Dan Brody paced up and down nervously. At this rate he’d wear a channel in the hotel’s lobby floor. His contact was twenty-five minutes late and he hated being made to wait or worse, being stood up.
He would make the man pay for all the inconvenience, when he gets hold of the twerp. He didn’t have a clue about how the man looked like, so he eyed each arrival with suspicion. His surprise was evident when his contact arrived.
“Mr Brody?”
Dan’s nod encouraged the profusely perspiring, heavily overweight man to continue.
“The taxi broke down… I had to walk the last few miles. No other taxies would stop. I haven’t walked this far in ten years.”
Dan was about to give him a piece of his mind but thought better of it. If it were him, he wouldn’t have stopped either; the prospect of a profusely perspiring blob on the back seat wasn’t a pleasant thought.
“Ok, you’ve made me wait long enough, let’s get on with this meeting. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“No, I’ll get myself a beer. I’m not in the mood for tea or coffee, thank you.”
Dan led the way to the seating area. He beckoned the hovering waiter as he slumped into the plush seat.
“Yes sir, how can I help?”
“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks, my friend here would like a cold beer.”
“Any particular brand?”
“Make mine a Red Bush…”
Dan and the waiter glanced at the panting beer drinker.
“I’ll have your largest, coldest craft house draft… thanks.”
Dan remained silent until the waiter appeared with their drinks. He placed a note on the tray and indicated that the waiter could keep the change.
“OK, why did you request this meeting?”
“I’ve been researching a theory for more than five years and refining it for the last two. Now I have definitive information and I think you’d love to print my findings.”
“Right, before you begin, please inform me who you are and why you want to share your theory with me.”
“Oli, Oliver… Plunket, small-time gamer. I earn a living following trends and betting on sports results. I have a particular interest in cricket and as you’re the hometown big-league sports journo, I want you to break the news.”
Dan sat back and remained silent for a while, considering his options. He’d been surprised by the man’s response. He’d expected a demure response after their initial meeting, but this fellow had something about him.
“Why now?”
“Next week, there’s the test here. I’m going to give you a few betting tips on days one, two and three of the match. Place bets and watch your returns. If my theory is correct, you’re going to make money. If my theory is fake, I’ll refund every penny you’ve spent.”
“That’s very generous of you… but where’s the story in there? How do you get the link between the bets and the scoop?”
“Trust me, you do as I say"
Trust me, thought Dan. coming from a self-confessed gamer, that’s rich.
“Trust you… why should I? Where do you find the information to base your bets on? Why don’t you just tell me now?”
“Too many questions. I told you I’ve developed the theory over the last few years. If you don’t want to give it a go, I’ll offer my story to one of your competitors. Easy. I’m making money. You can too, and have yourself a scoop!”
“OK, I’ll trust you. What do you want me to do?”
“Like I said, you phone me on day one, during the tea interval. Not earlier. OK? Now, let me get a round before I go, I have business to attend to later.”
***
Two weeks later the story broke. Within thirty minutes, Deepak Ramshami, the COO of the ICB, was on the line. Dan listened patiently at the torrent of anger and profanity. Nice guy, this COO, real mister nice guy. Where the effing this. Who the effing that. Questions, questions, questions.
“The information… where did you get this information? You’ve just released a story so profound that most of the cricketing world is running for cover. Your allegations of high-level fixing are astounding!”
Dan held the phone at arm’s length. The ICB man was screaming.
“You can’t go to print with a story like that without concrete evidence. You’ve written supposition, a speculative prose, bordering on mass slander. You’re not naming a single individual yet you’re claiming you’ve made a pile of money on bets placed during last week’s test. How? Who supplied you with the betting tips? You’re implying officials are in on this."
Dan let the man ramble on at arm’s length. He caught snatches of legal threats for bringing the game into disrepute. He wasn’t a player or administrator; how could this loony threaten him with legal action for writing an article about making money from bets placed during a high-profile test match?
Match-fixing, the scourge of cricket, had struck again. That’s all he’d actually said in the article. He’d suggested that if gamblers had the means to predict something happening that they would take the chance on betting.
