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ZHIVAN ALACH Ph.D in Political Studies, University of Auckland, New Zealand; specialist in security, law enforcement, and defence policy analysis

THE EMPEROR IS STILL NAKED: HOW INTELLIGENCE-LED POLICING HAS REPACKAGED COMMON SENSE AS TRANSCENDENTAL TRUTH

In the past decade or so, the concept of Intelligence-Led Policing, often shortened to ILP, has been a dominant element in academic discourses about policing. Police forces around the world, partly motivated by concerns about terrorism since 9/11, have taken on many of the tenets of ILP, buying equipment, hiring staff, and designing organisations to take best advantage of what are seen as potentially revolutionary gains in effectiveness and efficiency.

This article examines both the novelty and the utility of ILP, noting that there are serious questions about both aspects. It then considers why ILP has succeeded in gaining so many adherents, using theoretical insights from the literature on management fashions. Finally, the article offers several enhancements to ILP.

Keywords: decision making; intelligence-led policing; police intelligence; police management; police strategy

Introduction In the past decade or so, the concept of Intelligence-Led Poli- cing, often shortened to ILP, has been a dominant element in academic discourses about policing. Police forces around the world, partly motivated by concerns about terrorism since 9/11, have taken on many of the tenets of ILP, buying equipment, hiring staff, and designing organisations to take best advantage of what are seen as potentially revolutionary gains in effective- ness and efficiency.

And yet some concerns remain. For one, it is difficult to be sure exactly what ILP is. Like jelly, it shifts the harder one attempts to squeeze it down to its bare essence. Even one of its biggest advocates has stated that there is no evidence-based conceptual framework for ILP (Ratcliffe, 2002: 64). As such,

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DOI: 10.1358/pojo.2011.84.1.523

because it is difficult to define ILP precisely, it is even more difficult to be sure exactly how ‘revolutionary’ it is. This, in turn, makes it difficult to identify how useful ILP is. Finally, if it is not clear how useful ILP is, then it might be well to question why the concept has attained such traction in police forces around the world. This article examines each of these concerns in turn: definition, novelty, utility and reasons for success. It then turns to potential alternatives or improvements.

Police forces everywhere, every day, confront serious prob- lems of crime and disorder. Given what is riding on their actions, it is essential to examine critically any concept that claims to be the answer to police effectiveness. So far, police forces, and police academics, have proven far too willing to accept the claims of ILP advocates uncritically.

This article does not claim to be the final word on the matter by any means. Nor is it the first word; that was provided by James’ seminal article close to a decade ago (James, 2003). Rather, it is a restart, an attempt to stimulate further and closer analysis of ILP before it is too late.

A note on methodology should be entered here. One of the key themes of this piece is that history can teach us many lessons. As such, throughout the piece are scattered brief exam- ples from history, largely from the British experience in World War Two.

Definitional Issues Before we can critically examine ILP, we must know what it is. Alas, before we can do such, we must engage in even more basic definitional work. It is first essential to define intelligence in a policing context, which is easier said than done. Definitions of intelligence in policing are, for the most part, somewhat inadequate.

A good place to start is the definition contained in the British National Intelligence Model (NIM). In that document, intelli- gence is ‘information that has been subject to a defined evalu- ation and risk assessment process in order to assist with police decision making’ (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005: 13). In this case, the topic of the information seems to be regarded as secondary to the processing of that information. As long as the information has been correctly processed, almost anything relating to police operations could be regarded as intelligence.

For a police force, processed, actionable information might include the leave holdings of staff, the financial status of a

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particular unit, and even the state of maintenance of patrol cars. Such a definition means that intelligence encompasses almost everything under the sun. As will be reinforced later, a term that is extremely broad loses much, if not all, of its value.

Looking elsewhere for a better definition largely means much trawling for little reward. Brown provides useful thought when he discusses the concept of criminal intelligence, which he notes has become increasingly popular, despite the lack of consensus about its meaning (Brown, 2007: 336). He notes that it is commonly held that intelligence is the end product of an analytical process, but he points out a flaw in this, in that some information may be so significant that it requires no further analysis (Brown, 2007: 340). From this, he then defines intelli- gence as ‘information which is significant or potentially sig- nificant for an enquiry or potential enquiry’ (Brown, 2007: 340). While not quite as broad as the definition above, it is still extremely open, and again information about staff numbers could then be regarded as intelligence. A secondary, albeit minor flaw, is that the act of identifying significance is in itself an act of analysis; as such, information identified as significant is already processed information.

Another author, Nina Cope, also notes that definitions of intelligence are far from concrete (2004: 188), but that intelli- gence ‘can be understood as information developed to direct Police action’ (2004: 190). Again, the concept of analysis is present, this time in the word ‘developed’, but also again the definition is so broad as to be largely unusable. Cope is on firmer ground when she further develops concepts of tactical and strategic analysis, and focuses more firmly on the issue of crime.

Fahlman continues this broad theme with a definition of criminal intelligence as the ‘end product of information that has been subjected to a rigorous and structured process’ (cited in Young, 2007: 76). The same criticisms noted above apply here; it seems much of the work in this field has largely been polishing a definition so large that it requires heavy sanding, if not even more substantial reduction.

