The Crims Read online

  Ms. Gruner took off her glasses and began to polish them. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Your progress over these last two years has been exceptional, Imogen. I believed you had a real future ahead of you.” She wiped one last speck from the right lens and then placed the glasses squarely back onto her nose, perfectly balanced. “But I’ve made my decision.”

  Imogen’s mind was racing. These were the types of against-all-odds situations where Future World Leaders like her came up with inspirational speeches, but she couldn’t think of anything. Then suddenly, something else came to her. “What if I can prove my family is innocent?” she blurted out.

  She knew that was a long shot. Even though she was sure her family couldn’t have pulled off this crime, their smiling faces in the newspaper made it clear that they were happy to take the credit for it.

  “Do you really think that’s likely?” said Ms. Gruner.

  Imogen decided not to reply to that. Ms. Gruner wasn’t saying “no.” This was her chance. “If I can prove my family didn’t do this, will you let me come back to school?” she pressed.

  Ms. Gruner sighed, leaning back in her chair. “If you can prove their innocence, I’ll consider it. Assuming I’ll be able to see you, what with all the pigs that will be flying around. Until then . . .” She narrowed her eyes at Imogen, then pointed to the door.

  Somewhat unsteadily, Imogen stood up from her chair, stuffed the poisonous letter into her pocket, and shuffled to the doorway.

  She caught one last glance of malevolent green before the door slammed behind her.

  Imogen stumbled down the corridor. She was still clutching her speech, now crumpled and torn like her stupid, stupid dreams. Was it really just an hour ago that she’d thought she had a chance of becoming head girl? Of graduating Lilyworth and—who knew—running the country or something, before she figured out a truly challenging goal? Of course her family would somehow find a way to ruin this for her. They managed to ruin everything they touched without Big Nana to guide them. Wasn’t that why Imogen had left? She felt a tear welling at the corner of her eye, and angrily swiped it away. No tears. Imogen Collins did not cry. She merely did what she had to do to make things right again.

  So, she had to prove that her family was innocent. Then she could return to Lilyworth, take her place as head girl, and move gloriously into her hallowed future. Another boarding school before college, perhaps a tiny scandal to humanize her, early admission to one of the Seven Sisters—maybe an Ivy, if the Sisters were passé—and then, well, who knew? The world would be her oyster. If she weren’t busy running it, she’d certainly be piling up a sizable, legal fortune. Summers at Lake Como with the Clooneys and winters in Aspen, without any chance whatsoever of a crime-related death or life jail sentence. . . . Imogen shook her head to clear it. Focus on the now. Getting back to Lilyworth had to be step one.

  Which meant she was headed home, to convince her family to confess that they hadn’t committed a crime.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Imogen stood on the pavement outside Blandington train station, waiting for her cousin Freddie to pick her up. She looked around at the village where she had grown up, and yawned. Blandington wasn’t the most boring village in the country—that would have been too interesting—but it was very, very dull, indeed. All the houses were the same aggressively bland shade of beige. The neat flower beds were full of neat white roses that looked like they’d rather be red. The birds were halfheartedly singing the same boring tune, in the key of G, which everyone knows is the most boring key of all.

  Imogen felt hopeless and heavy. When she’d left for Lilyworth, Imogen had sworn she would never come back to Blandington. Everything here reminded her of Big Nana, and it hurt too much to remember Big Nana. Blandington was also full of reminders of the person Imogen used to be, and it hurt to remember that, too.

  Which led her to check her phone. The sooner she was picked up, the sooner she could prove her family was innocent and get back on the next train. Where was Freddie? He was forty-five minutes late to pick her up, and she’d called him three times, but he hadn’t answered. He was probably asleep, or accidentally setting fire to his hair, or something—he was the most forgetful, clumsy, and generally useless of all the Crims. He’d been taking bookkeeping exams for four years, but he still hadn’t managed to pass them—he never remembered to turn up on the scheduled day. He was even more useless than Great-Uncle Bernard, who had once held himself hostage by accident.

