I walked over to the Cayenne parked on the other side of the carpark. Breathe, concentrate. As a child, I’d learned how to cross borders with an “unaccompanied minor” sign around my neck, and my pink down puffer jacket stuffed full of 500-franc notes. The secret is to submit control of every molecule in your body to your mind. It’s like a bike, you don’t forget how to ride it, and not everybody can do it.

I got into the car with the smoky windows and took out a battery-operated bank note counter. The problem was that there was a huge amount of 10s and 20s and it would have taken hours to get through them.

“I don’t take small denominations!”

“Money’s money,” said Scotch, annoyed, in Arabic.

There was something about his tone I supremely disliked. An underlying threat, along the lines of You’ll take my dough, you filthy bitch — and I can’t stand that with men, especially fat bastards weighing 110 kilos who clench their fists when they’re irritated. It just makes me want to humiliate them.

“Tens, 20s, 50s . . . that’s small-time loser crap. The smallest I take is a 100. Tell me right now if you’re a loser so I don’t have to waste my time.”

I let the word loser slide from my lips in French with a Moroccan accent you could cut with a knife. It was magnificent.

The problem for dealers is that 10s and 20s are the currency on the streets, and they quickly turn into mountains of bank notes. These then have to be exchanged for large denominations, and that can only be done by way of a laundering system. By calling Scotch a loser, I had reduced him to a street dealer, when in his dreams he was Tony Montana. What’s more, my request would reduce his margin, forcing him to spend an extra 10 euros for every 100-euro note.

“OK, I’ve got 112,500 here,” I said, “which means you only get one of the two bags. Just this once, I’ll accept five hundred 50s, but it’s the last time. That other stuff is just bullshit.”

“We wanna count the shit.”

“No problem. Just so you know, I also do bags of 20 for the wholesale market . . . It’s more practical. If you want to count . . . Hey, you . . .”

I pointed to the one who had to be Mohamed Moufti, alias Momo, Scotch’s little brother.

I’d bet my life on my taxi driver having at least one brother in prison. I say that because on our way there, he’d used the term incarceration. I pay careful attention to words — it’s my job — and you only say that word out loud if you work in the law or if you’re involved with the law . . .