Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  After a few minutes had passed, settling himself somewhat, Daniel reached for the room telephone. He punched in the international dialling code followed by the familiar digits of the family home number in England. He yearned for the reassuring voices of his parents, hoping for solace and comfort. Something to cling to, far from the storm of the escalating and dangerous situation that he was inexorably gravitating towards.

  ‘Seven two four double nine eight, Ratchet residence,’ came his mother’s shrill voice down the line.

  He smiled, answering enthusiastically, ‘Mum, it’s Daniel.’

  ‘Oh Danny, how are you love? Are you well? Wait, hold on I must just get your father.’ In the background frenetic squawking, ‘Malcolm, Malcolm, it’s your son on the telephone. Malcolm, come quick, it’s our Danny.’

  Daniel waited. Heavy, measured footsteps grew louder through the hallway.

  ‘Hello, Daniel. We’d thought you’d forgotten us back in Sheffield. How are you, son? Are you enjoying the big swanky job? You are being careful, aren’t you Danny?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. The job’s great. Better than expected even,’ he lied. ‘How’s Scruff? I hope that rascal pup is keeping out of mischief without me?’

  He was trying his best to sound cheery. And by the time his mother had joined them on the other line and they had discussed the rain, an unmarried neighbour from number sixty-three who was starting to show as pregnant, and his dad had warned him twice about rising foreign exchange rates, Daniel simply couldn’t bring himself to ask for the help and advice he needed. He couldn’t disappoint and worry his parents further by confirming their worst fears about the job. He played out the call with a raft of insipid platitudes and hung up.

  A renewed sense of purpose surged through him. Yes, Danny Ratchet was ready to understand things better for himself and take some firm decisions now. He flicked on the tablet. He searched through his old university files, finally settling on a localized version of a unique statistical analysis programme he’d created with three of his fellow students for their dissertation. It uncovered patterns in data flows. They had hoped it would become an acceptable application for the medical industry, spotting patterns in drug trials. Now Daniel wondered if it would make some sense of the mass of information which accompanied the performance of every player currently participating on the European Tour, both before and after Rublex’s involvement. He set out the parameters of his analysis, cross-referencing the ranking of top performers in every separate element of the game: driving distance and accuracy, greens in regulation, sand saves, putting, lowest rounds in sequence. Next he matched these statistics against the players who won out at the end of the events.

  The findings were astonishing. Final round scoring increased significantly for a specific set of otherwise high performing players going against the run of form from their preceding three rounds in any given event. It seemed to show that these particular players, with a track record of shooting very low scores and a history of winning tournaments, would seemingly always do worse than would have been expected of them going into the final crucial round of key events, albeit never at the same time. It might perhaps have been barely perceptible to the galleries and Tour officials, but when charted out using a timeline of in-depth performance data, the trends were clear. There was no doubt that this was the tournament fixing that Bob Wallace had known was happening intuitively. A sickness at the heart of the game.

  Next Daniel carefully re-read Aaron’s sponsorship proposal from Rublex. The Russian conglomerate was paying a premium for the best up and coming international stars of the game yet were happy, even encouraging of them, to underperform. The question was why?

  Message alerts for new emails flashed up on the corner of the screen. Daniel dragged a new window open and watched four new messages drop into his inbox in orderly fashion. A Tour memo advising of travel arrangements for the tournament the following week, an update on the Order of Merit standings now that last week’s Money List had been updated, next an email from a very earnest sounding African lawyer bequeathing him the lost fortune of one of his newly deceased clients if only Daniel would part with his bank account details—how the hell his new work email had already fallen into the hands of the internet scamerati he had no idea. And, lastly, an email from Sergei Krostanov with an attachment copy of the contract, politely yet insistently enquiring if Daniel had managed to progress the matter with Aaron yet and that with keen interest from other managers and their players on the table, he sincerely hoped he could expect a signature very soon.

