The Long Shot

By Peter Meares

High stakes gambling, murder and cricket. An unlikely mix? Perhaps in the genteel days of games on the village green, but not so now. The introduction of sports betting has changed the game for players and fans alike. 

Millions change hands with every match. As the financial incentive grows, so too does the temptation to cheat. 

Perhaps even to commit murder?

A brilliant young South African batsman, Winston Olonga, is assassinated in a Test match at the Sydney Cricket Ground.

Enter Lucas Fox, commentator and private eye, who witnesses the killing and sets out to find the culprit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398466098

Peter Meares

Peter Meares has two passions – sport and books. He has written six non-fiction books on sport, but this is his first novel. A first-grade cricketer, he retired at 22 to become a sports commentator with the ABC. He worked at two Olympics and six Commonwealth Games, including the 1982 Brisbane Games, for which he was the TV anchor. He lives on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast with his wife, Rhonda.

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About the Author

Peter Meares has two passions – sport and books. He has written six non-fiction books on sport, but this is his first novel. A first-grade cricketer, he retired at 22 to become a sports commentator with the ABC. He worked at two Olympics and six Commonwealth Games, including the 1982 Brisbane Games, for which he was the TV anchor.

He lives on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast with his wife, Rhonda.

Dedication

To my muse, Rhonda.

Copyright Information ©

Peter Meares 2022

The right of Peter Meares to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398466081 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398466098 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

When Monica Seles was stabbed in the back at a tennis tournament in 1993, I wondered how long it would be before a high-profile sports star became the victim of an assassin. In these uncertain times, anyone on a stage or public space can become a target for a killer, terrorist or not.

In writing this book, I have drawn on life experiences from my career, where I have been fortunate to witness some of the world’s biggest sporting events and most outstanding competitors.

I would like to thank friends, too numerous to mention, from school, playing fields and commentary boxes. Sport is a microcosm of life and a wonderful teacher. It shows us how to cope with adversity and builds lifelong friendships.

Some of my old mates are in this book, although it’s a work of fiction. Thanks fellas – I hope you enjoy it.

And finally, let me thank a publishing legend, Laurie Muller, who encouraged me to become a writer.

Prologue

Delhi 1984

How’s that! Well caught, Vinoo!

The small crowd cheered excitedly as if this was a vital wicket in a test match. Whooping in triumph, the fielders ran around like dervishes. In fact, this was a pick-up game in a backstreet of old Delhi and most of the players were mere schoolboys. But play stopped as money changed hands.

Walking home after a day’s work as a bank clerk, Mukesh Gupta reflected on the passion of the spectacle. If people were willing to bet on an insignificant social game, how much would they wager on a State game or even a Test match?

Mukesh had always loved cricket, as did most of India’s population of 1.3 billion. Men and women, young and old. This was, without doubt, the national sport. So, it was natural that there would be plenty of people willing to wager on a sport they loved.

Always on the lookout for a money-making venture, Mukesh was determined to learn all he could about cricket and gambling. Travelling extensively, he spoke to bookmakers, cricketers and punters. He listened to BBC World Service and Radio Australia, picking up the finer points and jargon of the game from the test match commentators. After twelve months, he was operating a betting agency, with global contacts and eventually, a state-of-the-art website that enabled online punters to have a bet from anywhere in the world. In the process, he was making a lot of money.

By the mid-1990s, he had become cricket’s most notorious match-fixer. He had a network of lieutenants who approached players with tempting bribes. Armed with prior knowledge, he could set the odds accordingly, so he made a small fortune. With the proliferation of one-day internationals and the advent of T20 games, there was a huge expansion of interest from other countries.

Large corporations like Pepsi and Singer, with interests in Asia, began to invest in sub-continental cricket, sponsoring competitions. Accordingly, television companies, such as Rupert Murdoch’s ESPN Star, saw the benefit of covering cricket, so that every match became a target for bookmakers.

There are none so passionate about the game as Indians, (It’s estimated that every second person in the world watching cricket is Indian) and with the birth of the ultra-rich Indian Premier League, billions of rupees were wagered on each game.

The stakes were high and so was the level of corruption. Australian stars, Shane Warne and Mark Waugh, were approached by a bookmaker for information on players and pitch conditions. Indian captain, Mohammad Azharuddin was sacked for taking bribes. Unbelievably, even South Africa’s captain, the God-fearing Hansie Cronje, admitted to taking bribes from Mukesh Gupta.

Cronje was killed in mysterious circumstances in a plane crash.

Was he murdered?

Very likely, although it was never proven. But that was how far the match-fixers were now prepared to go. Cricket had gone from a friendly sport to a matter of life and death.

