Every debt has a life of its own. At every twist and turn, people change sides and lie, motivated by greed and dishonesty. I don’t suppose things have changed much since the times of the Medicis in the Middle Ages or the Hawala bankers in Arabia. Here is a typical example of how people would act when faced by the debt collector.

One day, the multimillionaire director of a successful car dealership came to see me. He and his two partners had made their fortunes by importing used cars into Britain and flogging them off cheap. As always, greed had got the better of them, and the other two had ripped off my man to the tune of 90 grand. I told him my terms: 50 per cent commission. From then on, it was my job 100 per cent. There was to be no interference, and Chris knew nothing about it. It was a strictly freelance operation.

My mate C.J. – a well-respected face from London – and I paid a visit to the garage. It was a nice set-up in an upmarket satellite town known for its infatuation with rugby. Let’s call the co-directors Laurel and Hardy, because one was short and fat and the other was tall and slim. I politely introduced myself, and in a businesslike way explained that I had been assigned to collect their ex-partner’s 90 grand. Predictably, they became very irate. Before I knew it, Laurel had driven his car across the entrance to the car park to block me in and had called the police. He grinned at me smugly, thinking that because he was an upstanding businessman in the community and I was a big black man in a predominantly white area, the bizzies would back him and run me out of town. I relaxed onto the bonnet of one of his cars and wearily said to him, ‘You’re going to live to regret this. You’ve been very silly here today.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he retorted. ‘After the police have had their way with you, I’m gonna have you finished off. You don’t know who I know in the underworld. I happen to know a lot of the main faces. You’re finished.’

I replied, ‘Well, if you know anybody who’s anybody in that line of work, then they’ll know me, and I’m telling you that you’re going to live to regret doing this.’

The police soon turned up, but I had a number of tricks up my sleeve for dealing with that type of situation. First, I always wore a suit, tie and, most importantly, shiny shoes. This impression tended to throw the bizzies off-kilter, forcing them to deal with me civilly. Second, I produced a letter of authorisation from the client to prove that the debt was real. Third, I always made sure that I didn’t threaten anybody. There’s a very thin line between demanding money with menaces – which is a serious criminal offence – and enforcing a legitimate demand, which is perfectly legal. I was an expert at enforcing a legitimate demand. In fact, to this day, I think I’m still the premier expert in the UK, which is why I officially operate under the auspicious title of ‘problem-solver extraordinaire’. I’m known by that name in the City of London, the debt recovery departments of many blue-chip companies and in half of the financial centres in Europe. I’m a man who can solve problems.

Within 15 minutes, the police had gone, and Laurel’s face started to change, because he knew he was in deep trouble. He ran inside his office and phoned his gangster protectors. Now, in fairness, his contact was a senior member of a very powerful and dangerous UK crime family. But so fucking what.

As Laurel was talking to the gangster, his face started to relax. I could hear the gangster reassuring his gobshite ally, thinking that if he scared me off there’d be a bit of wages to be had. The gangster then told Laurel to put me on the phone.

I grabbed the phone off Laurel and said, ‘This is Stephen French.’ I immediately heard the pause. I knew that he knew who I was, and I knew I had won the battle. I continued, ‘This is nothing to do with you. I’m going to get the fucking money, and if you want to line yourself up with these pricks, then I ain’t interested.’

A little voice squeaked up and sheepishly said, ‘Could you put Laurel back on the phone, please?’ I then heard the gangster say, ‘You’re on your own.’ Laurel went ashen-faced and began to shake.

I said, ‘You think that you know faces in the underworld, do you? Well, now you’re facing the Devil. How does it feel to be selling your soul?’ Laurel and Hardy caved in and agreed to hand over the full 90 grand the following week.

However, as sure as night follows day, I knew that the second I left they would be on to the co-director they had screwed over. They would apologise profusely, take him and all their birds out for Chinese, and try to kiss and make up. The next day, they’d go and watch the rugby in the directors’ box and then hit him with the old, ‘We’ve had a few differences over the years, but it was all business. We’re three white middle-aged businessmen who’ve started off with fuck all and done very nicely for ourselves, thanks very much. So, why are we letting this nigger get involved in our business, trying to destroy what we’ve worked for all these years? Fuck him off and let’s just sort this thing out between ourselves, like the fat cunts we are.’

Before half-time, Laurel and Hardy would have talked their old mate round and found out about my 50 per cent commission, thus realising that their mate would only be getting 45 grand out of it anyway. They’d say, ‘We’ll give you 30 grand, and we’ll all be mates again,’ no doubt promising a future partnership.

