The Crims Page 4

Compared to the rest of Crim House, Imogen’s parents’ apartment was very ordinary. The main part of the house was cluttered and chaotic—the floors were covered in ugly stolen carpets; the walls were covered in bad stolen art; and every time you opened a cupboard, things like blunt axes and child-sized straitjackets and bottles marked “Poison?” tumbled out. But Imogen’s parents’ apartment was clean and tidy and calm, with white walls, and furniture that didn’t fall apart when you sat on it. That was her dad’s influence—he liked everything to be well organized and functional. In fact, his prized possession was a shiny filing cabinet that he polished every day. Her mum’s influence could be seen in the feather boas strewn across the sofa and the huge DVD collection of classic Hollywood films (arranged in alphabetical order by her father).

  Imogen looked up at the huge photograph of Josephine, dressed in her favorite fur coat, that hung above the fireplace. Her mother was her own biggest fan—she had autographed it: “To Josephine Crim. You’re a star! Love from Josephine Crim.” All Josephine had ever wanted was to become famous (and for Imogen to make a bit more of an effort with her appearance—she was always sneaking lipsticks into her pocket). Judging by the newspaper headline Imogen had seen at Lilyworth, it looked like her dream was finally coming true.

  But Imogen remembered her dad’s pleading look in the same photo. Glancing over at her father’s carefully organized collection of Accounting Today! magazines, she had a hard time imagining her father playing any part in Uncle Clyde’s heist plan—even to please her mother, which was generally how he got himself into trouble. So why would he do it? He wouldn’t, would he? That was why Imogen was here—to look for clues that her parents had taken part in The Heist.

  Or hadn’t.

  As she looked around, she felt like she was ten again, about to leave for boarding school. Everything reminded her of how her life used to be—the smell of her mum’s perfume (Stolen Diamonds: For Her); her dad’s collection of mugs, pinched from accountancy firms around the country; the cushions embroidered with heart-warming messages: “Villainy Begins at Home”; “Home Is Where the Stolen Art Is”; “World’s Best Carjacker!” But she found nothing at all to do with The Heist.

  The last room Imogen checked was her dad’s office. She’d always loved coming here as a child and reading Zen and the Art of Small Business Accounts while he worked. (She’d picked up a lot of tips, actually, and she had been the head of both the Capitalist and Buddhist Societies at Lilyworth). She looked at the framed certificates on the wall—her dad’s bookkeeping degree, her mum’s safe-breaking diploma, a swimming certificate from when she was eight—and noticed a new addition, in a golden frame: her most recent report card from Lilyworth. All As (except for the B in needlework). Imogen ran her fingers over the glass, feeling a tug of love for her father. He had always been really proud of her, even after Imogen wanted to leave. It had been him who’d suggested that she might like to “get away for a while” after Big Nana died. When he’d suggested boarding school, she’d found Lilyworth. She suspected he hadn’t expected her to go quite so far for quite so long. But he’d never asked her to come home.

  Imogen walked over to her dad’s precious filing cabinet. A thin layer of dust had gathered on the surface. She pulled a hankie from her pocket and wiped it down, ready for when her dad came home. She opened the drawers and looked through her father’s papers—maybe there would be a clue in here—but there was nothing to suggest he’d been involved in The Heist.

  Of course there wasn’t.

  She sighed. Searching the apartment hadn’t thrown up any clues. She’d just have to go to the police station where her family was being held and hear it from the horse’s mouth. And if the police horse wouldn’t spill the beans, she supposed she’d have to visit her parents.

  Imogen slipped out of the house and walked through Blandington till she reached the gray, pebble-dashed police station. She hadn’t been there since being questioned for the last crime she had committed, just before Big Nana had died: shaving the fur of her headmistress’s white poodle, Snowy, and selling it on the black market as designer wool. As Imogen walked into the police station, the four officers on duty looked up from their computers (Imogen could see their screens—they were all playing solitaire). Imogen knew all of them. She’d seen PC Donnelly and PC Phillips just that morning, obviously. Then there was Inspector Jones, who had broken up Isabella’s christening when it had gotten a bit rowdy, and Detective Sergeant White, who had tried and failed to prove that Nick and Nate were responsible for the so-called “Twin Break-Ins,” in which two of every item was stolen from local shops one December (actually it had been Uncle Clyde, trying to save money on the twins’ Christmas presents).

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t little Imogen Crim,” said Inspector Jones, standing up. “Long time no see. You’re the spitting image of your mother. Except without the handcuffs. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  Imogen glared at Inspector Jones. Even now, with her criminal days behind her, there was no sound she hated more than the laughter of a police officer.