Chapter 1

Sydney 1996

So, it all looks academic now. As long as Winston Olonga stays at the crease, South Africa should cruise home. They only need 45 runs, with three wickets in hand, for outright victory over Australia.

In his Sydney Cricket Ground commentary box at the back of the M.A. Noble Stand, Lucas Fox paused in his description, milking the moment. Voice hushed, almost a whisper, he built the suspense for listeners in two countries. Just turned 30, tall and fair, Lucas looked as young as many of the players. No slouch as a batsman himself, he had sacrificed a budding cricket career for the more secure life of a commentator, and after three years, was reaping the benefits. His statistician, Billy Urquhart, was a mine of information, alerting Lucas to significant records, run-rates, bowling figures, archival anecdotes and other minutiae; they were a perfect team.

Their summer ratings were now on a par with the traditional cricket network, the ABC. With a distinctive, well-modulated voice, Lucas came across as someone who was knowledgeable, enthusiastic and witty, a perfect blend for a caller. Like the famous English soccer commentator Martin Tyler, Lucas rarely used an expert. He was outspoken, entertaining, and because of his youth, in touch with modern players. His distinctive voice commanded attention, his feeling for the game provoked interest and his analysis was rarely wrong.

"Olonga, this brilliantly instinctive batsman from the slums of Johannesburg, has been the find of this tour. Exciting, charismatic and humble, he’s almost as popular with the Australian public as he is at home. Broad-shouldered but light on his feet, he’s looks more like a middleweight boxer than a cricketer. But it’s his bearing that sets him apart, supremely confident, almost arrogant; he always looks like he’s already scored 50 when he strides to the crease. He intimidates bowlers and yet he’s only been playing first-class cricket for three years. It’s hard to believe that this is his Test debut and he’s only 18.

Now Olonga settles over his bat. A glance around the field. On 97, he just needs a boundary for a magnificent match-winning century. The tall New South Wales paceman, Mackie, moves in to bowl…

But wait…he’s collapsed! Olonga has fallen on his stumps! My God…he hasn’t moved a muscle. Something’s dreadfully wrong."

Fox raised his binoculars and focussed on the inert batsman, spread eagled across the stumps, as fieldsmen rushed towards him. The crowd sat in stunned silence as someone gently pulled his helmet off.

Oh my God, this isn’t possible. Olonga has blood all over his face. I think he’s been shot!

Chapter 2

Johannesburg South Africa 1990

Winston Olonga rose early and snuck out of his bedroom. It was easy as there was just a curtain over the window of the shanty his family called home in Alexandra. He carried his beloved bat, a splintered, yellowing Gray-Nicolls, and a tennis ball wrapped in duct tape. When he arrived at the supermarket carpark in Sandton, his friends were waiting. Ashok and Duleep were as keen as he was about cricket, and this was a regular morning ritual for the 12-year-olds.

It was ironic that Alexandra, a shanty township, was located right next to Sandton, the most exclusive white’s enclave in Johannesburg. Locals called it Alex and some, Gomorrah. Although it was on the banks of the beautiful Jukskei River, it was one of the poorest suburbs in Johannesburg. The stench of open sewers and rotting garbage hung over the township. By contrast, Sandton was known as ‘South Africa’s richest square mile’. Coloureds were not allowed in the upmarket precinct from sunset till dawn.

Although Nelson Mandela had become President of South Africa – the first black man to do so – sport was still regarded as the preserve of the white man. There were plenty of players around with the talent to make the national team, like paceman Makaya Ntini and spinner Paul Adams but the selectors had steadfastly stuck to all-white teams. It was the burning ambition of Winston to break down that barrier.

What kept you, sleepyhead? asked the taller of the two, Duleep, who had already placed the garbage tin wicket in place and was marking out his run.

You better go first. You’re the batsman, and we don’t want to be caught by security.

Duleep liked to bowl fast, while Ashok preferred spin. But neither could get Winston out. The rule was, you had to retire at 50, which Winston did with monotonous regularity. The hallmark of his batting was his correct technique, combined with a patient temperament. At just 12, he’d already been plucked from the obscurity of schoolboy cricket to join a national development squad at the Wanderers stadium. It wasn’t free but Winston was offered work as an assistant groundsman to help pay his way. He loved the work, as he was involved with cricket after school, at work or play. Practice was on Tuesday and Thursday and on the other three weekdays, as well as Sunday morning, he worked with the ground staff.

At first, he was intimidated by the environment. The massive stadium was known as ‘The Bullring’ because of its design, with huge, two-tiered stands encircling the lush green playing surface. Practice was held at the nets outside the ground and Winston worked hard to vindicate his selection. Helping to prepare the wickets gave him an insight into how they played, so his batting improved rapidly.

