It is not complicated. It is merely a matter of institutional will. The College of Policing already talks about identifying offenders, gathering evidence and bringing those responsible to justice. Police advice already accepts that crimes in progress and threatening situations justify immediate response. The machinery exists. What is missing, too often, is the appetite to use it with the sort of urgency routinely reserved for tweets, thought crimes and paperwork breaches.
The larger rot is this: Britain now has too many institutions that want the appearance of order without the awkward business of enforcing it. Supermarkets want safe staff, low losses, calm stores and no confrontation. Police want prioritisation frameworks, evidence thresholds and manageable demand. Government wants to announce action. The thief, by contrast, wants only your groceries and a decent chance of getting away with it.
Guess which side currently has the simpler business model.
So no, this is not just a supermarket story. It is a local justice story. It is about what happens when wrongdoing becomes routine, intervention becomes taboo, and the law-abiding public are left to finance the whole rotten arrangement. The worker who acts is punished. The customer who pays is ignored. The offender who steals is processed, perhaps, at some distant date when everyone has stopped caring.
That is not justice. It is surrender with barcode scanners.
And until the country rediscovers the old-fashioned principle that theft should lead rapidly to arrest, charge and court, the message will remain painfully clear. If you work in the shop, do not stop the thief. If you own the shop, price in the loss. If you pay at the till, shut up and cover the difference.
Modern Britain in one aisle.
If the supermarkets dislike the embarrassment, and the police dislike the criticism, there is an absurdly simple cure available to both: make shoplifting risky again.