The phone went quiet. He returned it to his ear. The agitated breathing confirmed that he still had an irate official hanging on at the other end. Dan listened for a few seconds before speaking,
“Are you quite done with your threats and accusations? Could we continue the discussion in a civilised manner or should I cut the call and block your number?”
“No, don’t cut the call. Please pardon my outrage, I’m rather angry. Your article has caused such consternation. Why on earth didn’t you come to us first?”
“Because every journo dreams of their once in a lifetime scoop, that's why. If I’d come to you lot first you would’ve diluted the story and reduced the impact of the piece on the sports world.”
Dan listened to the other man’s laboured breathing, wondering if the stress of the breaking story may affect a few of cricket’s ruling body top brass harshly.
“How did you come about your information? Have you names to divulge or are you basing the whole story on hearsay and speculation?”
“Yes, of course I have names. My source has put two years’ worth of time and effort into his research. He has detailed reports and documented accounts of all his findings. I trusted this man, he’s made a lot of money and he’s not the only one.”
The agitation at the other end increased again.
“Are you suggesting that top ranking officials are also making money by betting on games?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Quite a few officials are in on it. A syndicate.”
His phone’s battery conked at that moment. That should add to the drama, he thought. Let them stew a little longer.
***
“When and how did you begin to suspect something was amiss?”
Dan and Oli were seated on one of the more isolated park benches… purposely chosen for privacy away from prying eyes and ears.
“You know the old cricket adage, wickets fall in clumps. Well, sometimes the conditions contribute, heavily. Sometimes the ball begins reversing or swinging sooner or later than expected. Sometimes the ball doesn’t swing. But hey, why am I telling you this, you know it all. You journos and media commentators are always on about the behaviour of cricket balls.”
Oli paused to mop his damp brow. The perspiration was stinging his eyes. Fat Oli, as he was known. He really needed to shed some of his bulk, but that was easier said than done. Chocolates, his mainstay in life after beer and betting. He needed all three, often.
He loved money, he needed money because no woman ever gave him more than a disapproving glance until he started flashing the notes. His money bought him all the pleasure he desired. Betting, now there was a pastime that gave him access to all the pleasures, sometimes simultaneously. Yep, he recalled winning large sums of money while flat on his back, in the whorehouse.
“OK, so… that first day I called you, you said I should bet on four wickets falling within ten overs of the tea break. How did you know that? Do you have inside information? I put a grand on that tip, and as you know, I made twenty.”
“Simple, on day one of any test that starts without morning delays, at the tea break the ball is usually about 60 overs old. Swing of some kind is likely.”
“Hold it there, only two wickets had fallen early, the two batsmen at the crease directly after tea were well set, both playing for centuries. Surely they weren’t going to throw their wickets away?”
“Not if the ball didn’t begin swinging and bouncing differently but the older ball started playing up under cloudier skies.”
“To be expected surely?”
Oli gave Dan a strange look. He mopped his brow again and fidgeted in his carry-all, looking for a clean wipe.
“You’re all the same. You all speculate on the reasons for the balls’ behaviour, but you don’t question what happens to the ball to make it misbehave.”
“But we do! Not too long ago we had a ball tampering incident during a test in Australia. We… everybody… knows bowlers and fielders are forever trying to alter the state of the ball to gain an advantage.”
Dan didn’t like the thought that this fat fellow may be thinking him to be ignorant. He was the journo. He was supposed to have answers for the questions.
“Yeah, yeah… but what if the players had nothing to do with the ball? What if another party altered the state of the ball? During the break?”
Dan’s long low whistle implied that the penny had eventually dropped. Oli gave him an all-knowing smirk.
“What if the ball tampering was planned to coincide with certain waypoints in matches, to make it look natural and normal when things began happening?”
“Oli if you’re right it’s genius. Who would’ve thought…”
Dan whistled again. The ramifications were enormous. Never had officials been suspected of match-fixing at the very top level until now, if Oli’s theory proved correct.
“Why did you say four wickets? Why not three or five?”
