The Crims #2

  DEDICATION

  In memory of my amazing grandmothers,

  Peggy Davies and Brenda Collier,

  who were just as funny and wise as Big Nana,

  but not nearly as good at crime

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  From the Desk of Big Nana

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Kate Davies

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  My darling family,

  Since you are such exquisite screw-ups, we find ourselves in a unique and challenging position. If we want to retain our reputation as the most terrifying criminals in Blandington, it’s time to step up our game. Starting this Monday, I will be collecting your crime journals each week, and I expect to see plans for at least five crimes with a point that can actually be carried out.

  Each week, I will select a winner, who will be allowed to choose one item from the Loot Cellar as his or her prize. I will also select a loser, who will be responsible for feeding Isabella that week. I recommend a suit of armor. (In the unlikely event that the loser is Isabella, she will be responsible for feeding Aunt Bets.)

  XO, Big Nana

  CHAPTER ONE

  IMOGEN WALKED HOME from the library through the beige streets of Blandington carrying a ridiculous amount of books in a duffel bag, until she reached the decidedly un-beige Crim House. She couldn’t help smiling when she looked at it. She sometimes fantasized about being back at Lilyworth Ladies’ College or living in an ordinary house, with central heating and a doorbell that didn’t feature her grandmother singing “Willkommen” from Cabaret in a very unwelcoming minor key. Imogen had to admit that she loved her home—the east wing, which Big Nana had recently painted red, because the sun rises in the east; the west wing, which Big Nana had painted white, because there’s a West Wing in the White House; and the two airplane wings from a Boeing 747 that Big Nana had stuck on top of the house to celebrate the birth of Isabella, Imogen’s youngest cousin. There literally was no place like home.

  But as soon as Imogen opened the front door, she wished she hadn’t. All the Crims were home, and they all seemed . . . happy. The sound of happy Crims, Imogen realized, was possibly even worse than the sound of sad Crims—like a cross between a distressed eagle and a nineties rap song.

  She followed the sound into the kitchen. There they all were, being themselves. Her mother, Josephine, was reapplying her makeup, using a switchblade as a mirror; Al, Imogen’s father, was in the corner, feeding minisausages to Barney, their dog; Aunt Bets was crocheting a tea cozy in the shape of a nuclear warhead while Uncle Knuckles looked on fondly, untangling her yarn with his massive hands; the Horrible Children were throwing sandwiches at one another; and Freddie, Imogen’s eldest cousin, was helping Big Nana pour champagne into a ragtag assortment of wineglasses (all stolen, of course).

  Freddie wasn’t Imogen’s most annoying cousin—that was probably Henry, who liked to try to tattoo his name on Imogen’s face when she was asleep; or Sam, who prank-called her every night, even though she always knew it was him because his cracking voice sounded like a fire-truck siren; or Nick and Nate, identical twins who no one could tell apart and who said things like “BOOM!” unironically; or Delia, who periodically set fire to all of Imogen’s nice twinsets, “just to keep you on your toes.”

  Imogen, in other words, had too many cousins. All of whom were horrible. Which is why everyone called them the Horrible Children . . . except their teachers, who were too scared to call them that.

  Before Imogen could ask what was going on, Uncle Clyde jumped out in front of her, like a jack-in-the-box that no one should ever have made.

  “Imogen!” he cried, looking crazier than ever. He had dyed his shock of black hair red to celebrate his recent release from jail, but unfortunately, it just looked like his head was on fire. Four people had poured buckets of water over him in the month since he’d been released. “Guess what?”

  This all felt very familiar. “You won a tadpole at the Blandington County Fair in 1996.”

  “Yes! But guess what else.”

  “You’ve given up on ridiculously overcomplicated heists, and you’re going to stick to something nice and simple like internet fraud.”

  “Ha! Good one. Of course not. No—I’ve actually just pulled off my best heist yet: the Great Bakery Robbery. I’m a wanted man again!”

