Drug dealers tried to freak each other out by whispering, ‘The Devil’s going to get you, the Devil’s going to get you.’ The prospect would genuinely unnerve them. I became the bogeyman of the underworld. A myth began to grow up around me, fuelled by my resolve and unshakable fearlessness in the pursuit of tax. I’d face any odds in order to get what I wanted. It’s not being prepared to kill, but being prepared to die that provides the winning ingredient. However, I had one golden rule: once I’d got the drugs, I wasn’t fucking giving them back. A lot of taxmen had come to grief by being too keen to undo their own hard work. They would steal a load of gear but cave in to underworld pressure and end up giving it back. The victims used to send emissaries, mates of mates and all that lark, to talk a taxman around or, if that failed, to threaten him. But me? No. You could send who you wanted – the SAS, the fucking SS led by the mujahideen – but you were not fucking getting it back.
