Jasmine was dressed in a simple black dress with thin shoulder straps, black high heels, a smart jacket, and an imitation pearl necklace that accentuated her skin colour. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and she wore no make-up, other than soft pink lip balm. The Hyatt was warm and she handed her jacket to the waiter and smiled at Aspine, placing her hand over his. “I wish you could come to Singapore with me,” he said. “You could see your brother and we could spend the weekend together.”
“If I didn’t have the boys, I would. Don’t worry, there’ll be other times.”
The waiter brought their drinks and Jasmine clinked glasses with him and said, “Here’s to the future, and may we both get all we deserve in life.”
“That’s a strange toast,” he laughed, as he watched half her screwdriver disappear. “Take it easy, we’ve got all night and I don’t want you getting sick.”
“With these?” she scoffed, holding up the glass and draining it.
“Tell me more about your brother.”
“We’re opposites. Right from when he was very young he craved power, and later this became a craving for money, which I couldn’t care less about.”
“Money is power.”
“Unfortunately that’s true. Anyhow, he made friends with those in power, in business and government in Singapore, and started to build an empire. He’s very private, but a recent article in an influential Singapore business magazine described him as one of Asia’s newest billionaires. It’s obscene, isn’t it?”
“More like impressive,” Aspine grinned, looking at the empty glass in front of her.
They had oysters Kilpatrick for their entrée. Jasmine seemed happy and babbled on constantly as the alcohol diminished her inhibitions. The speed with which she was drinking was even affecting him. He’d lost count, but guessed that he’d knocked over at least six Jack Daniels, and he could feel just a trace of wooziness. Her speech was clear and lucid. He was surprised that she’d managed to consume so much, and still remain coherent.
“What time will you have to leave for the airport in the morning?” She asked, as the waiter set down another two drinks in front of them.
“If I’m away by seven, I’ll have plenty of time.”
“What would you like for breakfast?”
“You,” he laughed.
“You say the nicest things,” she giggled, surreptitiously tipping her screwdriver on the carpet under the table. “I love these screwdrivers,” she said, holding up the empty glass. “But really, what would you like for breakfast?”
“Coffee and orange juice will be fine.”
“I’ll wake you at half past six. That’ll give you more than enough time to shower and shave.”
He chuckled. “I’m an early riser, and with you next to me I’ll be awake long before then.”
By the time her barramundi and his steak arrived, he felt decidedly worse for wear, and yet she continued to chatter, seemingly unaffected by the alcohol.
“Do you feel like dessert?” he slurred.
“Just one more screwdriver, and coffee please. Then I’d like to go home.”
He hadn’t touched his last whisky. “That’s fine. Excuse me, I have to go to the little boys’ room.”
As he staggered away, she reached over and picked up his glass, bent down as if to scratch her leg, and sprinkled a fine white powder into the whisky. She gently shook the glass from side to side, ensuring that the powder was totally dissolved, before placing it back on the table.
“I didn’t order you another one,” she said, nodding to the glass in front of him. “Here’s to the future, and may we both get all we deserve in life.”
“Thass the second time you’ve proposed that strange toast,” he slurred, as they clinked glasses and he watched her down yet another screwdriver. Little did he know, that in his absence, she’d ordered orange juice.
“Drink up,” she said, urging him to finish the last of his whisky.
The weather had deteriorated when he staggered onto Collins Street, using her as a prop, and he felt dreadful. His head was spinning and the cold air made it worse. She hailed a cab and somehow manoeuvred him into the back seat.
It’d been close to four hours since the yellow cab had pulled away from the house, and Harry had been turning the engine on every fifteen minutes and letting the heater run while continuing to curse his own stupidity. The bright headlights of another cab blinded him for an instant before it stopped out the front of Jasmine’s house. He wound his window down and heard her angry voice. “Come on, come on,” she said, as she tried to drag Aspine out of the cab. “Help me get him inside,” she demanded of the driver.
“I don’t get paid to help drunks through their front doors, lady. I’ll help pull him out and that’s it.”
“There’s twenty dollars in it for you if you help me get him into bed.”
“Fifty and it’s a deal,” the cabbie responded.
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently, “just help me.”
The cabbie climbed out from behind the wheel. “I’ll get him out, but get ready to get under one arm. He’s too big for me to get into the house by myself.”
“I’ll prop the front door open,” she said.
A few minutes later Jasmine and the cabbie were each under an arm, half dragging, half lifting Aspine through the front door and onto the bed in the master bedroom. Jasmine paid the cabbie his fifty dollars.
“Thanks lady. I really feel sorry for you, being married to something like that.”
“He’s not my husband,” Jasmine snapped.
Harry had seen drunks before, but never anyone as drunk as Douglas Aspine. His first feeling was one of disgust, but there was something not quite right − something that was not as it appeared. He didn’t know the widow well, but he’d never heard her speak an angry word, yet she seemed almost manic. He drove away slowly, puzzled by what he’d seen.