In his first trial match, he’d made 80, with a borrowed bat and gloves. The head coach, Willem Kriek, had presented him with a whole new outfit, bat and gloves the next day. The double-scoop Gray-Nicolls bat, fresh from the manufacturer, had not a single mark on it.

Make the most of these, Winston. You have a natural gift but unless you work hard, you’ll never make it. I want you to play for the Proteas one day.

In the next game, for Eastern Cape Schools against Johannesburg Schools, he made 102, the top score, off just 85 balls. In the other side, a young blond boy, Carl Van Der Merwe, had top-scored with a painstaking 76. He came from ‘Affies’, the exclusive Afrikaans Boys High School in Gauteng, where his fame had even spread to the Currie Cup selectors. As the players shook hands after the match, the Afrikaner boy pointedly spurned Winston’s handshake and sneered.

"You’ll never make it, kaffir. You blacks don’t have the stomach for the fight when the going gets tough. Test cricket is what it’s all about and kaffirs don’t get picked for the Proteas."

Winston stored those cruel comments away in his memory and worked even harder on his game. At 13, he was picked in an Under-17 team for a short tour of India, sponsored by the BCCI, the wealthy Cricket Board of India. His friend Duleep was also chosen, both boys bursting with pride at their first representative selection.

Chapter 3

Midrand, South Africa 1990

Carl and his best friend, Hylton, were almost home. They had paddled their kayaks for nearly 4 hours, two out and two back, in stifling heat on the Vaal River and they were both eager for dinner. The river formed the southern border of Gauteng province, separating it from Free State. The Witwatersrand lies between Johannesburg and Pretoria, in the south of Gauteng and is part of the ‘High Veld’, grasslands about 1500 metres above sea level. From the river, there was plenty to see.

Gauteng is the smallest province in South Africa but also the wealthiest. With more than 50% whites, this was the area first settled by the Dutch in the days of the gold rush and the establishment of Johannesburg. Almost as many spoke Afrikaans as spoke English or Zulu. The Dutch influence was obvious in the stately homes lining the riverbank and the impressive white spire of the Dutch Reform Church gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

Carl Van Der Merwe was the third generation of his family in Gauteng. His forebear, Henrik Van Der Merwe discovered gold in 1886 and built a magnificent house, overlooking the Vaal River. Sitting atop a hill, the whitewashed stone mansion commanded a fine view of the surrounding countryside. The huge Midrand Water Tower dominated the skyline to the South and the Nizamiye Mosque, the largest in South Africa, could be seen in the North, right next to the biggest conference centre in the country, Gallagher Estate. On the river, all was quiet, the air was clear and smelt sweet, the Arum lilies and Bird of Paradise flowers a blaze of colour.

Hylton Ackerman at 13 was just a few months older than Carl. The two had been friends since the beginning of their schooldays at ‘Affies’ school in Gauteng. Hylton’s father had played for the Proteas at cricket and, when apartheid had led to South African isolation, he had plied his trade in a professional league in Holland.

The boys finally reached their goal, a jetty jutting out into the river. As Carl paddled wearily to the steps, a coloured servant jogged down the pier to help him.

Enderley, I’ve never been so keen to see you. Can you drag this up to the boathouse and then come back for Mr Ackerman’s?

"Ja meester, Van Der Merwe. Right away."

Carl patted his friend on the back as they walked up to the house. They sat on the stoep and ate ‘boerewors’ rolls washed down with homemade lemonade, which had been brought to them by a pretty, black maid.

"What’s for dinner, slavin?" enquired Carl.

"Roast quail, I believe, meester."

Carl stretched out in his squatter’s chair and sighed contentedly.

"Ag boetie, life is sweet, isn’t it?"

Chapter 4

Johannesburg South Africa 1990

On his way home after early morning cricket practice, Winston always followed the same routine. He would open the big dumpster bins at the back of the Chadstone supermarket, looking for food. Some of it was rotten but usually, there was plenty that was still fit to eat. Sandton attracted the elite of Johannesburg, the ‘horsey’ set, who demanded the very best of everything. So, anything approaching its ‘use-by’ date was thrown out.

On this particular morning, he was in luck. He spotted a hand of bananas, ripe but not too old, a carton of eggs and two loaves of bread. They may have been rejected by the supermarket but not by a poor Alexandra family struggling to live on his mother’s meagre income as a nanny for a wealthy white family.

Tossing his find into a large sugar bag, he jogged off home, whistling as he went. The first workers were arriving by the rapid rail Gautrain as