  “Actually, PC Donnelly and I saw Imogen earlier today. Didn’t we?” said PC Phillips, clipping and unclipping his handcuffs.

  “Indeed we did,” said PC Donnelly, wagging his fingers at Imogen. “Now, what can we do for you? Have you brought us any doughnuts?”

  Imogen decided to ignore him. “I’d like to see my family, please,” she said.

  “They’re your family now, are they?” said Detective Sergeant White, scratching his nasty little beard. “Not what I heard. I heard you tried to disown them. Made up a fake name and everything! Thought you were better than them, didn’t you? But look at you . . .”

  “Hard to turn your back on a life of crime, isn’t it, Imogen?” said PC Phillips. “That’s why you stole that ice cream van this morning.”

  “That’s a waffly serious offense!” said Inspector Jones, laughing his horrible laugh.

  “Did she have a flake driving license?” asked Detective Sergeant White, laughing even more horribly.

  “It wasn’t long before I scooped her up and took her into custard-y!” said PC Phillips, laughing so hard that he handcuffed himself by mistake.

  “That’s a rubbish joke. You don’t get custard from an ice cream van,” Imogen said, watching coldly as Inspector Jones helped PC Phillips unlock himself. “Anyway, don’t any of you have anything better to do than arrest a whole family for stealing a tatty old lunch box?”

  “You really are out of touch, aren’t you?” said PC Phillips, beckoning her over to his computer. She caught a glimpse of his screensaver: a picture of him stroking a really tiny pony. He quickly opened a browser window to hide the picture. “Now, then—let me show you something. . . .” He typed “weirdlunchboxes.com” into his browser. “Just wait till you see how much that lunch box is worth,” he said, sitting back in his chair.

  “Oh, I know,” said Imogen. “It was valued at over a thousand pounds, wasn’t it?”

  “Not even close,” said PC Phillips, grinning at his screen, waiting for the website to load. But a message popped up: “Page not found.”

  “That’s weird,” he said, frowning. “It was working earlier on. Doesn’t matter, anyway. . . . I have a printout I can show you, somewhere around here. . . .” He pulled a file from his desk and leafed through it. “Here!” he said, pushing a piece of paper toward Imogen.

  “This is another photograph of you with a small horse,” said Imogen, studying it. PC Phillips had his arms around the pony’s neck in this one. The pony didn’t seem to be enjoying the hug.

  PC Phillips snatched the photo back and slid it carefully into the folder. “Don’t know what that’s doing in there,” he muttered. He pulled out another piece of paper. “This, I mean.”

  Imogen looked down at the printout he passed to her. There was a photo of the Captain Crook lunch box, and below it, the estimated value: over one million pounds.

  Imogen was so shocked that she dropped the piece of paper.
“What?” she said. “No way! That’s insane!” Then she bent down automatically to pick the paper up, because there is no excuse for littering as Ms. Gruner liked to say.

  “I know. Crazy, the things people are into, isn’t it?” said PC Phillips.

  “Yes,” said Imogen, glancing back at the screensaver of him and the tiny pony.

  “The valuation tripled just a couple of weeks ago. We don’t know why,” said Inspector Jones.

  Typical, thought Imogen. Uncle Clyde timed The Heist perfectly so that everyone would get the maximum jail sentence. It’s almost like they all want to spend the rest of their lives in jail. And then she realized—most of them probably did.

  PC Phillips led Imogen down a damp corridor, lit by a single, flickering lightbulb, to the cells. He stopped outside the biggest one. Through the bars, Imogen could see her family, sitting side by side on benches around the edges of the room, looking very much at home. Her mother, Josephine, was doing the crossword in the newspaper, as if it were an ordinary Sunday morning; Uncle Clyde was doodling something that looked like a penguin—he was probably working on a plan to steal one from Blandington Zoo; Aunt Bets was knitting a toy machine gun for Isabella; Uncle Knuckles was managing to look terrifying while pouring tea from a flowery pot into delicate china cups; and Imogen’s father, Al, was sitting slightly apart from the others, staring at his hands, as if he was wondering how he’d gotten there.

  Imogen suddenly felt shy. She hadn’t seen her family for a very long time.

  Josephine was the first to look up and see Imogen. She jumped up and ran over to her, trying to embrace her through the bars the way people did in the soap operas she watched on TV. “Darling!” she cried. “It is simply delightful to see you! You look so glamorous—like a wealthy tax evader! Though I do wish you’d start wearing lipstick.”

  Imogen hugged her mother back as best she could. Despite the circumstances, it was good to see her again.