“As I’ve said, the trends I’ve put together are usually correct. Based on the steady batting, the bookies were giving the greatest odds on four wickets. So, I told you to bet on four. I also knew that as soon as the forth wicket fell the modified ball would be removed from play. Can you recall? The umpires didn’t even let the over be completed, they were quick to check the ball’s shape.”
“You’re having me on umpires often have the balls changed. Usually much to the dissatisfaction of the bowlers.”
“No, not the case. Umpires often make a song and dance of checking the ball’s shape, usually returning it to the bowler who’s complained about the ball. I have stats to prove my theory.”
Dan raised his hand. He needed Oli to stop for a while. Too much information.
“I still don’t know how can you be so precise in your predictions. There are too many variables, too much left to chance.”
“Exactly, if you know how to manipulate the variables you bring certainty. A select few are bringing that certainty and enjoying the rewards.”
***
“Collapses, so many in the last decade. A few teams have become usual offenders. When you run the numbers, the collapses have a few common denominators. Usually half expected but not predicted.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Easy, teams develop play patterns. So, if you get the ball reversing against England away from home they tend to fold. In the last few seasons Australia have followed the same trend.”
“Wait one other teams suffer the same dilemma. Look at the last Sri Lankan tour of South Africa. They dropped like flies when the South African quicks got on a roll.”
“Aha… you’ve spotted a pattern, have you? But stop to think, just for a second. Would any bookie have given odds against a collapse? Never! They would give odds against a collapse. That’s if they felt in a good mood. No Dan, you’ve got to realise there’s a difference between making money or just commenting on the game.”
***
“So how do you think he rose to prominence so quickly? Some say he’s the best. Yes, he’s won a few ‘Umpire of the Year’ awards and he’s a young man on the move. Great. A fairy tale in umpiring terms.”
Dan couldn’t quite work out where Oli was heading with this new line of speculation. Yes, he knew Randy Wyatt was the new luminary on the international umpiring scene. Everybody knew that. The slightly odd story of an American becoming a world cricketing figure. He’d never played the game at even a semi-pro level, yet he was standing in topflight international games.
“OK Oli, where are you heading with this? You’ve lost me.”
Oli’s smirk again told Dan that the man enjoyed making him squirm. Worse still, when Oli thought he had the upper hand he subconsciously flared his nostrils, like a mongrel sniffing for the bitch in heat. Unpleasant sight, the rotund face screwed up in avarice anticipation.
“Aha, you’ll soon find out what our latter-day hero has to offer. Before I go there, as a scene setter, how much do you know about the umpires? Their personal lives? Their off the field habits? I’d guess not much. On the other hand, most everyone on the planet knows all the dirt on international cricketers.”
Oli’s nostrils flared again. He was enjoying himself. After all, he wasn’t the journalist, yet he knew the stories.
“Would you know who Randy Wyatt is married to?”
Dan’s expression changed from quizzical to confused. What had this to do with the betting saga?
“No, I don’t have a clue. To be honest, I didn’t even know the man was married and to be even more upfront, I know just about nothing about the private lives of umpires.”
“And that, my friend is exactly how they want it to be.”
Oli’s triumph was palpable, is flaring nostrils and sweaty brow adding to the unease of the moment. He paused a few seconds. He needed to build the moment he needed to prepare Dan for the bombshell.
“I’ll continue my story, only if you agree in writing, to do a book deal.”
“Oh flip Oli, what’s with you now? Why a book deal and why the need for a contract right now?”
Dan didn’t need roadblocks at this point. He’d promised his editor part two of the story, to be run in conjunction with the final test of the series at the weekend. Dan glared at Oli, realising he’d been set-up for this eventuality.
“You’ve conned me Oli but then, I suppose I should credit you for taking a gamble on me believing you in the first place. A book deal, why now?”
Dan repeated the question. He’d have to get buy-off from his editor, so he’d better have some sort of compromise suggestion lined up when the boss flipped his lid.
“Dan, I’m a betting man, how long do you think it’s going to take others to work out what I have? Soon the bubble will burst so why don’t we cash in now? A book will earn money for us for quite some time. Money. That’s why.”
