"It’s impossible for the police to manage alone." Hesther Ng/SOPA Images/LightRocket via Getty Images.


February 27, 2025   5 mins

It began on Friday night, when a self-proclaimed “online child protection team” live-streamed claims about Adrian Smith, an alleged paedophile, on social media. The man was swiftly arrested — though the police soon released him. Yet by Saturday, at about 6:40pm, Smith was dead, falling from a height onto the M4 near Bristol.

The police insist they welcome the public’s assistance in the fight against crime. Chief Constables urge us to become special constables, police station volunteers, neighbourhood watch coordinators. For many, though, beat-plodding and curtain-twitching don’t get the blood pumping quite as fast as paedo-hunting. There are over 100 such vigilante groups all over Britain, arranging stings and catching offenders — and journalists are increasingly keen to tag along as well.

As the M4 tragedy so desperately implies, however, online vigilantism can quickly go wrong. Lacking any of the protections offered by law, the targets of the mob are easily crushed. And even when they aren’t, online detectives often misunderstand the laws they claim to defend, with every dubious Facebook post putting justice in peril. But with the police in bureaucratic meltdown, and new tech making amateur sleuthing simpler than ever, don’t expect the paedo-hunters to vanish — quite the contrary, as vigilantism goes from online hobby to grim reality right across the country.

The appeal is understandable. It offers moral certainty, a sense of achievement and a soupçon of excitement. And, like most types of crime, paedophilia is impossible for the police to manage alone. Home Office statistics reveal nearly 40,000 child sex abuse image offences were logged in 2023-2024: and that’s only reported cases.

I recall a conversation with a former colleague, an officer I’ll call Mark. “The most depressing thing about this job?” he once told me. “After a while, you begin thinking everyone’s a paedophile.” Mark was starting his fifth year as a full-time covert internet investigator, and spent his days hunched over a keyboard, tracking predators. “There’s thousands of them,” I remember him telling me, exhaustion on his face. “You could nick ‘em all day and all night, there’d still be more.” Like many police officers, Mark thought the only way to manage these criminals was either life imprisonment without parole or capital punishment. Otherwise impeccably liberal doctors and academics I’ve met are similarly hawkish — citing the tactics paedophiles use when pretending to engage with treatment.

I myself have helped convict a would-be contact offender by posing as a paedophile, even if the nightmarish evidence, and the offender’s laughably short sentence, meant I subsequently declined work in the area. Yet, DIY paedo hunting only continues to soar — and not merely, I think, because of the ethical rush it provides. As Adrian Smith’s tormentors showed, all you need to start is an internet connection.

So-called “digilantism” arguably started after the Boston Marathon bombing, in 2013, when online sleuths tracked down witnesses and suspects. Never mind that their hit rate was dubious: a new craze was born. True crime podcasters now work cold cases, while wannabe spies glean data using satellite images. For their part, paedo-hunters have their own MO. After arranging a meeting between a fake child and their would-be abuser, they detain their targets and call the police, handing over the evidence they’ve gathered.

Collaboration between police and civilians isn’t wholly new. During my covert training, tabloid journalists were sometimes cast as Sherlock Holmes, the police as the hapless Lestrade. Back then, hacks were happier to go to the “real world” and confront their targets, warning us police in advance if they were about to buy guns or drugs. Then they’d hand over their notes and, I imagine, wander off to the pub. Their findings could even be compelling, even as they sometimes collapsed into hearsay. Like builders asked to come in and complete a half-done extension, the professional detectives would sigh and get on with it.

“Like builders asked to finish a half-done extension, the professional detectives would sigh and get on with it.”

Given the shocking scale of paedophilia across Britain, one policeman I know is predictably sanguine. It helps that, among officers, paedophiles have a reputation for presenting negligible physical risks when confronted. As for the digilantes themselves, they seem increasingly aware of law and procedure. Many observe the “agent provocateur” principle of not encouraging a crime, which renders evidence inadmissible (this is the closest English law has to entrapment).