A definition of increasing utility is provided by Quarmby, who states that:

. . . intelligence provides the decision-maker with a timely and accurate understanding of criminal threats and the components of (the) operational environment. (Quarmby, 2004: 70)

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Leaving aside consideration of whether this is a description, rather than a definition, it is a definite improvement over the definitions cited above, for it narrows the scope of the informa- tion to be considered to ‘criminal threats’ and the ‘operational environment’. Unless an exceedingly broad view of the ‘opera- tional environment’ is taken, the Quarmby approach means that information relating to friendly forces is no longer part of the intelligence area. Good advice on what to include in the ‘opera- tional environment’ can be found by looking at Gordon, who has noted that intelligence needs to focus on human competition and human enemies, rather than broader threat types (Gordon, 2007: 60).

One of the most sensible definitions of police intelligence is that given by Sir David Phillips, who was one of the architects of ILP. He describes intelligence in simple terms as being about ‘obtaining an understanding of the capability of one’s enemy’ (Phillips, Caless & Bryant, 2007: 441). Limiting the focus to the enemy, crime and disorder, sharpens the definition to a useful state.

As can be seen, definitional work on policing intelligence has, unfortunately, been flawed by too low a signal-to-noise ratio. As generally defined and accepted, policing intelligence is so broad as to be almost useless as a concept. However, simply ignoring these definitional quandaries is unwise. Rather, by looking at other fields of thought, some idea of how well-defined concepts of intelligence can be useful can be gained. For example, given that they have been struggling with the issues much longer than law enforcement agencies, it may pay to look at the Military’s definitions. That is not to say that they have solved the problem, the meaning of intelligence being often disputed within military circles (Hinsley et al., 1979: vii), but rather that they seem to be a little further along the road. And, because of that, their definitions provide better guidance.

Starting with the largest English-speaking Military in the world seems advisable. The United States Joint Chiefs of Staff define intelligence as:

The product resulting from the collection, processing, inte- gration, evaluation, analysis and interpretation of available information concerning foreign nations, hostile or potentially hostile forces or elements, or areas of actual or potential operations. The term is also applied to the activity which results in the product and to the organizations engaged in such activity. (Joint Chiefs of Staff, 2007: GL-11)

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The United States Marine Corps (USMC) has a reputation for sensible, easily understood doctrine, and its cornerstone publication MCDP 2 Intelligence is no exception. This states that intelligence has two objectives: (1) providing accurate, timely, and relevant knowledge about the enemy or potential enemy, and the surrounding environment; and (2) assisting in protecting friendly forces through counterintelligence (United States Marine Corps, 1997: 5–6). Intelligence supports, but does not replace, the command decision-making process (United States Marine Corps, 1997: 5). Nor does intelligence include knowl- edge pertaining directly to the friendly situation (United States Marine Corps, 1997: 7). Importantly, and as emphasised in several of the police definitions noted earlier, intelligence is not merely information but rather the analysis and synthesis of that information into knowledge that provides a meaningful assess- ment of the situation. Finally, intelligence does not exist for its own sake but rather as a basis for action. If it cannot be such, then it is useless (United States Marine Corps, 1997: 8).

It may seem unnecessary to traverse such broad terrain, but it is useful. Definitions are weapons; improperly created, they can cause severe harm. And as can be seen, because there is no standard, useful definition of policing intelligence, even one with necessary local variations, the entire concept of ILP rests on shaky ground. The one key theme running through all of the definitions, however, is that intelligence is about the problems facing police, whether broadly or narrowly defined, rather than the countermeasures to those problems.

Defining ILP The history of ILP is relatively easy to chart. For the most part, it emerged from a 1990s drive in the United Kingdom towards improved police efficiency (Harfield & Kleiven, 2008: 240–1; Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary, 1997; James, 2003; Ratcliffe, 2003: 1–2). It was seen as a potential answer to several criticisms of the various British police forces. Its pseudo- scientific approach (Harfield & Kleiven, 2008: 249) and per- ceived ‘strategic, future-oriented, and targeted methodology’ meshed well with the perspectives of many key decision makers (Maguire & John, 2006: 68), particularly at the political centre. They saw in it the opportunity to rationalise police practices, improve effectiveness and efficiency, and in the vernacular, get more ‘bang for their buck’.

ILP became increasingly important with the development of the National Intelligence Model (NIM) in the United Kingdom

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from 2000 onwards (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005; National Policing Improvement Agency, 2005).1 In order to secure additional central funding, the 43 British police forces were required to meet the standards set out in the NIM, which were based on ILP tenets. Since then, ILP has become a popular and important trend across the globe (Verfaillie & Vander Beken, 2008: 534), notably in the Commonwealth countries of Australia, New Zealand and Canada, but also in the United States (Brown, 2007: 336; US Bureau of Justice Assistance, 2005).

The NIM deserves close attention, as variations on it are the primary mechanism by which ILP has been implemented around the world. It states that it is a ‘business model for law enforce- ment’ (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005: 8). One claimed benefit is that it allows for the identification of crime patterns and the bases of problems, and thus allows for proactive, rather than reactive, approaches (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005: 12; James, 2003: 46–7). Interestingly, the NIM makes it clear that unless all of what are termed ‘assets’, such as information technology and procedures, are put into place, the NIM will not function effectively (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005: 13).