Jasmine knew that Aspine would be knocked out for hours and would be difficult to wake in the morning. She undressed him, throwing his clothes all over the room, before manoeuvring him between the sheets. She opened his wallet and went through the compartments, finding two condoms. Her purchases at the supermarket had been superfluous. She tore the wrappings off and threw them on the floor, taking the condoms out to the kitchen where she tipped a little plain yoghurt into each, before crinkling them up and dropping them on the bedroom floor. She tried to open his suitcase, but it was securely locked by two combination locks − it would have to wait until the morning. She undressed in Jack’s bedroom, changed into a sexy black chemise and carried the clothes that she’d been wearing into the master bedroom, scattering them around the floor. It was nearly two o’clock when she finally crawled into Jack’s bed, having set the alarm for six.
It seemed that she’d barely closed her eyes before the radio alarm woke her, and she hastily turned it off. She was nervous and scared. What would she do if he woke up in the next twenty-five minutes? She had been too busy the prior night to be scared, but the next ninety minutes would be the most difficult. She crept into the master bedroom at six-thirty and climbed into bed next to him, barely daring to breathe. Five minutes later she nudged him. “Wake up, Douglas, you’ve overslept.”
He stirred, but his eyes remained closed.
“Wake up,” she said, pushing him hard in the kidneys.
“Wassup?”
“You have a plane to catch and you’re running late.”
He forced his eyes open. There were clothes strewn all over the room, a black lacy bra was next to his underpants, and two used condoms were on the carpet. He couldn’t remember anything after the Hyatt.
“You have to get up and shower. I’ll make coffee,” she said, jumping out of bed.
His head was pounding but he liked what he saw. “Come back to bed for a few minutes.”
“You’re insatiable,” she laughed. “You make love all night, but still want more. I’ll be here when you get back from Singapore.”
Jasmine threw a dressing gown on before going to the kitchen and turning the kettle on. A few minutes later she heard Aspine stagger down the hallway to his suitcase and open it. He took out a change of underwear, sports shirt, casual shoes, socks, slacks and his toiletries bag. As Jasmine heard the bathroom door close and the sound of the shower, she moved quickly, taping a small plastic bag, to the side of one of the concealed compartments inside his suitcase.
“Hurry up,” she yelled, “it’s after seven o’clock.”
He lumbered into the kitchen and she handed him a coffee. “You’re looking a little better,” she said. “I’ll get your clothes from the bedroom.”
“They can stay here until I get back,” he replied. He felt terrible. He’d checked his wallet in the bathroom and the condoms were no longer in it, so he knew that he’d had sex with her − he just couldn’t remember anything about it.
“You forget that I have two young boys,” she said, handing him an armful of clothes. “You’ll have to take them with you.”
She heard the suitcase being opened and his toiletries bag and soiled clothes being placed in it. A few seconds after she heard it click closed, and she breathed a long sigh of relief.
“Can you drive me to the airport? I feel rotten and I’m sure that I’m still over the limit.”
“I’m not feeling too well myself,” she lied.
“Please.”
“Oh alright,” she smiled. “After all, you did look after me last night.”
He groaned. Where was the fun in sex if you couldn’t remember it the following day?
“What are those things on your suitcase?” she asked, as they walked out the front door.
“Anti-tamper seals. Jasmine, I’m trying hard not to be rude, but please don’t talk,” he moaned, holding his head.
“Poor, Douglas.”
She found the Ferrari surprisingly easy to drive and was more than pleased not to have to talk. “You may as well keep the car and pick me up on Monday.”
“It’s a nice car, but I don’t really want it in my driveway. I’ll get a cab home.”
“Park it in Qantas Valet parking then. Are you going to have coffee with me before I leave?”
“Sorry, I can’t, I have to get back to pick the boys up.”
The Valet attendant booked the car in and they stood together waiting for the receipt. He bent down and kissed her on the lips, but she didn’t respond. “Are you annoyed with me because I asked you not to talk?”
“No, I just don’t feel very well.”
“I know the feeling.”
“I do hope you get everything you so richly deserve. Give my love to Raj.”
As he took the escalator to the international check-in counters, he wondered about her strange choice of words, but not for long. His head was hurting too much to think.
Harry Denton had been mesmerized by what he’d seen the night before, and now he sat out the front of Jasmine’s house in the Corolla, wondering what had gone on in there the previous night. The Ferrari was gone and there was no sign of life. Harry was about to leave when a yellow cab pulled up in front of the house and Jasmine got out. He was more confused than ever, but she wasn’t the target of his interest, so he drove away.
Colin Sarll was famished and nearly frozen. He’d dozed during the night but the rubbish bin remained exactly where he’d put it, so he knew that Aspine hadn’t returned home. He had no money for food, and had expected to be dead by now.
Jasmine boiled the sheets and vacuumed and cleaned her house until it was spotless. She was glad that she had found nothing belonging to Aspine. It was nearly ten o’clock when she phoned Raj. “Everything went to plan. The plane departs in fifteen minutes.”