Paedo-hunters also video their activities for transparency. For officers given the task of arrest and prosecution, you might argue that the hard work’s already been done. It’s not dissimilar to the days when officers actually took shoplifting seriously: you’d arrive at a supermarket to find a thief sitting in the security office, a statement prepared and evidence bagged and tagged. Police called these mundane arrests a “GIC” (Given Into Custody). I must admit, I never thought I’d see the day paedophiles were treated as GICs.

Even so, the process isn’t flawless. First, there’s the welfare of the hunters. Notwithstanding their reputation, there’s always the chance that their targets will lash out when cornered. That’s before you consider the safety of the suspect. This is something police officers always do — and which some paedo-hunters clearly don’t. A broader issue is evidence. Though the digilantes are becoming more sophisticated, professional officers understand something they don’t: every theory, no matter how outlandish, offers a potential get-out when cases come to trial. In court, a barrister is perfectly entitled to ask: “Officer, why didn’t you investigate theory X or Y?”

Each piece of well-intentioned online speculation, then, might offer another slither of reasonable doubt. After the former Russian FSB officer Alexander Litvinenko was murdered, in 2006, I was given the job of investigating just such conjecture. I researched online allegations and spoke with experts to examine leads. Yes, internet sleuths, your caffeine-fuelled Reddit theory might end up being some poor detective’s day-job.

We’ve seen the limits of online detective work elsewhere too. The Nicola Bulley case is a prime example. She disappeared in January 2023, having fallen into a river. But the subsequent tsunami of poisonous, ill-informed commentary by TikTok “detectives” (some of whom arrived at the scene to create content) only impeded the investigation. Jay Slater, a 19-year-old tourist who fell into a ravine in Tenerife, faced a similar fate, with some true crime obsessives conjuring outlandish theories about how he died. That’s hardly strange. Crime has always been an adjunct to entertainment. And now the internet offers another dimension — interaction, immersion, even as the real-world suffering is all too real.

In the end, though, I suspect that some officers disapprove of digital paedo-hunters not for ethical reasons: but because it infringes on their turf. Most police work is boring. Once coveted detective roles now involve call-centre busywork. Local CIDs investigate a sisyphean landfill of safeguarding cases, domestic disputes and drunken assaults, all to satisfy arbitrary performance metrics. Little wonder officers seek to ringfence genuinely useful online work from amateurs — if UK policing were the British Empire, the few specialisms left would be like pre-1997 Hong Kong.

Ironically, of course, that bureaucratic malaise means officers are stuck with the amateurs whether they like it or not. To give one example, digilantes aren’t bound by the strictures of the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act. The administrative treacle police wade through to monitor an open, publicly-viewable Facebook profile is comical. As I once said to my detective inspector: “I could just go home, boot up my laptop, use a VPN, intrusively research this suspect and phone the results into Crimestoppers. What’s to stop me?” The inspector shrugged.

As bureaucracy grows, and operational budgets shrink, it seems inevitable that digilantism will only increase — especially given the proliferation of easy-to-use online tools and AI. You could therefore argue a forward-thinking police service should incorporate digilantes into the investigative mix. They might offer training, or work towards some sort of licensing regime. That, I suspect, wouldn’t work. The entire point of being a vigilante is to be outside the system, a workaday superhero, stepping beyond the mundane. Batman was never a special constable with the Gotham PD. Batman never had to fill out a 12-page form for permission to monitor a Facebook page, or complete a risk assessment to knock on a front door. Batman never suffered DEI courses or spent days cutting-and-pasting his internet search history into a disclosure schedule. And, to my knowledge, Batman never gave evidence at Isleworth Crown Court.

More to the point, the end-user of a digilante’s work will always be a cop, posing significant risks when detectives are required to manage overenthusiastic or malicious actors. And if the challenges are clear enough online — depressingly apparent from the Canaries to Bristol — just wait until less internet-savvy vigilantes want in on the action too. With law and order collapsing from city centres to quaint Wiltshire villages, it makes sense that posses of wannabe superheroes are heading to the streets, with Birmingham just one of towns now stalked by gangs of vigilantes. But don’t worry: I’m sure the police have a form for reporting that too.


Dominic Adler is a writer and former detective in the Metropolitan Police. He worked in counterterrorism, anticorruption and criminal intelligence, and now discusses policing on his Substack.