As well as various intelligence gathering and analysis elements, the NIM also touches on what is called ‘Tasking and Co-ordination’ or ‘T&C’; that is, the decision-making process relating to the allocation of resources to problems (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005: 38; John & Maguire, 2004b: 3). However, despite the stated importance of T&C, the NIM provides little information about how to make good decisions (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005: 84–90). It suggests selecting from a menu of various tactical options, but does not identify any sort of methodology for evaluating and choosing the best, or at least a satisfactory, option. Its problem management chart, seen as a cornerstone for resolving issues, is also silent on the issue of how best to deal with those issues (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005: 91). One could analogise, perhaps, a surgeon whose knowledge of a brain tumour is unmatched, but who cannot wield a scalpel or bone saw, or, even worse, does not know which tools to use in the first place.

One key ILP advocate echoes the NIM when he states that ‘intelligence-led policing is a business process and not an intelligence-gathering technique’ (Ratcliffe, 2008: 4). He goes even further, defining ILP as:

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A business model and managerial philosophy where data analysis and crime intelligence are pivotal to an objective, decision-making framework that facilitates crime and prob- lem reduction, disruption and prevention through both stra- tegic management and effective enforcement strategies that target prolific and serious offenders. (Ratcliffe, 2008: 6)

Again, as in the NIM, there is an emphasis that ILP is more than just analysing intelligence, and that it includes a mechanism for actually acting on that intelligence. This, in turn, takes it beyond the conceptualisations of intelligence noted in the definitional section above, and is an issue to which this article will return later.

Within ILP, and especially within ILP as implemented via the NIM or its variants, is a key tension. This is the relationship between ‘big I’ Intelligence and ‘small i’ intelligence. Big I consists of the formal Intelligence organisation and its processes and products; ‘small i’ consists of the everyday activities under- taken by staff outside the formal Intelligence structures, activ- ities that may not even be called intelligence and yet bear a striking resemblance to those that are. The issue is far from a new one; the British Foreign Office (FO) before World War Two, which dealt almost entirely with what would today usually be called ‘intelligence’, did not call it that; the FO did not separate such information flow and commentary from its other executive and advisory functions (Hinsley et al., 1979: 5). The distinction is important, as it can lead to organisational friction.

The Novelty of ILP The above sections, which attempted to define intelligence and ILP, may have confused as much as they informed. If they did so, then they are accurate reflections of the state of scholarship in the area. More importantly, they were necessary to set the scene for an examination of the next question, which is how new or revolutionary ILP truly is.

From now on, this article will focus its attention on what is termed ‘formal ILP.’ Formal ILP encompasses the various implementations of ILP across the world that are based on the British NIM.2 It is appreciated that, conceptually, not all ILP is based on the NIM; however, the majority of forces that claim to be ‘intelligence-led’ use some variant of the NIM model (James, 2003: 49–50). Narrowing the analytical focus is necessary, or else the broadness of the concept would prevent any valid answers.

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Advocates of formal ILP see it as distinctly different to previous methods of policing (Ratcliffe, 2008: 1–2). Such per- spectives usually focus on the pseudo-scientific and rational aspects of formal ILP, and rely on a perception that previous policing methods lacked such qualities. However, comparing formal ILP with other decision-making methodologies makes such a judgement difficult to maintain.

The conceptual core of formal ILP is simple: gathering information about the criminal environment, processing that information into intelligence through analysis, identifying prior- ity areas, and then using a process to make decisions about allocating resources to priorities.

These philosophical foundations, once isolated, do not seem to be greatly different to what police have done for a long time (Guidetti & Martinelli, 2010). In the past, police managers used what knowledge they had to identify high crime areas and to roster staff in a way that took cognisance of high demand periods. Generally, however, such analysis and tasking processes were informal; it might have been as simple as instructions being given at a morning line-up that a particular area had been experiencing a series of daytime burglaries, and that additional patrols might be required at particular times. Or it might have involved informing the night shift of information received about a party in a particular area where disorder was expected. In such cases, police forces using traditional decision-making processes might have engaged in proactive activities such as visiting the address early, hopefully to prevent a later outbreak of disorder.

A similar process, and one with decades of history behind it, goes under at least two names: the Military Appreciation Process (MAP) and Military Decision Making Process (MDMP) (ArmyStudyGuide.com; New Zealand Army, 2002).3 An early stage in MAP/MDMP is ‘intelligence preparation of the battle- field’, or IPB. This involves identifying key intelligence require- ments, and then meeting them with the assets at hand. Once information has been gathered, analysed and disseminated, operational commanders then identify options for the allocation of resources. Where MAP/MDMP differs from formal ILP, however, is in the respective importance it places on the intelli- gence analysis and decision-making phases. Formal ILP assigns a preponderance of importance to the first phase, whereas MAP/ MDMP assigns greater significance to the process whereby decisions are made. This extends to guidelines on identifying, comparing and evaluating various options. In MAP/MDMP, intelligence is most assuredly assigned a subservient role.