“OK Oli. Give me a few minutes. I need to phone my editor. He’s expecting the next story ready for going live at the weekend. If he doesn’t agree, I’m dead.”
Dan rose and walked out of the pub. He needed air and somewhere to talk without being overheard. The street would do.
***
“Oli, the email agrees to your T’s and C’s, what more do you want?”
“At least 25% of the increased advertising income on the days the serial is printed. Send that back to your boss. Once he agrees you have a deal.”
Dan sighed. He wasn’t cut out for haggling or negotiating. He wanted the story but not when it all became so messy. However, he realised there was money to be made. He realised he could carry his scoop into a book. Hopefully a bestseller.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back from the boss. Let’s hope it’s soon because I need to get the copy in soon.”
“You’ll get part two of your scoop as soon as your editor agrees, that I promise.”
The call ended. All Dan could do was wait and hope. Friend Oli was turning a tad nasty. Money. The love of money, that’s what it does.
***
“Interpol? No, they can hang on a bit. I’m not giving them all my research just like that.”
Oli couldn’t believe he was hearing Dan suggesting that they share their information at this early stage. Daft, they still had a few bridges to cross before they started burning them.
“Well, that Ramshami fellow, the ICB hotshot. He’s threatening to get Interpol involved if we don’t start sharing information with their anti-corruption team.”
“Let me tell you this Dan, if you’ve revealed my identity, the both of you can go screw yourselves. I’m not ready to part with more information until we have our deal firmly in the bag and the first few print runs out in the open. Get with it Dan, there’s money to be made first.”
He sat, prolonging his silence, recalling their first meeting. He recalled how in control he felt then. He was running the show, now he was the pawn, being manipulated between the different stakeholders. He was only the scribe, the recorder. Oh well, that was often the role of the writer. The capturing of history had to begin somewhere. Dan sighed, accepting that he was and would be the pawn. He didn’t mind. He had his scoop… and a few extra bucks in the bank. He looked about one more time before breaking the silence.
“Ok, you’ve got your deal all sewed up. Now, I have a deadline to meet so would you mind sharing a few titbits for me to write into this weekend’s copy?”
“I surely will. You’ve deserved this weekend’s story.”
This time Oli held his silence. For effect. After a long slow drink, he scratched around in his ever-present laptop bag. No, not a fresh wipe this time rather a folded A4 envelope. He handed it to Dan.
“In there you’ll find the details of bets I placed on seven games. All seemingly random passages of play. When I say random, I mean random. There seems no connection. No common denominator apart from the fact that I made money on all the bets I placed.”
Dan began opening the envelope.
“No Dan, leave it for now. You’ll have enough time to interpret the details and write your story. Now, put it away before it attracts attention. Drink we’re here to drink. Enough work for the day.”
He sipped his whiskey, savouring the smooth silken flame as it eased down. What now, what next? He’d soon need to get more than game stats to ensure the story remained relevant. Names. He needed a few names. However, he didn’t want to ask just yet, so he changed his line.
“Oli, do I get to bet this weekend? It would be rather cute if I betted on Saturday and dropped in a line in Sunday’s article, don’t you think?”
Oli rolled his bulging eyes in mock horror. The sigh would earn an award in any acting performance. Clown, thought Dan ever the clown, this man of chance.
“Go home, work on your story and ring me on Friday evening, after play on day two. By then I’ll have worked out how the game is set up and if it’s worth having a go. It’s been damp and overcast so there should be swing and seam on the first two days but everyone knows that, so there won’t be odds on anything. Don’t waste your money or time, rather go write Sunday’s piece.”
“Yes boss.”
Dan muttered, just loud enough for the ever-attentive Oli to hear, when he chose to listen. Too many masters, too many fingers in the pie. Too many pies? Dan shook his head and headed for the door. The safety the street offered seemed a far better option than another lecture from his latest employer.