“Well done. How are you feeling?”
“Hollow. It won’t bring Kerry back.”
“No, but it will bring his killer to account. I’m coming down to Melbourne for a week when this is over.”
“I’d like that. Phone me as soon as you hear anything, Raj.”
- 45 -
SQ 238 TOUCHED DOWN at five in the afternoon, Singapore time. Aspine had travelled business class, because he didn’t want Raj to think he was a spendthrift. It hadn’t been as comfortable as first class and he’d dozed off and on during the nine hour flight, racking his brain trying to remember what’d occurred the prior night. He’d slept with the most beautiful woman that he’d ever set eyes on and couldn’t remember anything. Well, next time he most definitely would.
He cleared immigration and collected his suitcase from the carousel, expecting to breeze straight through customs.
“Do you have anything to declare, sir?” The young Singaporean asked.
“I filled the declaration in,” he responded testily.
“Did you pack your own suitcase?”
“Yes.”
“Was it ever out of your sight between the time you packed and the time you checked it in?”
“No.”
“Did you affix the anti-tamper seals?”
“Yes.”
“And have they been tampered with?”
Aspine glanced down at his suitcase. “Obviously not,” he growled.
“Are you aware that bringing drugs into Singapore is a crime, punishable by death?”
“What is this? I’m running late for an appointment with one of your country’s most influential businessmen.”
“Please remove the seals and open your suitcase.”
“How long is this going to take?”
An older customs officer joined the younger man. “It’s just routine, sir. We’ll be as quick as we can.”
The younger man put on a pair of polythene gloves and began to slowly empty Aspine’s suitcase.
“You’re not going to find anything,” he snarled, angry that he was being needlessly help up. “Why do you think I use anti-tamper seals?”
The suitcase now appeared empty and his clothes and toiletries were on the bench in front of them. “Are you going to re-pack my clothes?” He scowled.
They ignored him and concentrated on the suitcase carefully checking the compartments as if they were expecting to find something. Suddenly the younger man gestured excitedly to his superior. Aspine looked at the small plastic bag taped to the inside of one of his suitcase’s compartment and froze. “What is this?” the older man demanded.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.”
The younger officer removed the bag, and two policemen positioned themselves directly behind Aspine. The sweat seeped from him as he wrestled to understand how the bag had got there.
The older officer opened it, carefully placed his index finger inside and tasted the white powder. “Heroin,” he exclaimed.
There were now half a dozen policemen behind Aspine and, at a sign from the customs officer, they seized and handcuffed him.
“No!” he screamed. “It was planted. This is a frame-up.”
His protests fell on deaf ears and the police dragged him through customs, before hurling him into the back of a waiting police car. Remarkably, TV crews, reporters and photographers appeared to materialize from nowhere to capture every second of the unfolding drama.
Aspine was half led, half pushed into a small room at Changi Police Station. A small, middle-aged Singaporean sat behind a simple wooden desk. There were two wooden chairs on the other side and Aspine was shoved into one. The little man nodded at one of the policemen. “Take the handcuffs off, Corporal,” he said, in perfect English.
“I’m Inspector Tan Tack Tong, Mr Aspine. Would you like coffee, tea or water?” he asked, as if they were about to share a drink at their local club.
“I want to get out of here,” Aspine shouted. “This is a frame-up. I never put that stuff in my suitcase.”
“Everyone who sits in that chair seems to tell me the same story.” Tan smiled.
“I’m telling the truth. I hate drugs.”
“But you know a lot about them and Singaporean laws.”
“Wha
t are you talking about? I know nothing.”
“The mandatory death penalty applies to those who bring more than fifteen grams of heroin into our country. You brought exactly fifteen grams, so you will not be executed. I think you know our drug laws very well.”
“I did not put that bag in my suitcase.”
“Didn’t you tell the customs officers that the suitcase was never out of your sight, and that you affixed anti-tamper seals to it?”
“Yes,” Aspine groaned. He remembered that he’d opened it for a change of clothes and his toiletries in the morning but didn’t want to say anything, because, if he was wrong, he’d alienate his only chance of help in Singapore. “I came up here specifically to meet with one of your country’s most influential businessmen, Mr Raj George. Can you contact him for me?”
“You know, Mr George?” Tan asked, looking surprised. “Corporal Koh, could you please phone Mr George?”
“You’ll soon see that I’m telling the truth.”
A few minutes later Koh returned to the room and whispered in the inspector’s ear.
“Mr George knows nothing about any meeting with you,” Tan smiled. “He said that your name is vaguely familiar, and that he may have met you on one of his numerous trips to Australia.”
“Lying bastard,” Aspine bellowed. “He and his whore of a sister framed me.”
“Enough,” Tan said menacingly, barely raising his voice, eyes narrowing and his mouth turning up in a cruel sneer. “You are a liar.”
“I’m not. It’s a fucking frame-up!”