  Imogen’s stomach went cold. The last time Uncle Clyde had come up with a heist, Imogen had been kicked out of school and ended up almost getting murdered by a butler. And a billionaire’s dog. And a fully grown man dressed as a terrifying cartoon baby. If this heist was anything like his lunch box heist—and if Uncle Clyde was actually the one to pull it off this time—things were about to go very wrong indeed. Particularly if he insisted on announcing his guilt to everyone around him. When would the Crims realize that getting credit for their crimes wasn’t glamorous and just led to spending months in jail, drinking second-rate tea and wearing unflattering orange outfits?

  “What . . . kind of robbery?” asked Imogen.

  “I didn’t steal money exactly. Or dough. Ha! Ha! This was more of a boutique crime. By which I mean, I’m starting small and working my way up.”

  Imogen relaxed. She clearly didn’t need to worry—this crime was obviously more on the scale of Uncle Clyde’s less ambitious, preheist efforts, when he had specialized in stealing things no one wanted. “You just walked up to the counter and took a loaf of sourdough while no one was looking, didn’t you?” said Imogen.

  “No, actually. I walked up to the counter and took a cake while no one was looking. And what a cake!” He stood aside, proudly, so that Imogen could see it. “Ta-da!”

  Imogen had to admit the cake did look delicious. It was huge—six tiers tall—with what looked like cream-cheese frosting and little marzipan flowers. “Happy Birthday, Daisy!” was iced across the top.

  “Who’s Daisy?” asked Imogen.

  “Whoever she is, she isn’t going to have a very happy birthday,” said Uncle Clyde. “I’ve got her cake! Ha! Ha!”

  Big Nana began to pass the champagne-filled wineglasses out to the adult Crims. “I have to say it’s very good timing for a cake theft,” she said. “We’ve something to celebrate.” She picked up a newspaper from the kitchen table and passed it to Imogen.

  There, spread across pages four and five, was a photograph of the Crims at Big Nana’s sixty-fifth birthday party. The headline above the photograph read: “Big Nana—Sixty-Five and Alive!” The rest of the article went on to say:

  Spirits were high at Blandington Village Hall last week when Blandington’s famous crime family came together to celebrate Gerda “Big Nana” Crim’s sixty-fifth birthday. And that’s not all they were celebrating. Big Nana has just rejoined the family after faking her death two years ago in the Underground Submarine Heist, which has gone down in legend as the Most Stupid Crime Ever Attempted by an Otherwise Successful Criminal.

  “Yeah, we’ve forgiven her,” her grandson Nick Crim told our reporter. “She forgives us whenever we do things wrong, so it’s only
fair. I mean, Henry set her bedroom on fire a couple of days ago, and Big Nana just called us all in there to roast marshmallows and have a good old sing-along until the flames died down.”

  Henry Crim—an expert with a box of matches—also lit the candles on Big Nana’s cake. The whole family (and a few special guests) joined in singing “For She’s a Jolly Good Felon.”

  Our reporter was surprised to see the officers of the Blandington Police Department out in force for the occasion, but when questioned, PC Donovan Donnelly said showing up was the least they could do. “We accused the whole family of a crime they didn’t commit,” he said through a mouthful of cake. “We held them in custody for weeks because all evidence pointed to the fact that they’d stolen an extremely valuable lunch box from James Wooster. But it turns out it had just fallen down the back of an umbrella stand. To all the people out there: Before reporting a crime, check behind your umbrella stand. You’ll be surprised the sort of things you’ll find back there—diamonds, long-lost relatives, missing pets . . .”

  The Crim family was eventually exonerated, thanks to the actions of Big Nana’s twelve-year-old granddaughter, Imogen Crim, who stopped at nothing—not even stop signs—to prove her family was innocent. “I mean, they’re not actually innocent,” she explained. “They’re all criminals—they’re just not very good ones, so I knew they wouldn’t have been able to pull off a crime of that magnitude.”

  When the other Crims overheard Imogen using the word “magnitude,” they launched into a round of “For She’s a Jolly Good Felon”—long words are highly prized in the Crim clan—and our reporter took his leave. The party bag, for anyone interested, contained a piece of cake, a party popper, a lock-picking kit, and a small gerbil wearing a name tag that said “Nigel.” Thanks, Crims, and happy birthday, Big Nana!