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Where formal ILP is truly innovative is not in its underlying philosophy, but rather in its formality and procedural nature. The NIM is an extremely formulaic, prescriptive system. It is com- plex, and any organisation wishing to be regarded as compliant with the NIM must adhere to almost 150 specific standards that run the gamut from security considerations to tasking processes (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005; Harfield & Kleiven, 2008: 243). It must also hire additional intelligence staff to fill new organisational structures (James, 2003: 47; John & Maguire, 2004b: 4).

Overall, then, formal ILP has a philosophical core that is possibly as old as human thought, but a surface layer of procedures and standards that is decidedly new. As such, it is on that surface layer that any analysis of the utility of ILP must focus.

Utility Supporters of ILP see it as having several strong qualities. Some have gone so far as to say that ILP provides an ‘objective assessment of the criminal environment’, which in turn allows decision makers to ‘objectively direct police resource(s)’ (Rat- cliffe, 2008: 8–10). ILP can appear rather ‘scientific and straight- forward’ (Harfield & Kleiven, 2008: 249). There is also a common belief that ILP results in more efficient policing (James, 2003: 46). For the most part, these judgements have been based on formal, implemented ILP rather than broader philosophical conceptions of the idea.

It is possible for a good idea to become so accreted with additions that it loses its qualities. This occurs with military operations, where ‘mission creep’ can turn something with a clear, worthwhile goal into a wasteful monster; it happens with major capital projects, where ‘gold plating’ can turn an elegant solution into a white elephant; and it occurs with philosophies as well. In the case of ILP, the problem seems to be the way that the NIM and its variants have been the primary influence on turning ILP into practice, the aforementioned formal ILP (James, 2003: 49–50; Ratcliffe, 2008: 12). This has been the case in the United Kingdom, Australia and New Zealand.

Formal ILP presents several problems of varying severity. The first can be termed the authority problem. Most writers on intelligence issues have emphasised, and re-emphasised, the key tenet that intelligence is a servant (Handel, 1989: 187–96). It provides the informational basis for policymaking, but is never the master or director itself. Early in World War Two, British

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intelligence explicitly focused on bringing problems to the attention of operational authorities, who then chose what to do (Hinsley et al., 1979: 160). The long-running debate about whether intelligence should go beyond analysis of a situation to providing operational recommendations has largely been decided in favour of those who say that it should not (Cope, 2004: 191; Drell, 1993; Gordon, 2007: 60). One author has gone so far as to suggest that a good intelligence officer, when asked what to do about a problem that his analysis has identified, should reply, ‘Sorry, sir, that’s your business’ (Handel, 1989: 259).

Some advocates of formal ILP, however, have suggested that intelligence analysts should make recommendations (Ratcliffe, 2008: 11). Indeed, one has boldly stated that intelligence analysts should even determine who the relevant decision makers for a particular piece of analysis should be, and make recommenda- tions to them (Ratcliffe, 2008: 11). Such is, unless that author has horrifically misstated his case,4 insubordination at best. In police forces, and indeed almost any organisation in which there are intelligence analysts, there is no doubt about who is the relevant decision maker for a particular piece of analysis. It is not the analyst’s right to usurp the chain of command or seek a second opinion. What is interesting, again, is how formal ILP has diverged from what the early architects of ILP thought of it; Sir David Phillips stated quite clearly that intelligence in polic- ing should be subsidiary, and the servant of the operational commander only (Harfield & Kleiven, 2008: 443).

The problem with intelligence staff making recommenda- tions is simple5: understanding a problem is an entirely different process to developing recommendations to address the problem. Formal ILP scarcely touches on how best to make decisions.6

There are other intellectual approaches, notably within the broad field of policy analysis, that focus entirely on making the best decisions in relation to specific problems. It is not a simple process, and requires wrestling with a range of challenges, including scientific methodologies, the hazards of applying such methodologies to social scientific questions, and the range of constraints, whether political or physical, that surround any potential solutions (Irwin, 2003: 6). Problem definition, in which intelligence analysis plays a major role, is only a small part of the process. To expect, as is implied in formal ILP, that an intelligence analyst can ‘tack on’ a few recommendations with- out going through some sort of logical decision-making and evaluation process, is flawed. The likely result is that the analyst, having been captured by his or her particular problem, will

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present a biased and subjective set of recommendations, which could potentially lead to flawed, knee-jerk decisions. Encroach- ing on the decision-making authority of other staff is also a quick way to ensure intra-organisational arguments and friction (Hinsley et al., 1979: 40; Keegan, 2003: 233).

Related to the authority problem is the alignment of formal ILP activities and findings with extant policy. Police forces are servants of political masters (Handel, 1989: 187), whether at the state, county or some other level. Those political superiors provide resources and legitimacy, and determine priorities and focus areas. There is a tendency within some of the discourse around ILP to suggest that so-called objective methods can identify the true priorities for police action (John & Maguire, 2004a: 22–8). In NIM variants, this goes so far as to refer to ‘Intelligence Defined Priorities’. It is very easy for such self- selection to usurp the legitimate right of political decision makers to choose what the priorities for their agencies will be. That is not to say that intelligence analysis cannot inform political decision makers in their identification of agency prior- ities, but rather that intelligence cannot identify priorities which contradict those defined by those political superiors.

