The Crims #2 Page 13

  Imogen hid in the next-door garden and watched Ava disappear inside the house. Moments later, a bakery truck pulled up outside the home. Imogen was immediately suspicious—hadn’t Ava said her whole family was gluten intolerant?—but then Imogen realized the truck wasn’t a bakery truck at all.

  The vehicle’s door opened, and two burly men climbed out and walked round to the back of the truck, doing that swagger-y walk that burly men do to prove just how burly they are. Imogen crouched down lower as they opened the double doors—and then she gasped. Not because their truck-opening skills were anything special—if anything, they seemed a bit hesitant about it. But then they unloaded three figures from the truck, and she understood why they hadn’t wanted to get too close to them.

  The three figures looked an awful lot like her uncle Knuckles, her aunt Bets, and her uncle Clyde. Which is because they were her uncle Knuckles, her aunt Bets, and her uncle Clyde. They must have been kidnapped while they were scoping out another house . . . but what was Uncle Clyde doing with them? Accompanying them, probably. He did have a portable keyboard, after all.

  “Keep still!” one of the men said to Aunt Bets, in a gruff but terrified-sounding voice.

  But Aunt Bets wasn’t keeping still. She was dressed—or more accurately, restrained—in a straitjacket and a hockey mask. Her mad eyes stared out of the holes, looking madder than ever, and she was writhing around, muttering, “Bitey, bitey!”

  Imogen looked again at the man who was holding her. One of his hands was covered in a bandage. . . .

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, BETS?” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “SORRY ABOUT MY WIFE,” he said to the burly men. “SHE GETS A BIT OVEREXCITED WHEN SHE’S TIED UP. IT REALLY BRINGS OUT THE LION IN HER. SHE ATE HIM LAST SUMMER WHEN WE WERE ON SAFARI, AND HE POPS BACK UP AT THE MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENTS! I LIKE TO CALL HIM ‘PHIL.’”

  “Gives you terrible indigestion, lion meat,” groused Bets. “Almost as bad as human flesh . . .” And she gnashed her teeth again.

  Imogen watched from the next-door garden, feeling as powerless as an out-of-date cell phone. I have to save them, she thought. But how? She wished she had someone to help her. She cursed herself. What had Big Nana reminded her just yesterday morning? “Don’t go anywhere alone, except to the bathroom, because no one needs to see that.”

  The burly men—looking quite terrified now—led her uncles and aunt down the side of the house to the back door. Imogen waited until they were safely inside and then crept up to the building and peered through the windows.

  Ava was in there, hands on her hips, watching Imogen’s relatives being led to the basement. And she wasn’t alone. Standing next to her were a group of children, dressed in bow ties and party dresses, and an icily blond man with a thin face.

  She recognized them all from somewhere. . . .

  From a party she’d been to—a terrible party, involving chocolate fountains and the threat of tigers and a surprising number of otters.

  Gustav Kruk’s sixty-fifth birthday.

  The cold-looking man was Stefan Kruk, who had stolen the Mona Lisa and replaced it with a Very Good Fake—she recognized him from her internet research.

  I knew it! I KNEW IT! Imogen forced down the urge to do a little dance of victory.

  I knew no one could be as intelligent and likable and beautiful as Ava without also being completely evil, thought Imogen. It was weird that she hadn’t been able to find anything on the internet about Ava’s existence, or in the book she’d recently borrowed from the library, A Family Tree That Really Should Have Been Cut Down and Made into Firewood: The Kruks Through the Generations . . . but she was most definitely a Kruk.

  Imogen reveled in her triumph for a moment. She loved being right, almost as much as she loved other people being wrong. But then she realized this meant the Kruks definitely had her family. And that was not a good thing. To say the Kruks were more powerful than the Crims would be like saying machine guns are more powerful than underpants. There was no comparison. And the Kruks had kidnapped her entire family. Apart from Big Nana.

  Imogen felt sick. What chance did she and Big Nana really stand of saving the Crims if the Kruks had them? What chance did they stand of saving themselves? This could spell the end of the Crims.

  Imogen walked home, dazed. It felt like her heart was trying to beat its way out of her body. She didn’t blame it. Her body was probably about to be kidnapped by Kruks.