  Imogen sighed. Until Big Nana’s death, Imogen hadn’t been ashamed of her family. She had been one of them—just as enthusiastic and creative about crime as her relatives. Like all her cousins, Imogen had kept a “crime journal” of her best criminal plans—from stealing the carousel at the local park to making all the math textbooks at her primary school explode. Big Nana had called Imogen the most promising criminal in the Crim family in generations, and it had filled Imogen with pride. But then Big Nana had tried to pull off the Underwater Submarine Heist in the treacherous waters of the North Sea.

  And she had never come back.

  What if she had taken Imogen with her? Could Imogen have saved her? Or would Imogen be gone now too? These were the types of questions Imogen liked to avoid asking. She focused on a particularly boring streetlight and took a deep, cleansing breath. I can’t get out of here fast enough.

  Imogen tried Freddie’s number one last time. Nothing. Maybe it was time to call one of the Horrible Children. Her younger cousins were reliable, in a way—they would reliably do the exact opposite of what you’d asked them to do. They could be lots of fun, though, and Imogen had adored them when she was younger—Delia had been Imogen’s closest friend before she’d left for Lilyworth. She’d been the coolest girl Imogen had ever seen, with blue streaks in her hair and perfect black-kohl cat eyes—even when she was eleven. Another cousin, Henry, had been thoughtful enough to give her a skeleton key as a good-bye present. Imogen smiled. As much as she didn’t relish being back in Blandington, she was looking forward to seeing them again.

  Just then, an ice cream van screeched to a stop in front of her. The back door flew open, and one of her twin cousins, Nate or Nick—she couldn’t tell which—stuck his chocolate-covered face out and screamed, “GET IN!”

  This wouldn’t have been a tempting offer at the best of times. Imogen had a tendency to get carsick, particularly when there was food involved, or when the Horrible Children were being especially horrible, or when she was involved in a high-speed joyride.

  She had a feeling she was about to get very, very carsick indeed.

  “NOW!” yelled Nick (or Nate), grabbing Imogen’s arm and hauling her into the van.

  She landed in a heap on the floor of the van, on top of five-sixths of the Horrible Children: Nick and Nate, the seven-year-old twins; Isabella, the most dangerous toddler in the country; Henry, the twelve-year-old; and Sam, who, at thirteen, was a year older than Imogen but certainly didn’t act it. It was the most uncomfortable family reunion she had ever been to, and that was saying something—the Crims had once held a get-together in an unused public toilet.

  “Imojim!” said Isabella, punching Imogen really hard in the face with her tiny fist.

  “Great right hook!” said one of the twins, stroking Isabella’s twisty blond hair. The other Horrible Children nodded fondly.

  “Just like Big Nana,” said Henry. “She’d have been so proud.”

  Imogen was still recovering from the tiny but powerful punch when the van lurched off again. “My bags!” yelled Imogen. “Wait! Please can we turn back and get my things?”

  “Sorry! No time!” came a female voice from the driver’s seat.

  A female voice that sounded very much like her cousin Delia.

  Which wasn’t possible, because Delia was only fourteen years old and definitely did not have a driver’s license.

  Though that would explain why they were now driving on the wrong side of the road . . . and why the driver was wearing Delia’s favorite purple-s
equined jacket.

  “What did it say on that big red sign? I haven’t got my glasses on,” said Delia.

  Had Imogen really been looking forward to seeing her cousins? That seemed like a distant memory now. “Stop!” she shouted. “It said STOP!”

  “No need to shout!” shouted Delia.

  Which is when Imogen heard the police sirens.

  “Don’t look at me, look at the road! And please tell me you didn’t steal this van,” Imogen begged pointlessly.

  “Okay,” said Delia, smirking.

  Nick and/or Nate cackled. Delia reached behind her to give them both a high five, which meant—

  “PUT YOUR HANDS BACK ON THE WHEEL!” yelled Imogen. She grabbed on to the nearest thing to steady herself, which happened to be Henry, who happened to be spray-painting “Henry Crim Woz Ere” onto the inside of the van. Henry hadn’t changed, Imogen noted. From the look of him, he was still “tattooing” himself with ballpoint pens. And from the smell of him, he still wasn’t washing very often.

  “Oi!” said Henry. “You ruined my tag.”