A third criticism, and one closely linked to the two noted above, is a worrying technocratic theme within some of the discourse surrounding formal ILP. The portrayal of formal ILP as a scientific, objective and rational method of making decisions is eerily reminiscent of the early twentieth-century ideas espoused by Gantt and others on the benefits to be gained if engineers ran countries (cited in Hoopes, 2003: 113). A quote of the time about technocratic ideals, although referring to a differ- ent type of intelligence, is accurate enough to be quite chilling:

[W]e should only have to get enough Intelligence Bureaus in Washington . . . and . . . the people, it is assumed, will gladly agree to become automata . . . in favour of a superior race of men called experts. (Hoopes, 2003: 115)

Swap ‘Washington’ for ‘police forces’, ‘people’ for ‘police staff’, and ‘experts’ for ‘intelligence analysts’, and one gets a pretty good impression of what some advocates for ILP seem to be suggesting.

Technocracies express an ‘arrogance by experts and intellec- tuals’ (Hoopes, 2003: 113), and there is a possibility, perhaps already developing, that, in relation to formal ILP, this will extend to the concept that other elements of police forces are

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there primarily to serve the ‘big I’ Intelligence unit. There are signs of this in the literature, with one writer criticising ‘policing led intelligence’, implicitly claiming that policing actions should serve intelligence, and not vice versa (Cope, 2004). There is a distinct chance, given the growth in ‘big I’ Intelligence units, procedures and processes under formal ILP, that Intelligence will become an end in itself and that any policing elements involved in the capture of information will become part of the ‘big I’ organisation. Partly, this is because of a lack of experience in policing in relation to what would be termed reconnaissance assets; assets with a specific role that provide intelligence to intelligence units but are not part of the intelligence organisation itself. This separation of responsibilities is something that milit- aries are very familiar with (Hinsley et al., 1979: 173).

Another issue with formal ILP is its focus on micro- management. The NIM and its variants require hundreds of specific standards to be met, frequent meetings following accepted procedures, the constant reporting of measures, and ‘top-down’ decision making relating to targets and tactics, with little emphasis on ensuring flexibility to respond to developing situations (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005).7 Control Strategies, a key element of formal ILP, focus on a defined series of specific action steps rather than a broader concept of opera- tions. Formal ILP is top-heavy. There is a tactical level, but the focus is on the provision of large quantities of intelligence to senior management, who will in turn provide specific directions down the chain of command. History has taught us that such practices are counterproductive. Early in World War Two, the British War Cabinet attempted to keep a heavy hand on all relevant intelligence materiel, and found itself swamped with ‘innumerable’ documents (Hinsley et al., 1979: 97). After a short period, it dramatically cut down the quantity of intelligence it received, realising that too much detail was actually counter- productive to the making of strategic decisions.

There is a common belief within police forces, often shared by those who examine them, that police constables generally possess, and display, greater degrees of flexibility, initiative and discretion than their military counterparts.8 Yet, counter- intuitively, formal ILP is far more prescriptive than the MAP/ MDMP methodologies noted earlier. It would be absurd for military commanders to specify tasks two to three levels down the chain of command, yet that is exactly what formal ILP involves. This micro-management of police staff, whose role in formal ILP seems solely to implement the decisions reached by

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assumedly intellectually superior intelligence analysts, seems a waste of the capabilities of those staff.

Another key flaw of formal ILP is its relative lack of attention to decision making. Despite claims that it is more than just intelligence analysis, and that it encompasses tasking and coordination activities, the vast majority of formal ILP is still focused on intelligence analysis. Understanding the problem well does not necessarily translate into good decisions. Formal ILP provides neither a method by which to identify various options at the tactical, operational or strategic level, nor any mechanism to evaluate options. This seems to contradict its claims to be a ‘business model’ for policing. What this means in practice is that a vast preponderance of time and resources is devoted to problem definition, and the implementation of solutions, yet hardly any time is devoted to devising the best solution. This puts formal ILP in a negative light when compared with MAP/ MDMP or standard policy analysis methods.

Some might question whether there is a tension between micro-management and specific decision-making methods. There is not, and indeed providing decision-making tools at all levels is an antidote to micro-management. Such tools can enable senior managers to provide direction in broad terms, understanding that subordinates will then have the tools to identify the best options available within the boundaries of such guidance.

A final criticism relates to the pseudo-scientific pretensions of formal ILP. As noted, some advocates of formal ILP have stated that is it ‘objective’. Unfortunately, such flies in the face of the evidence; all intelligence analysis is subjective and exhibits distortions related to the point of view of the analyst(s) or organisation(s) involved (Handel, 1989: 199). Organisations set up for a specific purpose will likely find information that confirms that purpose; for example, early in World War Two, the British War Cabinet was careful in accepting the conclusions of the CIC, an intelligence watch set up to look for signs of invasion, accepting that because of its purpose, it would be too prone to find such signs (Hinsley et al., 1979: 173). In police terms, an intelligence analysis focusing on burglaries is likely to overemphasise the importance of such problems. An intelligence analysis looking for future problems is likely to overemphasise the probability of harmful events occurring. Pessimism is an inherent distortion of all intelligence analysis.9 Claiming that any intelligence product is ‘objective’ is not merely incorrect; it is also dishonest, and potentially harmful. The problems of crime

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and social order are far too complex to be dealt with in a purely ‘rational and scientific’ manner.