  I did have a good reason for doubting the Kruks were behind this, she told herself, trying to assuage her guilt. When I was looking for the person who had set my family up for The Heist, PC Donnelly told me to look for someone with a motive. And the Kruks have no motive for targeting us. Was Elsa really crazy enough to try to take down an entire family just because she felt like it? The Kruks controlled half the world (they left the cold bits—like Russia, Antarctica, Alaska, and Glasgow—to the mafia). The Crims controlled . . . parts of Blandington. (They left the bits where talking was frowned upon—like the library and the church—to the mafia. Not that the mafia was remotely interested in them.) What was in it for the Kruks? They’d never been punished for the lunch box heist; they hadn’t actually been involved in it in the first place. Maybe the Kruks knew that Imogen had been investigating them? But how?

  Imogen broke into a run. She had to get home and find Big Nana, to tell her what she’d learned. If Big Nana was still there . . .

  Please don’t let Big Nana be gone too. Please. I’ll do anything. . . .

  She pushed open the front door.

  The house was suspiciously silent.

  “Hello?” she called.

  And then she heard a sort of wailing—the sort of wailing you’d expect from a whale trapped in Wales (there isn’t much entertainment for marine mammals in Cardiff).

  “Big Nana?” called Imogen.

  “Waaaaaaaaah!” wailed the whale, or whatever it was. The sound was coming from the kitchen.

  Big Nana was at the dinner table, sobbing, surrounded by balled-up tissues.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Imogen. “I mean, apart from the obvious.”

  “Knuckles and Bets and Clyde have been taken!” Big Nana cried snottily.

  “I know,” said Imogen.

  And then she had a thought. A thought so terrifying that time seemed to stop: Whoever had taken her relatives had known where they would be. There had to be a mole in Crim House. And she and Big Nana were the only Crims who hadn’t been kidnapped yet.

  Which meant that one of them had to be the mole.

  She looked up at Big Nana, who must have seen the fear in her eyes.

  “Please don’t tell me you think I’m the mole,” Big Nana said wearily.

  Imogen didn’t say anything.

  “It’s fine,” said Big Nana, still crying. “I thought you could be the mole, too, for about five minutes. But then I came to my senses. You’re a Crim through and through, Imogen—you always have been. I know you couldn’t work against the family. Unless you are an imposter like Gunther Kruk was.”

  “Which I’m not.”

  “So prove it: What nickname did you give me when you were a little girl?”

  “Big Banana,” said Imogen.

  Big Nana nodded, satisfied.

  “Now you have to prove you aren’t the mole,” Imogen pointed out. “What was the first real crime I ever committed?”

  “You stole Freddie’s bike when you were seven.”

  Imogen nodded and laughed a little with relief.

  But Big Nana wasn’t laughing. “It’s definitely the house. It must be bugged,” said Big Nana. And she started crying again. “I can’t believe I let this happen. Bets and Clyde and Knuckles—all gone!” She put her head in her hands and gave into her sobs.

  Imogen noticed a note underneath Big Nana’s elbow. A long note, written in cursive handwriting. “Wait—what’s that?” she asked.

  “They left a ransom note,” said Big Nana, her head still in her hands.

  “They wrote thei
r own ransom note?”

  “No! I’m just too distressed to be grammatically correct!” Big Nana lifted her head and passed the ransom note to Imogen. “I found this in the mailbox.”

  This note, like all the others, was made from letters cut out of magazines. But this time the letters were tiny, and there were lots of them—the note was very long and very creepy. Imogen read:

  My dear Gerda Crim,

  It has been a long time, has it not? You’ve done very well for yourself. Built a very interesting house. Produced a fair few heirs to your crime empire. Pulled off a few half-decent heists—kudos on the Pentonville Prison job, by the way. We wish we’d thought of that. But your glory days are over. Your house is in tatters. You haven’t committed a real crime for weeks now. And your entire family has been kidnapped! Apart from that annoying, ponytail-wearing, philosophy-quoting granddaughter of yours.

  So here’s our demand: bring us a million pounds in unmarked bills in a Gucci suitcase (the red one that’s half price on Net-a-Porter at the moment will do). Make us another round of those brownies you baked last week (bet you didn’t even notice they were missing, did you?). And we will release your family.

