The no 1 ladies' detective agency
BBC1, 9pm
He kills coppers
ITV1, 9pm

IN marked contrast to He Kills Coppers, The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency was an upbeat, moralistic adaptation of a crime novel, favouring the sunny, sweet and scenic side of the street. Botswana's landscapes inspired awe. Alexander McCall Smith's jolly cast of quirky and instinctual African soothsayers were determinedly entrancing. Overall, the late Anthony Minghella's final work fulfilled his humane aim of celebrating what the supposedly more civilised western world can learn from supposedly less-developed Africa, as opposed to vice versa. In addition, he and co-adapter Richard Curtis made things far funnier than they are in the original book.

That said, I'm not sure I'd willingly settle down for more McCall Smith on TV. There's only so much twee natural wisdom-dispensing and western do-goodery that a fellow can stand, after all.

Despite being more obviously flawed, He Kills Coppers was slightly more compelling, perhaps because it was inspired by real-life infamy: the merciless gunning down of three London policemen by small-time crims in the so-called Massacre of Braybrook Street in 1966. In transferring Jake Arnott's downbeat novel to the small screen, director Adrian Shergold focused on sixties Soho's drabbest, most nicotine-stained offices, pubs and clip-joints. Everywhere, cops were glumly trousering back-handers in brown envelopes. Tarts lurked in seamy back-street doorways. Along grimy thoroughfares, clapped-out Dormobiles chugged listlessly to ill-conceived payroll blags, bearing sweaty, gun-toting petty thieves in 30-bob Burton suits.

And in that glorious summer of England's World Cup triumph, our young anti-hero, flying squad high-flyer Detective Sergeant Frank Taylor, was slumped half-cut in a pub packed with jubilantly oblivious football fans, disgustedly reflecting on how soon his career had become mired in corruption. Frank's moral compromise had reached its nadir when he'd been bewitched in a Soho knocking-shop, enchanted by enigmatic, classy-looking prostitute Jeannie. It was an old trick Jeannie played on Frank. Many's the chap who's rocketed off like a gingered-up greyhound when confronted by a dishy lass sitting on a bed, earnestly protesting "I'm not a tart" while at the same time deftly removing her jumper to reveal she's quite forgotten to put her brassiere on.

As Jeannie, Kelly Reilly pouted, half-smiled and bared her chest in fine shop-soiled Venus de Milo fashion. As Frank, Rafe Spall neatly tempered bloke-ish enthusiasm with a sudden bitter realisation that he wasn't as worldly-wise as he'd thought he was.

So far, so unsurprising. In its portrait of a self-loathing polis, He Kills Coppers trawled familiar waters. Now and again, though, it showed us that the world of muck-raking sixties journalism was less predictably downbeat and grimly macho than we might have thought. Apparently, newspaper reporters were forever having fraught encounters in outré places with suave middle-aged homosexuals. In a dimly lit bar, one such fellow offered to take well-spoken tabloid tyro Tony to the south of France to have his knee stroked by Somerset Maugham. Crivvens! Tony left, making no excuses (indeed, he stubbed out a fag on the old boy's own straying hand). He then meted out more violent treatment to a dapper old roué voicing a similar saucy proposal in a dank subterranean public lavvie.

Best in He Kills Coppers was Tony's languid journalistic mentor, camp Julian, played by James Dreyfus, decrying football fans as drab and lumpen "norms look at them, norming about". Let's hope subsequent episodes of He Kills Coppers feature more colourful abnorms.