  “Good,” said Imogen. “Don’t you remember what Big Nana used to say? ‘Never graffiti your surname on stolen goods.’”

  “Hey! We didn’t steal the van. We borrowed it,” said Delia, sounding hurt. She careened onto a cobbled side street, with the police following closely behind. “We wanted to get you an ice cream, with a flake and everything. We were trying to do something nice for you to welcome you home.” She swerved around a corner so fast that the entire van tilted to the left.

  “You didn’t need to steal an ice cream van to get me an ice cream cone,” said Imogen, who at this point was feeling quite sick and didn’t really feel like ice cream, anyway.

  “I told you. We didn’t steal the van. We borrowed it. We were just going to take some ice cream, but Henry must have knocked off the brake or something because the stupid thing started rolling downhill! Toward a playground full of children! I mean, what choice did I have, really?” Delia’s voice was pleading.

  “Oh,” said Imogen, bored. “The old rolling-down-the-hill-toward-a-playground-full-of-children excuse.”

  “It’s true!” Sam said a bit defensively. He was sitting with Isabella at the back of the van. His voice came out as a squeak, and he slapped his hand over his mouth in horror. He’d been unusually quiet so far, and now Imogen knew why—his voice must be breaking. Either that, or he’d stopped impersonating people (his specialty) and started impersonating donkeys. At least he wouldn’t be able to prank call her pretending to be her mother anymore.

  “Wait,” said Henry, who was peering out of the back window. “Where have the police gone?”

  “We’ve lost them,” said Delia, smiling triumphantly. She steered the van into a back alley—which, unfortunately, turned out to be a dead end. “No big deal,” said Delia, starting to reverse. But then the police car swerved up behind them, blue lights flashing, blocking them in.

  Delia’s smile disappeared and was replaced by a look of absolute dread. She groaned and dropped her head to the steering wheel. “Oh no! What are we going to do?” she said.

  “Just tell them you borrowed the van,” Imogen said a bit snarkily. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  But then the door of the police car opened. Two officers stepped out. They didn’t look happy. Imogen felt sicker than ever.

  Delia turned as white as a very scared sheet. “Imogen, please, you have to think of something to say to them,” she said. “You were always the smooth talker.”

  Imogen wondered why Delia was so worried. The first time Delia had been arrested, when she was eight, she’d been so proud that she’d insisted on calling her parents herself. But there was no time to point that out. Imogen racked her brains. “What if . . .,” she said. And then, “What about . . .” But it was no good. Her mind was blank. She was out of practice. Also, really—what possible reason could they have for driving an ice cream van at nearly a hundred miles an hour on the wrong side of the road? “What if we say we have a relative with a deadly waffle cone deficiency? No, they’ll never buy that. . . .”

  “Please,” said Delia. “Just tell them you were driving.”

  “No way!” said Imogen, bristling. “I’ve had a clean record for two years now!”

  The policemen were walking toward the van.

  “You have to,” begged Delia. “Please! I’m on my third strike with the police! One more time, I’ll go to juvenile detention! Remember how we always used to bail each other out?”

  Imogen felt a pang of sympathy, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry. You chose to steal the van—”

  “Borrow!” Delia interrupted angrily.

  “Borrow,” said Imogen. “Right. Either way, I’m certainly not going to be an accomplice to a crime.”

  Delia looked whiter still. Imogen frowned. She couldn’t work out why Delia was quite so afraid of juvenile detention. Aunt Bets had spent almost her entire adolescence there, and she’d told them, “It’s just like summer camp. Except you can never leave, and you get beaten up quite a lot, and everyone calls you ‘bird face,’ and no one wants to snog you.” Exactly like summer camp, then, in Imogen’s experience.

  The policemen knocked on the van door. “Come on out,” said one of the officers.

  Imogen and Delia looked at each other. Imogen could see the fear in Delia’s eyes. And Delia wasn’t scared of anything, not even Aunt Bets’s piranha pool.

  “Come on, Delia,” said Imogen. “Just tell them the truth.”

  “Please!” said Delia, gripping Imogen’s arm. “Just say it was you! There’s a Kitty Penguin concert next week that I’ve got tickets for.”