  Daniel got up and paced around the room, exhaling hard. This was all getting a bit heavy. He didn’t know how he’d been drawn into all this so fast and he couldn’t yet fathom the implications. But it now all appeared unequivocal. You might get some anomalies through the beautiful quirks of sport, the psychology of pressure, luck, or through human error; but time after time for the top players to throw away events on the final day against the run of form was untenable. They were taking it in turns to hide the true extent of the malaise. It may have been buried deep, but once unravelled the data painted a clear picture. And it didn’t lie. Given what he’d already seen of how the caddies rolled out here with the gambling, drinking, the petty crime, extortion and intimidation, actual tournament fixing didn’t seem so far out of the question. There must be a connection with the gambling ring he had stumbled upon. He hadn’t warmed to Andy from the beginning, with his little book of numbers, the dominant display of aggression he had shown towards Razor on the night out, and for mocking him the next day for being late out onto the course when he clearly had something to do with getting him into that mess. Now with the pieces appearing to fit into place, the implications were unnerving.

  With the SIM card of the company mobile still missing, obviously taken by the same bastards who had his grandfather’s watch, Daniel grabbed the room phone again and dialled the mobile number that Matilda had scrawled upon the back of a napkin at their romantic dinner. It bounced straight to voice mail and Daniel left a long rambling message, which he started to regret even as he was garbling his way through it. He hoped it didn’t come across as if he was blowing her off. He vaguely drawled on about wanting to meet up but needing to do further research on some data tonight. Now was not the moment to expose insecurity and paranoia to this sexy new woman that he was really starting to like. It would probably make her run a mile. Besides, he’d share all with her later once things were somewhat clearer. And when he’d worked out what the hell he was going to do next.

  Outside the window, a thick black storm cloud emanated across the darkening sky. Daniel picked at the fearsome scratch that was now starting to scab across his chest, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Having been steered by the old Scottish golf coach to make connections between the key protagonists in this sordid tableau, there were some hard choices to be made. Aaron was in contention to win the event at tomorrow’s final round. Was his caddy, Andy Sharples, a threat to possible victory given this new information? He might influence the outcome of the tournament. It was impossible to know whether presenting the massive Rublex contract to Aaron was the right thing to do now given that he better understood the implications. He had a duty of care to the player, both in looking after his commercial interests and in protecting his career. He also had a duty to Crown Sports who were expecting him to drive sponsorship value for his stable and yield some juicy commissions. Either way he felt uneasy about being pressured into getting the agreement signed. Perhaps this was just the way that business got done around here, he wondered, before taking a deep breath and punching in the digits to Silvio’s mobile back in England.

  ‘This is Silvio,’ the silky voice purred down the line.

  ‘Hello Silvio, it’s Daniel Ratchet out in Spain.’

  ‘How’s the big time my friend? Have you settled into the life of a high flying sports agent yet with all its, how shall we say, attractive benefits?’ He chuckled earthily before Daniel had the chance to speak.


  ‘It’s okay Silvio. But to be honest I’m not too sure what’s really going on out here. I’m a bit confused to be fair and wanted some advice. Have you heard of the Rublex Corporation?’

  ‘Rublex? Don’t be naïve. Obviously, Rublex are one of the biggest sponsors in golf. They headline the Order of Merit. That’s the equivalent of asking me if I’ve heard of an equipment manufacturer like say a Callaway or a TaylorMade, isn’t it Daniel? They are huge in golf. Please. What’s the point of all this?’

  ‘I wanted your opinion really. I’ve found some information which seems to show that players out here are cheating on the Tour. Sergei Krostanov, the Rublex Director of Golf, has offered a sixteen million dollar sponsorship contract for Aaron. It’s great but it’s drafted like they would prefer him not to win all the time. Why would they sponsor someone and incentivise them to underperform? He’s really pushing me to get Aaron to sign it quickly. And to cap it all off I’m feeling pretty uneasy about the fact he gave me a Rolex to keep as well. It feels very strange.’