It is accepted that all of the above criticisms of formal ILP would be moot if there were clear evidence of the outcome effectiveness of formal ILP. Unfortunately for the supporters of ILP, there is none (James, 2003: 46), and some of its advocates have stated so quite explicitly (John & Maguire, 2004b: 5; Ratcliffe, 2002: 61). In none of the countries that have embraced, or are embracing, formal ILP is there obvious indication that these new policies and procedures have led to improved policing, however that might be defined. There have been ‘good news stories’ in isolation, but those successes could reasonably have been expected with the efficient application of traditional poli- cing practices (James, 2003: 46).

In summary, the utility of formal ILP is rather questionable. It promises an objective, rational approach to policing problems, and delivers a set of processes, procedures and organisational structures. It is highly prescriptive. It tends to technocracy and micro-management, with the intelligence analyst the key identi- fier of both problems and potential solutions. If fully imple- mented, it might be wondered whether the role of the police constable would decline into that of an automaton, receiving his or her ‘Intelligence-Defined Priorities’ and carrying them out without thought.

Reasons for Success Given the shortcomings noted above, it is worthwhile question- ing why formal ILP has been so successful in gaining adherents worldwide. To do so, it is useful to examine the literature relating to organisational change and management fashion.

Management fashions (or fads) are management approaches that rapidly gain popularity, leading to at least surface adherence in many organisations, before declining in popularity in a sim- ilarly rapid manner. Famous management fashions/fads have included Quality Circles and Total Quality Management (although advocates of those approaches may claim that they are not fads) (Abrahamson & Fairchild, 1989: 730).

Several writers have closely examined the phenomenon of management fashions/fads. Often, new management techniques are positioned as panaceas (Shapiro, 1995: xvii). Part of their appeal is that they ‘rely on jargon and emphasize rational decision making’ (Birnbaum, 2000: 2). They are presented as solutions to problems, problems that may not be particularly

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important, but which are emphasised by those who support the particular management fashion. Abrahamson has noted:

Even if a performance gap does not exist, discourse suggest- ing it does might constitute a sufficient condition to trigger a fashion purporting to narrow this gap. (Abrahamson & Fairchild, 1989: 734)

There is a distinct lifecycle to management fads, although the specifics vary depending on the theoretical approach taken. One involves a five-stage process of (1) creation, (2) narrative evolu- tion, (3) time lag, (4) narrative devolution, and (5) dissonance resolution (Birnbaum, 2000: 4). An alternative model offered by Ettore also has five stages, but they are subtly different: (1) discovery; (2) wild acceptance; (3) digestion; (4) disillusion- ment; and (5) hard core (see Gibson et al., 2003: 13). There is considerable overlap between the two.

Early in the lifecycle, discourse focuses on the benefits of the management fad, with little attention to the costs (Birnbaum, 2000: 6–7). Where problems are mentioned, it is usually in dismissive terms, as challenges are easily overcome (Abra- hamson & Fairchild, 1989: 729). There is an explosion in the literature about the fad, which assists with diffusion, much like seeds caught on the wind. Often, discourse during the early period is fuelled by ‘knowledge entrepreneurs’, highly positive advocates of the approach, which results in emotionally charged, enthusiastic upswings of support (Abrahamson & Fairchild, 1989: 708). Hoopes has noted that ‘utopianism is the very stuff of management fads . . . a (management) guru’s basic qualifica- tion (is) evangelical fervour for a big idea’ (2003: 116). These advocates often depend on creating and disseminating new management techniques for their own livelihood (Birnbaum, 2000: 6), and as a result there is a constant transience in management fashion (Abrahamson & Fairchild, 1989: 710).

Over time, however, the benefits and costs of the fad become better understood. Some organisations will have only ‘virtually adopted’ the fad, making abandonment easier (Birnbaum, 2000: 12). In some, the fad will have absorbed management and staff so totally into the processes of the technique that those processes become an end in themselves, regardless of the actual benefits achieved (Shapiro, 1995: 173). A few organisations will be ‘hard core’ adopters, and will retain the fad even as it falls out of fashion. For the most part, the end of a fad results in waste, burnout and cynicism (Abrahamson & Fairchild, 1989: 737).

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Oddly enough, management fashions can actually be beneficial to organisations and individuals, albeit in ways quite distinct from those anticipated. Studies have shown that organisations which embraced popular management fashions seldom showed better economic performance, but were often admired and seen to be more innovative by their peers (Staw & Epstein, 2000: 523–30). Thus, adoption of ‘progressive’ fads can boost organisational legitimacy. It can also improve the reputation of those individuals within the organisation who are regarded as being key to either the selection of the fad, or its implementation.