  But here’s the catch.

  You have to bring us the brownies and the money in person. And you’ll never go home again. We’ve made up a lovely bedroom for you in Krukingham Palace. Well, I say “bedroom”—it’s more of a dungeon, really.

  Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for your family?

  If you don’t, you’ll never see them again. It’s been a while since the tigers had a decent meal. And the weasels are pretty hungry, too.

  Yours,

  Elsa

  Imogen could see why Big Nana was so upset.

  “Why are they so determined to bring you down?” Imogen asked.

  “They’re probably threatened by my incredible criminal talent,” said Big Nana, blowing her nose.

  Imogen wasn’t sure that Big Nana’s criminal talent had been shining all that brightly since her return to Blandington, but she didn’t want to kick Big Nana when she was down.

  “What does it matter, anyway?” cried Big Nana. “They’ve won!”

  “Look,” she said, “Don’t give up. I know where Aunt Bets and Uncle Knuckles and Uncle Clyde are.”

  Big Nana looked up, her eyes swollen from crying. “You do?”

  Imogen nodded. “In a house on Straight Crescent. They’ve been kidnapped by the Guds. Who are actually the Kruks.”

  “Well, of course they are,” said Big Nana.

  “Okay,” said Imogen. “So let’s rescue them! We just need a plan!”

  “It’s too late for a plan,” said Big Nana, dropping her head into her hands for a third time. “You and I are the only Crims left. The Kruks outnumber us ten to one—and you should see their arsenal of weapons. This is what I feared. I just hoped we’d be stronger when it happened. . . .”

  Imogen was beginning to feel pretty guilty for not taking her crime homework more seriously. “We can’t give up!” she said. “I have an idea! I think Ava is the weakest link. We could kidnap her—and then we can get information out of her. Or maybe we could ransom her and do some sort of prisoner exchange? We could make a deal with the Kruks, so they’ll leave Blandington for good. . . .”

  “I doubt it,” said Big Nana, shaking her head. “This is the Kruks we’re talking about. You know how our family motto is ‘Nothing is more important than family. Except dinosaurs’?”

  Imogen, unfortunately, did know this.

  “The Kruks have a motto too. . . .”

  “I know,” Imogen said. “It’s on their family crest. Also, incidentally, the combination to their Loot Room: ‘Wir werden Sie zu töten und nehmen Sie Ihr Geld’—‘We will kill you and take your money.’”

  Big Nana sighed impatiently. “That’s the public family motto, Imogen. It’s all PR.”

  “That’s terrible PR,” Imogen said. “They should fire their publicist.”

  Big Nana waved her hand, bored. “As I was saying, within the family, they say something else: ‘Lots of things are more important than family. Including, but not restricted to, money, pride, and really good roast chicken.’ Elsa would throw her sister under a bus if she looked at her the wrong way. In fact, she has done that. Twice. She only has one sister left, who usually walks around with her eyes closed, just to be safe.”

  Imogen had never seen Big Nana so defeated. But she wasn’t defeated. Not yet. “We have to try,” said Imogen. “We can kidnap Ava. And who knows what will happen after that?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” said Big Nana. “And it involves at least one coffin.”

  Imogen felt close to tears—tears of frustration and helplessness. “So what’s the alternative? Hand yourself over and hope the Kruks keep to their word, for the first time in their lives, and give the others back? Or abandon the rest of our family to their fate without even trying to save them?”

  Big Nana sighed. “I suppose it’s worth a try, Imogen, my barbecued pork rib. I’ll help you make a plan.”

  Imogen looked up at her grandmother—and saw real fear in her eyes. Which made her wonder: What had the Kruks done to Big Nana to make her so scared? Sure, the note was pretty scary—no one liked to be fed to weasels—but Imogen couldn’t shake the feeling there was something Big Nana wasn’t telling her. Was Delia right that Big Nana knew something she was holding back? Like why the Kruks were going to such lengths on a personal vendetta against Big Nana?

  Aunt Bets and Uncle Knuckles had found the one—the perfect house. It had running water, central heating, was close to transport links, less than a ten-minute walk to Blandington Secondary School, and only had three broken windows. Sure, it had graffiti on the walls, but it read “Henry Crim woz ere,” so it made them feel right at home. They persuaded Uncle Clyde to come for a viewing.