  Imogen smiled. That had been a good day. It had taken some time to forgive Big Nana for the whole death-faking incident, but now Imogen couldn’t be happier to have her back. Big Nana was the only Crim who she aspired to be like when she grew up. Although she’d probably choose a different haircut and not call people “my miniature grapefruit” in public quite so often.

  “Cut up the cake, Clyde,” Big Nana now said. “We’re celebrating the dawn of a new age of the Crims! I’m back, and we’re better than ever. Except for 1976—that was a golden year. That’s the year I stole Pentonville Prison and gave it to Bets as a playhouse—do you remember that, my unripe pumpkin?”

  “I learned to file through iron bars there, so I could escape!” said Aunt Bets, smiling fondly at the memory.

  But Uncle Clyde wasn’t smiling. He had just cut into the cake, and he was staring down at the slice with a look of confusion on his face. “Mother,” he said to Big Nana grimly, “there’s something wrong with this cake.”

  He picked up the cake to take a closer look—and realized that it wasn’t a cake after all. “It’s made of cardboard!” he wailed like a disappointed ambulance. “There’s no cake at all! Even the icing’s fake! I’ve been had!”

  “Wait,” said Big Nana, leaning down to examine the “cake.” “There’s a note in here.”

  She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and held it up for the other Crims to read. The note, which was made from letters cut out of magazines, read: We’re Coming For You!

  The Crims were stunned into silence, which was quite unusual for them. Imogen felt the hairs on her arms stand up on end.

  “The cake was supposed to be filled with buttercream and raspberry jam, not hate mail,” muttered Uncle Clyde.

  “What does the note mean?” asked Josephine, wringing her expensively moisturized hands. “Who is it from? Are we in trouble? What are we going to do? Why isn’t anyone saying anything?”

  “Because you won’t let the rest of us get a word in edgeways,” said Aunt Bets, pointing a fork at Josephine in quite a threatening manner.

  “SORRY TO INTERRUPT!” shouted Uncle Knuckles, in his terrifying voice. “BUT I DON’T THINK THE NOTE IS MEANT FOR US. CLYDE STOLE THE CAKE, REMEMBER?”

  “Exactly,” said Aunt Bets. “It’s Daisy who they’re coming for. Not us!”

  “You’re right!” said Uncle Clyde, his face relaxing as the Crims smiled at one another, laughing with relief.

  Poor old Daisy, though, Imogen thought. Her birthday is getting worse by the second.

  But Uncle Clyde’s smile was fading. “The thing is,” he said, ruffling his bright red hair, “that note looks a lot like the one that someone slipped under our front door this morning, tipping me off about the bakery.”

  Big Nana folded her arms and looked at Uncle Clyde with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean, ‘the note that tipped me off about the bakery’? You said you just took a cake from the counter when no one was looking.”

  “Yes,” said Uncle Clyde, “but how do you think I knew that no one would be looking?” He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket. When he uncrumpled it, Imogen could see that this one too was made from cutout letters. Whoever was making the notes was obviously getting their money’s worth from their subscription to Oh Yes magazine.

  Big Nana took the note from Uncle Clyde and held it up to the light, the way you would to check for counterfeit money. And then she read it out loud:

  Hello!!!

  If I were you (which I’m not) I’d go down to Blandington Bakery at about 5 p.m. today. There’s a really tasty-looking cake on the counter—frosted and everything—and no one’s watching it. The fools! I’d grab it if I were you!!!!

  A Well-Wisher

  “Well,” said Big Nana, “we know one thing about the person who sent this note: They have too much time on their hands. They took the trouble to find eight exclamation marks in eight different fonts.”

  “They’re very good with a pair of scissors, too,” said Nate. “Very neat cutting-out-letters skills.”