Internal organisational relationships are also vital to the success of management fads. Within any organisation, a key aspect of culture is the ‘internal game’: how to survive, excel and progress up the hierarchy (Shapiro, 1995: 53). As such, control of resources is central to the success of a particular management fashion (Shapiro, 1995: 12). Those who control capital and career advancement can change the culture of an organisation in favour of, or in opposition to, particular management fashions by ensuring that adherents to their particular view on the issue are rewarded (Shapiro, 1995: 57). In simple terms, if the bosses support a fashion, they can promote those who share that view. Expressing doubts about a management fashion that enjoys the support of those in control of resources, while potentially bene- ficial to the organisation as a whole, can be a CLM: a ‘career limiting move’ (Shapiro, 1995: 171).

The above analysis is taken from the commercial world, but it is reinforced by studies on organisational change and innova- tion within militaries as well. Rosen in particular has noted that control over the promotion of personnel is a source of power, and thus that any attempt to innovate, for example, by imple- menting a new doctrine, requires control of those promotional pathways (Rosen, 1991). While identification of the need for innovation may stem from an examination of the external environment, it is only through internal power that innovation can be firmly bedded in.

What, one might ask, has the above to do with formal ILP? The parallels are striking. The ‘solution’ of formal ILP appeared at a time when, especially in the United Kingdom, there was a perception that existing approaches were inadequate. A range of pragmatic tools, which pre-dated the ILP label, were con- glomerated together to create a ‘revolutionary’ approach (Asso- ciation of Chief Police Officers, 2005; Her Majesty’s

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Inspectorate of Constabulary, 1997). This was the ‘creation’ phase. Advocates for a ‘rational decision making’ process then helped the concept gain traction at the highest levels in the United Kingdom. This then provided a carrot motivation: in order to gain additional resources from the centre, the various forces across the country needed to implement the requirements of the NIM (James, 2003: 55).

International diffusion followed, during the ‘narrative evolu- tion’ or ‘wild acceptance phase’. Key decision makers around the world became enamoured of the objective, pseudo-scientific pretensions of formal ILP. An important impetus was provided by the explosion in high-casualty terrorist events after 11 Sep- tember 2001, such as attacks in London, Madrid and Bali (US Bureau of Justice Assistance, 2005). This seemed to necessitate improved intelligence analysis and sharing. Forces, wanting to seem innovative, and wanting to be seen to be doing something about the problem, embraced the tenets of ILP. Knowledge entrepreneurs used their seeming familiarity with the concept to enhance their own careers. The literature on the topic exploded, and, as with all fashions, it became obvious that ILP was ‘flavour of the month’.

Within law enforcement organisations, staff realised that supporting this new trend would likely be beneficial for their own performance in the ‘internal game’. Indeed, it is likely that for many, formal ILP opened up new opportunities for advance- ment (James, 2003: 48). Resources were allocated to new organisations and positions, creating new promotional pathways. This, in turn, has seemingly become a self-sustaining process.

Already there are distinctly worrying signs. Writing about management fashions, Shapiro once noted that:

A . . . priesthood often develops, as the specialists come to see themselves as keepers of a sacred flame that, they believe, can only be kept lit by strict adherence to the process as handed down from on high. (Shapiro, 1995: 179)

It might be asked whether a priesthood of formal ILP has already sprung up across the world, its cardinals the academic advocates who fill journals with articles on the need for yet more intelli- gence analysis. In some forces, procedural adherence to pro- cesses, products and dates has become central to decision

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making. A theocracy of policing, particularly a ‘rational, scient- ific, and objective’ theocracy, is scarcely a welcome thought.

Opportunities If it is accepted that formal ILP has questionable utility, then it is worthwhile to consider alternatives. Earlier, this article criticised those who would portray solution development as merely an offshoot of problem definition. To avoid accusations of hypo- crisy, the following ‘solutions’, which flow from the lengthy analysis of the ‘problem’ as contained above, should be regarded merely as tentative suggestions. No evaluation of their respective qualities, or the ease with which they might be implemented, is given. They are merely food for further thought.

A first alternative might be termed ‘ILP Lite’. The under- lying philosophy of ILP is quite useful. What has happened, however, is that its simple truths and principles have become encrusted with unnecessary procedural straitjackets (Association of Chief Police Officers, 2005; Phillips et al., 2007). Treating ILP as Sir David Phillips intended, as a philosophy focused on understanding the criminal environment, and then acting on that understanding, and nothing more, will allow for greater flex- ibility. J.F.C. Fuller once summed up the key to success in warfare in eight broad principles, and there is no reason why ILP could not become a similar strategic philosophy (DigitalAttic, 2007). To do so, the dead wood of pointless procedure must be stripped away, as well as the overly positive propaganda that accompanies ILP. This will allow for ILP to be seen as a useful evolutionary development, rather than a panacea. From such an ‘ILP Lite’ could develop multiple local variations that take best advantage of the skills of police personnel.