***
Part two broke to much anticipation. This time Dan knew better, his phone was off. He was out of reach, apart for a few trusted folk who knew his private number. Howard, his editor, was onto him within the hour. Everything at the paper was all go, a second run was needed because they’d sold out within 25 minutes of hitting the streets. Unprecedented, doing a Sunday midday run but everyone seemed to want to own their own copy of this good news story.
The article was a simple one. Dan included a table, listing the seven games, the specific event selected during each game for the bets and the moneys wagered and won by his source. He added a few more paragraphs about the likelihood of people in the know running individual, localised betting syndicates. Simple, no names only statistics that were easy to verify by anyone who doubted the facts. The banner headline added to the sense of foreboding, hinting at foul play in higher places.
Bulging Booty Bags - Bolstered By Bowling Bookmaking!
His personal phone rang again. It was Oli.
“You’re famous now, they all know who Dan Brody is. Great. That means your book, our book, will be a bestseller! Just the way I want it. Money and revenge, such sweet anticipation.”
Dan didn’t allow Oli to continue, he’d heard enough.
“Hey… wait, what’s this about revenge? Where does that come from? What says you won’t soon be plotting against me?”
Oli realised he’d said too much too soon. He cursed himself. Dan didn’t like what he’d heard. What was Oli playing at? He’d become so entwined in Oli’s schemes that he was beginning to wonder if he’d get out of this with any dignity intact.
“Meet me tomorrow. We can talk, for now I need a feed.”
Dan stared at the silent phone, seriously contemplating flinging it against the wall. He knew he was trapped. Trapped in an ever-tightening web of Oli’s perverse enjoyment. Sometimes, just sometimes, the burning desire for that scoop can turn nasty. Yet, Dan knew he was in it for the duration. No backing out now, he had too much to lose if he chose to run.
***
“Randy Wyatt. Why is he so prominent in your chats lately? Why haven’t you mentioned any of the other participants?”
“Dan, you’re far too inquisitive for your own good. You’ll get the whole story, when we begin the serialised run in your paper. For now, all I’m prepared to say is you should begin educating yourself along a specific path. Family ties in cricket beginning with our friend Randy Wyatt.”
Dan stared at Oli, again acutely aware that he was being made to look silly. Where the hell was this leading?
“OK, your dumb look says you’ll need a hint or twenty to kickstart your education. Our friend is married to Lynda who’s the sister of Ben Weir, the chief curator at the Imperial Oval. Surely I don’t have to remind you that’s the scene of your first foray into the gainful betting.”
Oli anticipated Dan’s involuntary response and waited for the long, low whistle to ease off before he continued.
“If you delve a little deeper, you’ll find that Ben hails from Wellington, born only three miles from the Basin Reserve. Funny he should’ve grown up with New Zealand’s longest serving international umpire who just so happens to be married to the second sister of the chief groundsman at Cape Town’s Newlands Park.”
Oli fell silent. He watched Dan’s expressions change as the internal cogs whirred away. The bewilderment cog seemed to be spinning marginally faster that the confusion wheel.
“Now, off you go, I’ve had enough of you. Go draw pie charts and bar graphs, investigate the seven venue you’ll find the familial ties are strong. Buried in there is the link to the fixing syndicate.”
The men glared at each other, each wondering about the usefulness of the other, each knowing they still needed the other’s help at least for a few weeks longer.
***
Meetings, meetings and more flipping meetings! Dan sat listening to the endless drone of voices. Statistics, numbers, likelihoods of outcomes, names of officials and connections. Bewildering amounts of information.
He sat virtually shutting himself off from the noise around him, contemplating what had happened since his last encounter with Oli. He’d done the research but at a point he’d run into a solid barrier. He needed help to delve deeper into the money angles of the alleged betting syndicate. The only way he could progress was to go to the ICB and Interpol. The paper’s legal team set up the initial meeting. Meetings, the mere mention of the word sent involuntary shivers down his spine. Meetings and Oli. Big, jovial, fat Oli the fixer ever hungry, ever thirsty, ever greedy, ever horny. Fat Oli, the frigging Fixer.
Dan’s thoughts were so far away that he didn’t realise one of the ICB’s anti-corruption marshals was questioning him.