  Uncle Knuckles elbowed one of the broken windows, sweeping away the glass so that Aunt Bets could slip inside and open the front door for him and Uncle Clyde.

  “Very nice!” said Uncle Clyde, striding into the living room. “Dibs on the bedroom nearest the bathroom.”

  “NO WAY,” Uncle Knuckles boomed, his voice shattering yet another window. “YOU KNOW WHAT MY BLADDER’S LIKE.”

  And then he stopped. Because someone was already in the living room: a strange hobo with a squashy hat and a sack on a stick, with startlingly blue eyes.

  “Guten Tag,” he said intensely in a German accent. He stepped aside, revealing a pile of large, sturdy-looking sacks.

  They knew he was strange because he was an old-timey German hobo squatting in an abandoned house with a pile of sacks. And because he immediately began shouting at them.

  “You’re too late!” he said. “This is MEIN Haus. I live here. I’ve already used the toilet.”

  “We were here first!” yelled Aunt Bets. “We have dibs!”

  “But then you left, to fetch your little friend over there,” said the hobo, nodding to Uncle Clyde. “And I moved in. You schlafe, you lose.”

  “You’ll use that toilet again over my dead body,” said Aunt Bets. “Or actually, yours. Knuckles—flush him down the lavatory.”

  “HE’S TOO BIG TO GO DOWN IN ONE PIECE, DEAR,” said Uncle Knuckles.

  “Then pass me my ax.”

  “I DIDN’T BRING IT WITH US, MY DARLING!” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “ALL I HAVE IS SOME SUGAR-FREE CHEWING GUM, SOME DIARRHEA MEDICATION, AND A LEAFLET ON HOW TO MEDITATE. WE COULD GIVE HIM SOME PAPER CUTS? OR CONSTIPATION?”

  “Ahahaha!” the hobo laughed Germanly. “Constipation! It will take more than that to make me leave!”

  “I don’t think so!” yelled Uncle Clyde, running toward the hobo with his penknife. But the hobo clearly did think so. He disarmed Clyde with a swift karate move and bundled him into one of the sacks.

  Aunt Bets cracked her knuckles—and then she cracked her Knuckles, whacking him over the head with her handbag for being so hopeless—and then she attacked.r />
  She threw herself at the hobo with the force of a thousand tigers, which, if you were wondering, is quite a lot of force. But the hobo was too quick for her. He feinted to the side and dodged her punches, and she tumbled into a wall and knocked herself out.

  “MY WIFE!” cried Uncle Knuckles, which was true. “MY POOR DEFENSELESS WIFE!” he wailed, which definitely was not.

  A second hobo emerged from the kitchen. For some reason, this one was carrying a hockey mask and a straitjacket—and what looked like a Teflon sack.

  Uncle Knuckles fell to the ground. It was a long way down, so he hurt himself quite badly. “DON’T HURT HER!” he cried. He was actually sobbing. Huge great tears were splashing from his eyes and onto the floor.

  “Let’s get them out of here before they flood the place, ja?” said the first hobo.

  “NO!” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “TAKE IT! YOU CAN HAVE THE HOUSE! JUST SPARE MY WIFE! AND SET MY BROTHER FREE! WE’LL GO AND LIVE—”

  But we’ll never know where Uncle Knuckles planned to go and live. Because that’s when someone came up behind him, chloroformed him, and put him into a sack.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IMOGEN WOKE UP the next morning with something cold and smooth stuck to her cheek. She sat up and peeled it off—and realized it was a photograph of Ava Gud she’d printed out from Hannah’s Instagram feed. She had been planning to pin it to the middle of her plan, beneath the heading “How to Kidnap Ava Gud and Get My Family Back Without Being Turned into Exotic Pet Food.” She sat up and looked at the notice board—there were mug shots of the Crims and illegible notes on index cards and lots of pieces of string connecting the different stages of the plan together. She was pretty impressed with what she had managed to come up with at three in the morning, although she was struggling to read her own sleep-deprived handwriting. She couldn’t quite work out what she had planned to do to Stefan Kruk with a cage full of canaries.