  Imogen curled her lip in disgust. Kitty Penguin was a truly terrible singer who dressed up as a flightless bird for her shows. Bridget Sweetwine was her biggest fan.

  Imogen rolled her eyes at Delia.

  “What?” Delia said defensively. “My friend Janie wanted to go. Plus, I bought a black-and-white dress especially for the concert. And a diamante beak.”

  “You are ridiculous,” Imogen told her.

  “I know, I know,” said Delia. “But you won’t let me go to juvie—will you?”

  Imogen took a deep breath. No. She wouldn’t let Delia go to juvie. Now that Imogen was back, she was once again the leader, Big Nana’s protégé, and it was up to her to save the day. Just like always.

  Imogen climbed out of the van and walked up to the policemen, trying to look as meek and innocent as possible. There were two officers, one short and one tall, standing there with their arms crossed. The shorter man had his legs crossed, too. He was obviously trying to look really authoritative, but he actually resembled a constipated goat. He reminded her of someone. . . .

  “Well, well, well! Imogen Crim. Didn’t expect to see you back here anytime soon,” he said.

  Imogen felt a wave of relief wash over her as she realized who he reminded her of: himself.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding. She couldn’t believe her luck—the policeman’s name was Donnelly, and he was a police constable—and a Crim.

  Donavon Donnelly was actually Imogen’s second cousin. When she was younger, he’d given her shoplifting lessons by taking her to the supermarket to steal Skittles and radishes (Imogen had always believed in a balanced diet). But he’d decided on a career in policing, so he’d taken his mother’s maiden name, which everyone agreed was a wise move. None of the Crims blamed him for becoming a cop—it was useful to have a man on the inside, after all. But it was always hard to tell when he’d take pity on them.

  “So,” said PC Donnelly. “You want to tell me and PC Phillips here what you were doing breaking the speed limit without a driving license in a stolen ice cream van? I mean—that’s a lot of laws you’ve broken right there. I’m almost impressed.”

  “Thank you,” said Imogen, smiling and hoping that meant he was feeling generous.

  “I said ‘almost.’”

  “Right
.” I’m going to have to talk my way out of this. Imogen stood up straighter, scrambling to look properly apologetic. “Look, I’m so sorry,” she said in the voice she used at Lilyworth whenever she was trying to get out of lacrosse practice. “It all happened so fast. We were just looking after the van while the driver went to the bathroom, and suddenly, the emergency brake slipped off—somehow—and we were about to run over some children, so I grabbed the wheel. . . .”

  “Oh, of course,” said PC Phillips with a scowl. “The old rolling-down-a-hill-toward-a-playground-full-of-children defense.”

  “We really were, though!” said Imogen, feeling her cheeks flush.

  PC Phillips rolled his eyes. “Let’s put that aside for a moment. There’s another problem with your story,” he said. “You’re too young to drive.”

  “But those children were too young to die!” said Imogen, opening her eyes wide like innocent people do.

  “Nice try,” said PC Phillips. He unclipped the handcuffs from his belt.

  Imogen felt as though she might cry. All that hard work to turn her life around, and she was about to be punished for a crime she hadn’t committed. What about her record—spotless for two years? Surely they’d let her off this once? She shot a glance at PC Donnelly, silently begging him to do something.

  He sighed and shook his head. Imogen felt her heart sink.

  But then, just like that, he came to her rescue.

  “Whoa,” he said, “let’s slow down for a minute. You didn’t mean to steal the van. Did you, Imogen?”

  “No,” said Imogen, trying to squeeze as much earnestness as possible into the word.

  “Okay. Well, I’m the senior officer here, and I believe you. We’ll let you off with a warning this time—”

  “Will we?” said PC Phillips, opening and closing the handcuffs with a mournful sigh. He’d clearly been looking forward to using them.

  “We will. But you, Miss Crim, are getting an official warning.”

  He pulled out a notebook and wrote “Official Warning” on the first blank page. He then ripped out the page and handed it to Imogen. It didn’t look very official, but she thought it probably wasn’t the time to point that out.