“What makes you so certain a fix took place in Cape Town, as you claim in your report? None of the officials implicated thus far were present at that match.”
Dan sat bolt upright, fully aware of the man’s tone. Was his integrity being questioned?
“Simple, look at the betting patterns… and at the winnings from that event. It’s clear that moneys were moved a few weeks before the game. You’ll notice that virtually all the syndicate members made transfers through their front funds. They’ve obviously got a dogsbody in on the act in Cape Town, switching balls during intervals is really one of the easiest fixes to pull off.”
Dan sighed, his discontent evident. He wished this whole sage would blow over. Why, oh why, had he ever agreed to meet Oli? He sighed, again. Did he have to wet-nurse this lot of morons?
“If you took the time to study my report fully you’d understand that I went after the money ties and not the intricacies of individual fixes. We all know elements of specific games were fixed, however, we wanted to establish the personal involvement of the individual stakeholders. Ultimate proof that they knew what was happening and participating willingly. No denying collusion, no ducking responsibility when the truth is eventually revealed.”
He slumped in his chair, deflated by the effort of his rant. Morons, they all needed to get a cop-on. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his days explaining the links. He had what he wanted from the fraud investigators. Bank details proving his research correct. Now, all he wanted to do was break the real juicy parts of the story… the names… reveal to the world who had enriched themselves by the fixes. However, he suspected Oli wasn’t going to hand him answers on a silver platter. He would have to dig deep in the mire to find the pearls.
***
He cursed Oli. Damn the man, making him stand in the poring rain. Was Oli messing with his head? Oli knew how he hated being stood up… or made to wait. This time Oli had instructed him to wait outside the station, not in the shelter, outside because a taxi would be sent to collect him, so he needed to be visible and on the street for the driver to be able to identify him. He stared at every passing taxi.
The rain had found its way in under the umbrella, as it always does. He was cold, the lower part of his wet legs added to his discomfort. And to think, all of this misery for the sake of a story that may yet end in a massive anti-climax. A heavily accented voice dragged him back from his personal hate pit.
“Meestir Broodie, I’s come fer you.”
“About bloody time. where have you been, what took you so long?”
“Dees troffic. biiig prang utterside da Meeleniam Breedge. Bus hit truk peoples dead eemergency’s all over place.”
“Bugger the emergency’s, let me in, I’m freezing.”
“Sorrie man! I put da locks off. You seet onna plastic boss keel me if seats wet.”
Dan couldn’t help smiling. The thought of the boss trying anything that drastic seemed inspiring. That would save a generation of locals getting this new language indoctrination. Anyway, the boss would surely come off second best. The driver looked as if he was from one of the South Sea Islands… where they breed them big, strong and tough. This lad was likely here to try and get a look-in at one of the rugby clubs. He’d fill half a scrum on his own.
“Oh-kay meestir we go Meestir Oli… he shout at me and won’t pay if you late.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you… the entertainment value alone is worth twice the fair.”
Dan enjoyed the twenty-minute drive. The driver kept him entertained all the way. Improving his English, that’s what he claimed to be doing. Yes, he’d come over for a rugby trial but hurt his knee in his second game. The club arranged for him to stay on for treatment but he needed to stay active, so they’d arranged the taxi job as well. He loved it because he could meet people and learn Eeengileesh. He handed Dan his card when they reached the Woodland Meadows Hotel.
“Here you take, you phone after talk wif Meestir Oli I coolek you, oh-kai?”
Dan took the card, yes… he would call, the drive back promised to be entertaining too.
“Ruuum twoo twoo nine, Meestir Oli wait der…”
That’s where Dan found Oli who, at this stage, was working his way through his third draft. One advantage of that, he’d be in better humour if the drink’s effects were underway.
“Quite a driver you sent or was it pot luck?”
“No Larry drives almost exclusively for me and my associates.”
“Associates? Larry? Interesting… tell me more.”
“You’re far to inquisitive, Larry because the first quarter of his very Polynesian name reminds me of laryngitis… and I don’t think I want to be reminded of that every time I ring him. As for my associates… none of your business, suffice to say, he’s very shrewd and often relays gossip he overhears. Betting, scandal, information I can put to good use.”