  ‘That’s a great deal Daniel. Fantastico! Well done. Don’t concern yourself with these trivial details. It’s just the way the Russians do business you understand. Are you in possession of the paperwork?’

  ‘Er, yeah. I’ve got a contract. But it doesn’t make any sense?’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about boy? We’ve just made twenty percent on sixteen American large. Has Aaron seen the contract yet?’

  ‘Um, no. Not yet. Have you heard of Bob Wallace? He’s a coach out here for some of the players, seems to have been around for years?’

  ‘Sure, I know of the man. Wallace is a trouble maker, a firebrand, he got drunk at the PGA dinner last year and made a big scene. He publically accused the Tour of being in conspiracy to bring down the game of golf from within. What a ridiculous man, spoilt a good dinner. Sergei was the most indignant. Bear in mind that this is the civilised world of golf, Daniel, not some dangerous shadowy cult from a Dan Brown novel.’

  ‘Silvio, the data shows a group of top players getting into contention to win tournaments and then dropping away on the final day. They don’t finish the way their statistics and tee-to-green form suggest they would. I think it’s got something to do with gambling as well. A group of caddies out here seem to be running a book and shaking people down for money.’

  Silvio raised his voice with unbridled, caustic anger. ‘For Christ’s sake, will you listen to yourself, Daniel? These things are none of your concern. You’ve been in this job for five minutes only. If Randy knew you were sitting on an agreement of this size he would skin your knackers, cut them off and feed them to you himself. Daniel, please, what’s wrong with you? You disappoint me, boy. You were nothing when I scraped you off the floor at that dead-end job. Are you telling me that this is the way you repay me for setting you up in a new life? Your job is to do what you are told. Crown Sports have worked with Rublex for years. They helped broker the original deal with the European Tour in the first place. The way it works? You have to give them what they want. Keep your nose clean and don’t fucking call me back until you get that contract signed.’ Without another word uttered, he cut the call.

  Daniel cursed and cracked the back of the receiver against the bedside cabinet. His neck flushed red in uneven blotchy patches. He paced around the room for some minutes, throat dry and palms sweating. His head was swimming. He stepped onto the balcony, breathed slowly and cooled down. Relaxing a little, he allowed himself to be temporarily distracted by an energetic female water-aerobics instructor leading a lacklustre gabble of flabby hotel guests splashing through their late afternoon activity.

  Daniel was starting to get a sense of himself again. Here he was in a luxury foreign hotel, the like of which he had never set foot in before, doing his dream job, dating a super-hot Swedish chick he’d just met, and holding in his hands a multi-million dollar sponsorship agreement for one of the talented golfers he managed. And all in the first week. So who cares what was happening out here on the Tour? Like Silvio had said, it was none of his concern. Besides, by all accounts, this Bob Wallace character was a bit of a nutter, and certainly an outcast from the close inner sanctum on Tour, which is where Daniel felt he needed to be if he wanted to make a real success out of this career.

  With his dinner fixed for eight o’clock, he took his tablet out onto the balcony to refresh himself with the finer details of the agreement. The sun melted away over the red mountains, dissolving through an unsettled sky. Daniel soon lost himself in the nuances of the contract, memorising terms and clauses so he could create an erudite impression and deliver an illusion of control to the young Australian. It was important to reassure the rising star that his manager was on top of his game, a safe pair of hands to represent him in these complex commercial matters so he could just continue to focus on delivering results on the course.

  It might just serve as the boost he needed to go on to win the tournament in his final round tomorrow.

  Order somewhat restored, Daniel decided that he would head out for a stroll to clear his head, study the agreement terms and build on this new sense of perspective. He would swing via reception where he would leave a message for Aaron to meet him for dinner when they could discuss the contract before the final round in the morning. If Silvio wanted a contract, then Daniel would make sure he bloody delivered one and hang the consequences. It wasn’t up to him if they wanted to cheat on this stupid Tour. He would go along for the ride.