Lo and behold, a few days later, I found out from my sources that my client had indeed naively decided to realign himself with Laurel and Hardy, thereby cutting me out of the deal and treating me like I was a fucking Muppet or something – a mistake with a capital ‘M’. I called up my client and organised a meeting with him. I was really nice and cosy with him. I explained that it was all bullshit, and they’d fucked him once, so they’d do it again. ‘Don’t realign with them,’ I said. ‘Stay with me, and I’ll reduce my commission to 30 per cent.’ This convinced him to come back over to my side. However, I was well and truly fucked off with the effrontery of it all, so I made an executive decision: I was taking the fucking lot. Nobody was getting any of the gravy. To be honest, I had been looking for a reason to fuck them all as it was, and now he had given me one and played right into my hands. He’d wavered. That would cost him.

Collection day soon came around. My spider senses started to tingle as soon as I woke up. However, it didn’t feel as though it was a warning about the Old Bill or anything like that. They were tingling as if to forewarn me that these fellas might try something. I could see a vision of an upstairs office and had a sensation that the danger might come from above. As I was cleaning my teeth, I grabbed my .38 – my great equaliser – and put it in my jacket, just in case.

However, when me and C.J. got there, the lovely money was ready for counting. It was all going swimmingly. Nevertheless, I felt my attention constantly being drawn upwards. ‘What’s upstairs?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ they told me. ‘Just a storeroom.’

I suddenly got an overwhelming desire to go upstairs. ‘I want to go to the toilet,’ I said. On the way to the ‘toilet’, I found a set of stairs and crept up to a room at the top of the building. When I opened the door, I saw two of the biggest fellas I’d ever seen in my life sitting on a bed. These guys must have each been six feet five inches and twenty-five stone. They had an array of weapons on the floor, as well as some tape and a couple of chairs. They had planned to beat us up and then tie us to the chairs.

I wasn’t going to fight them, so I pulled my gat out and said, ‘You fuckers sitting there, get fucking downstairs, now.’ I then marched them down the stairs, like two huge baboons, booting them up the arse to make them get a move on.

‘Who the fuck are these?’ I asked one of the businessmen. ‘What are they for?’

The biggest thug said, ‘Please, mate, we’re just rugby players from the local team. You’re not going to shoot us, are you?’ It turned out they were two professional players.

I turned to Laurel, ‘You brought these pair of pricks for me. You think these guys frighten me? The two of you get on your fucking knees now.’ Laurel and Hardy got on their knees and started begging for their lives. I told them that I was going to fine them an extra five grand for this outrage. I then got the two gorillas to strip off. They stood there like a couple of naughty schoolboys.

C.J., who had a broad south London accent, said to me, ‘Fackin’ shoot the cants. Let’s fackin’ fill ‘em full,’ but he was just playing the game. He didn’t mean any of it – it was just a bit of psychological terror to keep everyone under control. Within sixty seconds, Laurel had appeared with an extra five grand. I made him sign a piece of paper, and then I turned to the rugby lads, ‘Good luck with your game on Saturday.’ With that, I got off.

I’d arranged to meet the original director at McDonald’s to give him his share. When I got there, the greedy twat took one look at my bag and greeted me like I was his best mate. I pulled out a tenner and said, ‘Go and get yourself a burger and cup of tea while I sit down and get sorted.’

He was cracking jokes with the burger flippers, steadying little kids with their drinks and practically helping little old ladies across the road. It was the best day of his life, and why not? He’d just had his revenge on his old business partners and earned 63 grand to boot. When he finally sat down, he started tucking into his dinner and asked, ‘Have you got the money?’

I replied, ‘See that hamburger? Enjoy it. Cos it’s the most expensive fucking Big Mac in history. That’s all you’re fucking getting.’ C.J. had waltzed in behind me to get a Filet-O-Fish. He looked at the stunned director and said, ’90 grand for a burger? Bit toppy, innit? You should have got a meal deal, mate.’

With that, I shouted to the lad at the counter, ‘I’ll have mine to go, please,’ and I left, sipping my Coke.

I drove to a relative’s house and gave them the bag of money. When I had a large amount of cash on me like that, I’d put the dough in a safe house and head out of town for a few days, just in case the Old Bill turned up. However, fortunately for me, the rugby players obviously didn’t want to pursue the matter, probably because they were so fucking embarrassed.

That was a good pay day. In the end, I took 50 grand and gave C.J. 45. I knew he was an all-the-way nigger, as he had stayed with me and had covered my back. After all, the Devil – legit or not – needs his helpers.