Arjun’s gaze swept the room. A family portrait hung crookedly on the wall: Vikram, his wife Meena, their son Raj, and daughter-in-law Priya. Meena sat in a corner, her sari disheveled, sobbing into her hands. Raj stood protectively beside her, his jaw tight, while Priya hovered near the doorway, her eyes darting nervously.

The rain-slicked streets of Southall, London, glistened under the sodium glow of streetlights, casting long shadows over the bustling Punjabi enclave. Detective Inspector Arjun Kapoor adjusted his trench coat, the damp chill seeping into his bones as he stepped out of his unmarked car. The call had come in at 2 a.m.—a body found in the backroom of Saffron Spice, a family-run restaurant owned by the Singhs, a prominent Indian family in the community. The victim: Vikram Singh, the patriarch, stabbed through the heart.

Arjun, a second-generation Indian Brit, knew the Singhs well. Their restaurant was a local institution, serving fragrant biryanis and fiery curries to a loyal clientele. But beneath the warmth of their hospitality, whispers of family feuds and shady dealings had long swirled. As he ducked under the police tape, the scent of cumin and cardamom lingered in the air, now tainted by the metallic tang of blood.

Inside, the restaurant was chaos frozen in time. Plates of half-eaten naan and curry stained the tables, and a shattered glass lay near the counter. Vikram’s body was slumped in the backroom, his kurta soaked crimson, a ceremonial dagger embedded in his chest. PC Sharma, a young officer, greeted Arjun with a grim nod. “No sign of forced entry, sir. Looks like he knew his killer.”

Arjun’s gaze swept the room. A family portrait hung crookedly on the wall: Vikram, his wife Meena, their son Raj, and daughter-in-law Priya. Meena sat in a corner, her sari disheveled, sobbing into her hands. Raj stood protectively beside her, his jaw tight, while Priya hovered near the doorway, her eyes darting nervously.

“Talk to me, Meena,” Arjun said softly, kneeling beside her. “What happened tonight?”

Meena’s voice trembled. “We were closing up. Vikram stayed late to balance the books. I went home, but when he didn’t return, I came back and… found him like this.” Her words dissolved into sobs.

Arjun’s instincts prickled. Meena’s grief seemed genuine, but something in her tone felt rehearsed. He turned to Raj, whose expensive suit and Rolex contrasted sharply with the modest restaurant. “Where were you, Raj?”

“Home, with Priya,” Raj said curtly. “We left at ten. Dad was fine.”

Priya nodded, but her hands twisted the edge of her dupatta, betraying her nerves. Arjun made a mental note to dig deeper. He examined the crime scene: no signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds on Vikram. The dagger, ornate with a ruby-encrusted hilt, was a family heirloom, displayed proudly above the counter until tonight.

Back at the station, Arjun pored over the family’s history. Vikram had built Saffron Spice from nothing, but rumors tied him to a local money-lending ring. Raj, ambitious and flashy, had recently pushed to expand the business, clashing with his father’s traditional ways. Priya, an outsider from Delhi, had married into the family two years ago, her modern ideas causing friction with Meena. Then there was Anil, Vikram’s estranged brother, who’d vanished years ago after a bitter dispute over inheritance.

The autopsy confirmed Vikram died between 11 p.m. and midnight. The dagger’s angle suggested a right-handed killer, and faint traces of saffron were found under Vikram’s fingernails—odd, since the restaurant’s kitchen was spotless. Arjun returned to Saffron Spice at dawn, the streets now alive with vendors and morning prayers from the nearby gurdwara. He sifted through the backroom, finding a hidden ledger beneath a floorboard. It detailed loans to local businesses, with large sums marked “A.S.”—Anil Singh?

Arjun tracked Anil to a rundown flat in Hounslow. The man was a shadow of his former self, his face lined with regret. “I didn’t kill him,” Anil insisted. “Vikram cut me off years ago. I only came back to London last month.” His alibi—a night shift at a warehouse—checked out, but his bitterness toward Vikram was palpable.

Back at the restaurant, Arjun confronted Raj and Priya. “This ledger ties your father to some shady deals. Care to explain?” Raj’s face darkened. “Dad lent money, sure, but it was legit. I wanted to take the business legit, too, but he wouldn’t listen.” Priya remained silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.

The breakthrough came from a neighbor’s CCTV footage, showing a figure in a hooded jacket slipping into the restaurant at 11:30 p.m. The height and build didn’t match Anil or Raj. Arjun’s mind raced—could it be Meena? Or Priya? He recalled the saffron under Vikram’s nails. The kitchen staff confirmed Meena had been experimenting with a new saffron-heavy dish that day, her hands stained yellow from grinding the spice.

Arjun called Meena in for questioning. Under pressure, her composure cracked. “He was going to sell the restaurant,” she confessed, tears streaming. “After all we built, he wanted to retire and leave us with nothing. I begged him to reconsider, but he laughed. I grabbed the dagger in a rage… I didn’t mean to kill him.”

The station was silent as Meena was led away in cuffs. Raj and Priya stood outside, their faces a mix of shock and relief. The rain had stopped, but the weight of betrayal hung heavy over Southall. Arjun lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like the secrets of the Singh family, now unraveled under the dim London sky.