  (You’re probably thinking: But how did Imogen know it was Nate? I thought it was impossible to tell the twins apart. Thankfully, Nick had taken to wearing a ridiculous baseball cap with “Could I Have Fries with That?” on the front. It was part of a clothing line Sam had designed, each featuring one of his favorite phrases, so that he’d have to talk as little as possible until his voice had properly matured.)

  “Clyde,” said Big Nana, turning to him with a glare. “I can’t believe you didn’t think it was suspicious that someone would tip you off about a cake in a bakery. Have I taught you nothing?”

  “Of course you have,” mumbled Uncle Clyde, looking at his feet. “You taught me how to make perfectly boiled eggs, so that the center is still a bit runny—”

  “About crime, you overfed giraffe!” roared Big Nana. “We’re Crims. We think up our own crimes. We’re not plagiarists. We don’t get tip-offs. We’re not”—she spat—“the police!”

  “I wasn’t really thinking,” said Uncle Clyde, looking a little worried now. “I just fancied a cake, and someone was offering me one, so—”

  “So you walked right into the trap,” said Big Nana, shaking her head. “Clyde, you’ve been set up. Again.” She started pacing the room, the way she always did when she was thinking.

  Imogen couldn’t help but feel a little exhilarated to watch Big Nana in action again after all these years.

  “The note was slipped under our front door this morning,” Big Nana said. “Just after the article about my return to Blandington appeared in the paper. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Someone is worried that I’m back in charge of the family. And whoever that someone is, they want to send us a message.”

  “SORRY TO INTERRUPT,” shouted Uncle Knuckles, “BUT WHO WOULD DO THAT? IF YOU DON’T MIND ME ASKING.”

  “Who do you think?” asked Big Nana.

  “The Kruks,” Imogen said as a small thrill of fear rippled through her. Her grandmother was convinced that, some day soon, the family would have to face their greatest rivals, the Kruks, in a crime family showdown. The Kruk family were extremely good at thinking up interesting ways to kill people,
and according to Big Nana, they were keen to try out some of their latest murder techniques on the Crims.

  “Right, as usual, my darling kumquat,” said Big Nana, smiling at her. “Elsa is in charge of the Kruks now. And what is Elsa?”

  “Crazy,” chorused the Crims.

  Just a few weeks previously, Big Nana had discovered that “crazy” Elsa Kruk was taking over the Kruk crime empire. And Imogen knew Big Nana didn’t mean “crazy” as in “That crazy Elsa Kruk is a bit of a liability at parties,” or “That crazy Elsa Kruk wears mismatched socks to work.” It was more like “That crazy Elsa Kruk fed her next-door neighbor to a tiger,” and “That crazy Elsa Kruk sharpens her teeth on diamonds every morning just in case the tigers aren’t hungry.”

  “Exactly. And she’s obviously decided to throw everything she’s got at us . . . so watch out when you’re walking underneath windows, in case she chucks some bricks at you.”

  But something about this wasn’t sitting right with Imogen. It felt . . . too small-time for the Kruks. “Are you sure it was the Kruks?” she asked. “Wouldn’t they be a bit more . . . well, blunt than a cake switcheroo?”

  Big Nana blinked at her. “What do you mean, my overcurious tangerine?”

  Imogen sighed. “It’s just . . . We’ve been to the Kruk headquarters. It is an exact replica of Buckingham Palace, except it’s underground, and with tighter security. You know how all the ice from the Arctic sea is melting? It’s not! They’ve got it all in their basement, keeping their Diet Coke supply cool. Right, Freddie?”

  Freddie nodded. “They have some pretty impressive loot, too. There’s a dodo down there, running around with a pterodactyl. If there were some sort of criminal Olympics, they’d win gold. And silver and bronze.”

  Imogen nodded. “I just think, if the Kruks wanted to send us a message, they’d clone a velociraptor and set it loose in our yard. Or build a bomb out of steak knives and throw it into the living room. I don’t think they’d try to get to us with a cake.”

  “It’s not a cake, darling,” Josephine pointed out, patiently overemphasizing each word. “We can’t eat it. See, they’ve fooled us with cardboard.”