“Aha, so people talk because they think he doesn’t understand, right?”
“Yep, but you’re not here to talk about Larry or my dealings, you’re here for the next instalment of the story. So, quit the crap, let’s order another drink and we get the show on the road. OK?”
Dan let Oli do the ordering. The man was in a relatively good mood so he wasn’t going to do anything counterproductive. He would go along and hear what Oli had in mind, that was all he could do.
The platter of finger food accompanied the drinks. Keeping Oli happy was simple. Food and drink… and liaisons with loose women and bent betters. Fortunately, Dan didn’t need to be involved with or know about the latter two.
“Right mister, part three of our tale. How do you want to structure this edition?”
“How about a name or two? How about we really put a shot across their bows?”
“Mmm… if you print names this soon the suspense will drop out of the story. We need to build momentum for the book, that’s where the money will be.”
“I get your point but at this stage the publisher we always use is not keen on a book deal they want a few names, they want an idea of the seniority of the stakeholders.”
Oli glared at him. His pumpkin of a head turned a strange hue. Anger was seething just below the surface.
“For fuck’s sake Dan then set up a meeting with the publisher. I want a concrete deal before I give you any hard and fast info on names. However, by now you should’ve worked out who a few of the people are who are involved. You’re just too chicken to make assumptions, you want me to do the dirty work and then quote me. However, if you dare reveal your source just yet, I’ll deny everything.”
“OK Oli, I’m going to take a shot at suggesting a few of the elite umpires are involved. I may even suggest that my source has mentioned his American friends in past discussions. That should irritate a few folk enough to get reactions.”
Oli’s colour returned to a more manageable shade of pale. He nodded his acceptance.
“Yes, play your game that way no names but supposition. Set up the meeting with the publisher, get the book deal going and I’ll share some of the finer details like who slept with who before one of the bigger gains. Right get out of here. I have a few lady friends waiting in the next room.”
Dan left the hotel with the distinct impression that Oli was toying with him. Surely the whole conversation could’ve been done telephonically… it made little sense that Oli choose to drag him across town, except if he was doing it for his amusement.
***
The publishers offered Oli and Dan a book deal, based on the reaction of the third article in the series. Dan led off with a series of questions about friends in high umpiring places sleeping with friends in high playing circles. Oli’s throw-away line about who slept with who pointed Dan in the direction of the deciding match in a five-match series between England and South Africa.
The mere hint of an umpire bedding a player’s girlfriend was enough to get the rabbits running and the hounds chasing. Dan covered his angles well suggesting that it was all still supposition and guesswork at this stage of the investigation but it was possible that officials were getting information from unlikely sources. Even the title for the piece hinted at bedroom collusion.
Bedroom Bias Benefits Betting
However, after this story broke the worms began emerging from the pitches around the world. Within days the ICB’s anti-corruption cops received two anonymous calls. The first, apparently from an Australian, confirmed that a ball was switched on day three of the Adelaide day/night test in 2014. All he was prepared to say is that he was asked to switch the ball. All he needed to do was go into the umpire’s rooms during the dinner break, find the ball in use in the umpire’s coat pocket and do the switch.
Three wickets fell in the ten overs after the dinner break. Dan’s research showed that the betting leading up to that spell of bowling had increased in value, three large amounts of money were placed with online agencies. The odds were very favourable, varying between ten to one and fourteen to one.
The other call revealed that one side of the ball was treated with a water repellent spray during the tea break on day three of a test at Durban in South Africa. The ball’s condition didn’t seem to change but the ball swung after the break. Everyone attributed the ball’s behaviour to the change in the weather, which became overcast and humid, conditions always associated with swing. Again, betting activities in the hour or so before the alleged tampering followed the pattern of three large sums being placed against very favourable odds. Again, the rewards were hefty.
***
Howard, the paper’s editor, was pressurising Dan to reveal the name of his source in print! He knew his industry. He knew that very soon the public would lose interest. The readers wanted names it was all about naming and shaming, all about the scandal. All about seeing heroes disgraced.
