Anjali’s husband, Suresh Menon, sat hunched in a plastic chair. He was a wiry man, a spice merchant with nervous hands. ‘She went to the market to meet a supplier,’ he said, avoiding Vikram’s gaze. ‘She never came home. I thought… maybe she left me’

The port city of Kakinada simmered under a late monsoon haze, its air thick with salt and secrets. The docks, alive with the clatter of cranes and the shouts of stevedores, hid darker dealings beneath their bustle. Detective Vikram Rao, a lean man with eyes like chipped obsidian, stood at the edge of the jetty, staring at the oil-slicked waves. A fisherman had pulled up a body that morning, tangled in a net like a discarded catch. The corpse was a woman, mid-thirties, her face bloated but oddly serene. No ID, no jewelry, just a single clue: a silver anklet etched with a lotus motif, glinting under the midday sun.

Vikram’s phone buzzed. It was Inspector Latha, his partner, her voice clipped. “Vikram, we’ve got a name. Anjali Menon, reported missing two weeks ago. Her husband’s at the station. Says she was last seen at the spice market.”

Vikram lit a cigarette, the smoke curling into the humid air. Anjali Menon. The name tugged at something in his memory—a case from years ago, a smuggling ring that had slipped through his fingers. Kakinada’s port was a sieve for contraband: drugs, gold, even people. Anjali’s death felt like a thread in a larger web, and Vikram’s gut told him it wasn’t random.

At the station, Anjali’s husband, Suresh Menon, sat hunched in a plastic chair. He was a wiry man, a spice merchant with nervous hands. “She went to the market to meet a supplier,” he said, avoiding Vikram’s gaze. “She never came home. I thought… maybe she left me.”

Vikram leaned forward, his voice low. “Did she have enemies, Suresh? Anyone who’d want her gone?”

Suresh shook his head too quickly. “No, no. Anjali was… quiet. Kept to herself.”

Latha, standing by the door, raised an eyebrow. Vikram caught it. Suresh was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. After the interview, Vikram sent Latha to dig into Suresh’s finances while he headed to the spice market, a labyrinth of stalls fragrant with turmeric and deceit.

The market was a riot of color and noise, vendors hawking their wares under tarpaulin roofs. Vikram moved through the crowd, his plain clothes blending in. He stopped at a stall owned by Ravi, a grizzled trader who owed him a favor. “Anjali Menon,” Vikram said, sliding a photo across the counter. “Seen her?”

Ravi squinted, then nodded. “Yeah, she was here. Always met with a guy—tall, scar on his cheek. Called himself Kiran. Shady type, always paid in cash.”

Vikram’s pulse quickened. Kiran. The name surfaced from that old smuggling case—a low-level enforcer for a syndicate that operated out of the port. He thanked Ravi and slipped back into the crowd, his mind racing. If Anjali was mixed up with Kiran, she was in deeper than her husband let on.

That night, Vikram staked out the docks, crouched behind a stack of crates. The port was quieter now, the only sounds the lap of waves and the occasional creak of a ship. At midnight, a figure emerged from the shadows—tall, scarred cheek catching the moonlight. Kiran. He was meeting0, meeting a group of men unloading crates from a small boat. Vikram crept closer, catching snatches of their conversation: “The shipment’s ready… Dubai… keep the cops out of it.”

Vikram’s phone vibrated—Latha. “Vikram, Suresh’s bank records show large deposits from an offshore account. He’s dirty.”

The pieces clicked. Suresh was laundering money through his spice trade, and Anjali had found out. Maybe she threatened to talk, and Kiran silenced her. But why the anklet? It felt personal, like a message.

Vikram followed Kiran to a warehouse on the city’s edge, its windows boarded up. He slipped inside, the air thick with the stench of fish and diesel. Voices echoed from a back room. Vikram drew his revolver, heart pounding. He kicked the door open, revealing Kiran and two others hunched over a table strewn with cash and ledgers.

“Hands up!” Vikram barked. Kiran lunged for a gun, but Vikram was faster, his bullet grazing Kiran’s shoulder. The others froze. Within minutes, backup arrived, and the men were cuffed.

At the station, Kiran cracked under pressure. “Suresh hired me,” he spat. “Anjali was going to the cops. She found our books. Suresh wanted her gone, but I didn’t kill her! I just… disposed of the body.”

Suresh confessed later that day, his face crumpling like wet paper. “I loved her,” he sobbed. “But she was going to ruin everything.” He’d poisoned her tea, then called Kiran to dump her in the sea. The anklet? A gift from Suresh, left on her body in a twisted act of remorse.

Vikram stood on the jetty again, the case closed but the weight lingering. Kakinada’s shadows ran deep, and he’d only scratched the surface. As the sun sank into the Bay of Bengal, he lit another cigarette, the smoke vanishing into the dusk. The port kept its secrets, and Vikram knew he’d be back.