  He followed the pathway away from the hotel. His eyes studied the tablet screen as he ambled, reading and re-reading the clauses and terms of Aaron’s agreement, whispering some of the more complex ones aloud to himself, as if studying for an exam. Daniel was determined to get this finally right after all these early teething problems in the new job. He wandered past the practice putting green, a scattering of players still grinding out their drills before tomorrow’s round. The neatly kept pathway eventually led round to a cluster of porta-cabins where equipment was stored, officials were briefed prior to the day’s play and scores were collated and signed off following it. Daniel squatted down on the steps of one of the cabins and scrolled down the document. He needed to appear confident in front of Aaron so the contract signing would go smoothly. Silvio was counting on him.

  The sound of voices cut through the peace of the evening. Two men were walking together on the other side of the cabins, talking animatedly. They moved within earshot of Daniel, unaware that he was sitting out of view mere metres away.

  ‘Aaron hasn’t signed the contract yet. He won’t be onboard before tomorrow’s final round.’

  ‘That fucking useless new agent Ratchet hasn’t delivered then?’

  ‘I tried playing nice. I don’t know if the boy is simply stupid, doesn’t understand how these things work or if he knows more than he lets on. He has after all been spending quite a lot of time with that annoying Bob Wallace.’

  The hairs rose on the back of Daniel’s neck. He recognised the voices at once. Sergei Krostanov and Andy Sharples. And they were discussing him in very disparaging tones. He rose on impulse with the intention of interrupting them. He would bloody put them straight if they were going to talk about him behind his back indeed. But he checked himself. Instead Daniel avoided the confrontation and decided to let them talk. Hear what else they might say about him and reveal. He dropped to the ground. Crawled forward into the space under the raised cabin and edged across the corner to where the men were standing. He manoeuvred himself a little way down and on instinct flicked the tablet onto video record mode. Angled the screen upward and held it breathlessly as it filmed the two men as they continued their private discussion.

  ‘This is a problem Sergei. Aaron is looking strong. He is leading the event and I don’t think there is anyone playing nearly as well in the field this week. There is a weight of money on him and this is one we could do with having him throw so we could clean up.’

  ‘I understand Andy but there is nothing I can do at this
time. He hasn’t signed the contract. He doesn’t understand that the Rublex incentive scheme will demand that he loses certain events on the last day rather than win them so that we can rig the book and take our high rolling Asian sports betting clients to the cleaners. We will have to find a way to make up the shortfall somehow. How have the local shakedowns gone?’

  ‘Not the best in terms of producing cash Sergei. But me and the boys secured ourselves a tasty little Chinse takeway in part exchange if you catch my drift?’

  ‘Ha! Not another girl Andy?’

  ‘This one is very compliant. There won’t be any trouble like before.’

  ‘I should hope not. Keep Billy Boy away from her then.’

  ‘You want a turn Sergei?’

  ‘No Andy. Thank you. I have business to attend to.’

  Daniel froze. Pulled the tablet back fully under the cabin unnoticed and watched as the legs of the men strode away from where he lay.

  Breathing raggedly he returned quickly to the room, somewhat shaken. Things were getting very heavy. There was clearly some kind of serious conspiracy taking place right under the oblivious noses of the European Tour officials. Had he really overheard what he thought he had between Sergei and Andy just now? He might have been mistaken. Taken it out of context and be jumping to a wild assumption. He double checked the video recording saved on his tablet to be sure; to listen to it again.

  The video clip ended for the second time. Daniel dropped his head into his hands. It was crystal clear. The angle had captured both Andy and Sergei’s faces. There was no doubt about it. This was incriminating evidence. He swiped back onto the spreadsheets to re-examine them. There it was, as plain as day, a statistically provable positive correlation in the data that indicated cheating on a grand scale. Now backed up with a videoed admission of guilt straight from the Head of Sponsorship of Rublex Corporation, the Tour’s title sponsor. Daniel swore under his breath.