It was all good and well that a book deal had been agreed and that the first chapters were going to be serialised in the paper, however… it wouldn’t help paper sales if the story became stale. The public wanted action, soon.
Oli wanted action too. He wanted to get the book out in the open. He wanted money and as he’d let slip weeks ago, he wanted revenge. He needed Dan to break the story fully, by publishing the names of a few key fixers.
Dan was the go-between. He needed to ensure that the story hit the streets at the correct moment. The moment the police pounced. However, he felt the only way he could get all the elements to align was to set up a sting. And that was his problem, he’d never done anything of that nature. How did he arrange to get the chief stakeholders and the cops together for a photo session? Just how?
Then Lady Serendipity threw him a bone. The International Umpire’s Panel, due to meet in Sri Lanka, changed venue to the UK because of mounting pressure on the ICB to take action against Cricket Sri Lanka over team selection irregularities. Dan contacted Oli after speaking with the anti-corruption cops and his Interpol contact. Yes, the evidence against at least two umpires and a few employees of UK test venues was strong enough to request arrest warrants. Dan assured Oli that the Met’s anti-fraud unit was in on the act and ready to pounce, as soon as all the details were worked out.
Yes, Oli would be involved. He would be part of the set-up. Dan would contact the umpires requesting a meeting be set up. Dan would ask to specifically state that Oli would be present. Oli said that should get Randy Wyatt’s attention. Why, asked Dan?
That’s when Oli told him what had originally sparked his idea for the reveal all. He’d contacted Randy a few years previously, to suggest co-operation. Randy had agreed and passed on information. Based on that information Oli had laid a number of bets with bookies all across the country. Nothing came of the information and he lost a sizable sum of money. Oli realised then that Randy and his syndicate weren’t interested in sharing… and that they thought they were untouchable. Oli’s desire for revenge was born.
Oli was ecstatic. Now the arrest and public shaming of Mr Randy Wyatt was about to take place… and best of all, he would be there to witness the bust. His years of work were about to present their biggest reward – Oli’s revenge.
Dan, for his part, was just relieved that his scoop was about to hit the mainstream news world! Dan Brody – part of the biggest fixing bust in sporting history! The sting would take place late on Saturday evening – that would allow Dan sufficient time to get the story ready for the Sunday run. The expectant masses wouldn’t be disappointed! The cameramen would be there to snap away… and film away. Dan would have photos to liven up his front-page exposé.
He planned to be at the office, together with Howard and a company lawyer, who would check on the final content before going to print. Dan’s story was prepared. Mr Oli Plunket, statistician and gambler, helped expose the world’s biggest cricket fixing syndicate, lead by the respected international umpire, Randy Wyatt. The article included a few more facts but would include details of the serialised story which the paper would run. All sewn up, all neat and tidy, this scoop of his! He’d put up with enough of Oli’s crap to earn this once in a lifetime reward.
Howard had suggested that Dan not be at the scene, he didn’t want photos of his people accidentally landing in other papers, just to be on the safe side. Dan was only too happy with that. The photos of the bust would be transferred live to the office, so they would see it all happening.
***
Dan was nervous. The sting was about to go down at the Three Crowns Country Club, where the umpires were having a team building dinner. Little did they know that their elite team was about to be broken up.
Dan was nervous. He didn’t want to see the live footage and photos. He had the last-minute jitters, the what-ifs. What if it all went sour at the last minute? He’d surely be without a job.
That’s when he noticed Howard approaching. The look on the editor’s face suggested that Dan’s apprehension was about to be confirmed. He handed Dan a few photos,
“Dan, you’d better change your story very quickly”
Dan glanced at the first photo. What was he seeing?
“Yes, Dan. I’ve just taken a call from Chief Inspector Quigley, what you see is correct. They’ve arrested your friend Oli too, they feel there’s too much he needs to answer for, no automatic indemnity for helping you.”
Howard paused for the expected response. When Dan’s long, low whistle tapered off he continued.
“Get cracking, get your story updated we have an early run to print.”