A second alternative is a combination of ‘management by objectives’, ‘mission command’, and MAP/MDMP. It might be called the ‘Police Appreciation Process’ (PAP). At its core, management by objectives focuses on staff and management concentrating on the needs of the organisation, without prescrib- ing too strictly how such needs could be met. It is one of the few management fashions that has stood the test of time and avoided accusations of faddism (Hoopes, 2003: 253). Mission command is the uniformed variant, and involves a desired objective, a rationale for that desire, and the allocation of the requisite resources (Horn, 2008: 105–6). Instructions are articulated in terms that foster the greatest possible freedom of action. To be

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successful, mission command requires unity of effort, mutual understanding and decentralised authority (Horn, 2008: 111).

MAP/MDMP, briefly mentioned earlier, incorporates mis- sion command but is a much more comprehensive concept (ArmyStudyGuide.com; US Department of the Army, 2008; New Zealand Army, 2002). To recap, MAP/MDMP begins with an understanding of the enemy and the area of operations, that is in policing terms the criminal environment, in the intelligence preparation phase. From this, the desired outcome of any action or series of actions is identified, and a broad concept of opera- tions is drawn up. This is followed by a rigorous examination of potential courses of action involving comparison and evaluation. Being based on mission command, MAP/MDMP demands that instructions to subordinates are phrased in terms that allow for maximum flexibility; the focus is on ‘what’ to achieve, not ‘how’ to achieve it.

PAP would be a conglomeration of the above. It would begin with an intelligence phase, which would examine the criminal environment. Combining this analysis with instructions from higher authority would allow for the identification of key goals for any police operations. Then, in a manner distinctly different to formal ILP, there would be an analysis of potential solutions, with the best courses of action selected. Instructions would be represented in terms of intent and objectives, not in terms of prescriptive tactics and specific actions. There would be a shift away from micro-management and focus on process. Each level of authority would have the ability to modify its instructions due to local circumstances, as long as it met the intent of its superiors. The result would be better decisions, greater flexibility and potentially improved morale.

A final issue to consider is policy-led policing (PLP). The police staff comprises public servants. They protect the public because that is the duty allocated them by higher authority. If that authority were not granted them, they would be vigilantes. As such, all police actions should begin with an understanding of policy intent. Intelligence can then assist in identifying the barriers to achieving policy goals, while other analysis can identify potential solutions.

The three alternatives are not mutually exclusive by any means. It may well be that they can be successfully synthesised. Overall, however, any alternative needs to address two of the biggest shortcomings of formal ILP: its tendency to micro- management, and its lack of attention to decision making.

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Conclusion ILP has become an extremely popular element of both academic policing discourse and police organisational change around the world in recent years. At times, it seems that advocates of ILP have been entranced by its promise of improved efficiency and its veneer of scientific and objective decision making.

Intelligence and ILP are difficult to define. Because of this, analysis of the topic needs to focus more closely on formal ILP, which is the implementation of ILP philosophy through the British NIM and its variants. Formal ILP is not particularly revolutionary. Its philosophical core is similar to that of MAP/ MDMP and various management approaches. Where it is novel, however, is in its surface layer of processes and procedures.

The usefulness of formal ILP is questionable at best. There is no hard evidence that it has led to improvements in police effectiveness anywhere. At the same time, formal ILP is riddled with flaws. These include confusion over authority, misalign- ment with policy, and a tendency towards technocracy. Other criticisms include a micro-managerial approach, a lack of atten- tion to decision making, and its pseudo-scientific pretensions.

Formal ILP has succeeded in gaining adherents in a manner similar to that of management fads. Key to its success was early acceptance by people in control of resources, and the work of knowledge entrepreneurs. External events, such as terrorist attacks, provided further impetus.

There are simpler alternatives to formal ILP. ‘ILP Lite’, the Police Appreciation Process and Policy-Led Policing are three areas for further thought. Combined, they might well be even more useful. They all address probably the two greatest flaws of formal ILP: its micro-managerial tendencies and lack of attention to decision making.

The historian John Keegan has written perceptively on intelligence. He has noted that ‘intelligence is only as good as the use made of it’ (2003: 208), and ‘even possession of the best intelligence does not guarantee victory’ (2003: 252). Such com- ments by one who has examined centuries of practice should be remembered when next we hear that intelligence analysis and objective decision making are the key to effective policing.

Notes 1. While the guidance on the NIM was published in 2005, the model

had existed in some state or another since the 1997 publication of Policing with Intelligence.

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2. It is worthwhile comparing the following documents: Association of Chief Police Officers (2005); and Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary (1997).

3. It is appreciated that there are minor differences between different variants, but the core remains the same.

4. The exact wording is: ‘. . . the influence part of the three-i model requires analysts to influence the thinking of decision-makers . . . whoever they determine the decision-makers to be’.

5. That is, recommendations for action, rather than recommendations for additional information or analytical work.

6. It claims that decision makers identify the highest priority and then respond, but, as noted earlier, it is largely silent on how they decide to respond. Also, there is no mention of a separation of responsibili- ties between intelligence analysts and what might be called opera- tional planners.

7. See sections 9 and 10 of the NIM in particular. 8. I use the Commonwealth term ‘constable’, but the statement

includes other forces where different terminology is used. 9. Indeed, perhaps of all human thought. For an interesting take on

human pessimism, see Lawrence (2010: 117–19).

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