  “Hello, dear,” her dad said, walking over and trying to kiss her on the head but banging his head on the bars. He gave a halfhearted chuckle, rubbing his temple. “Ha, er, not a lot of room in here.” Imogen squeezed his hand through the bars.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Look, darling, have you seen?” said Josephine, thrusting her newspaper at Imogen. “We’re the main story in the Blandington Times. Can you believe it? Front-page criminals at last!”

  Imogen looked down at the paper. The other front-page stories were “Old Man’s Hair Turns Gray” and “Lonely Cat Meets Other Cat and Decides It Prefers Being Alone,” so yes, she could believe it. She studied the picture of her family. Someone had drawn a mustache on Uncle Clyde’s face. “Who did that?” she asked, looking up.

  Uncle Clyde looked up and waved his pen at her. “Just wanted to see what I’d look like with facial hair. That style’s called the Imperial. I thought I might rock a nice, thick handlebar mustache, too. What do you think? Solid criminal style, that.”

  Imogen raised one eyebrow. “Bit boring being in jail, is it?” she asked.

  “A little bit,” Uncle Clyde admitted. “But it’s good to have a bit of me time to try out some new looks. We’ll be on TV a lot over the next few weeks, so we have to make a good impression.” He suddenly peered past Imogen, down the hall. “Did Freddie come with you?”

  “No,” Imogen replied, turning behind her and wondering if she should have brought Freddie.

  When she turned back, Uncle Clyde was shaking his head. “He keeps saying he’s too busy to come visit,” he complained. “Do you suppose that means he’s up to something?”

  “Something?” Imogen asked incredulously. “Freddie?” Unless “something” was driving in endless circles around the roundabout, she couldn’t imagine he was.

  PC Phillips rolled his eyes at Imogen. “If you’re all right here for a bit, I’d better be getting back to the front office,” he said.

  But as he turned to leave, Uncle Knuckles jumped up from his seat and banged the teapot against the bars to the cell. “OI! YOU!” he shouted. “WOULD YOU MIND BRINGING US ANOTHER CUP OF TEA? DECAF WOULD BE LOVELY IF THAT’S ALL RIGHT. THE CAFFEINE IS DOING TERRIBLE THINGS TO MY BOWELS.” PC Phillips backed away, his hands over his ears. Uncle Knuckles—with his enormous muscles, shaved head, and scarred face—looked and sounded like a cross between a serial killer and a chainsaw, but he was actually the gentlest of the Crims. He was a very talented flower arranger and was devoted to his wife, Bets, even though she was almost certainly a psychopath and had tried to murder him on several occasions.

  “If I make you another pot of tea, will you promise never to use that word again?” asked PC Phillips.

  “WHICH? ‘BOWELS’?” said Uncle Knuckles.

  “Yes, I think he meant ‘bowels,’” said Josephine.

  “One of my favorite words, ‘bowels,’” said Uncle Clyde.

  “What was that?” asked Aunt Bets, with a worrying gleam in her eye. “Need me to rip out someone’s bowels? I have a nice sharp knitting needle—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Imogen said quickly.

  “Just give me the teapot,” said PC Phillips, reaching through the bars and taking it from Uncle Knuckles. “But I must remind you, this isn’t a restaurant. Have you forgotten you’re in jail?”

  “ARE YOU CALLING ME . . . FORGETFUL?” asked Uncle Knuckles, grabbing the bars with his meaty hands.

  “No, of course not,” said PC Phillips, smiling nervously.

  “BECAUSE I HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN HAVING A BIT OF TROUBLE REMEMBERING WORDS RECENTLY. WHAT’S THAT LOVELY DRIED FLOWER STUFF PEOPLE USE TO MAKE THEIR ROOMS SMELL NICE?”

  “Potpourri?” said PC Phillips.

  “THAT’S THE ONE!” said Uncle Knuckles, smiling the way a lion smiles at a baby elephant before it eats it. “THAT’S THE ANSWER TO TWELVE DOWN, JOSEPHINE!”

  “Of course!” said Josephine, writing it down in her crossword.

  PC Phillips blinked. “Right, then,” he said. “I’ll be back with the tea in a bit. I’m warning you, you won’t get this kind of service in maximum security. They buy cheap tea bags and they always run out of Earl Grey.”

  “You mean we’re going to maximum security?” asked Josephine, clapping her hands with delight. “Did you hear that Al? I can hold my head up high! We’re a danger to society. At last!”

  “Yes, dear,” said Al, smiling weakly at Imogen. “Just what we’ve always wanted.”

  As PC Phillips’s footsteps faded into the distance, the Crims went back to knitting, doodling, and planning unpleasant murders. Imogen stood there, watching them and shaking her head in disbelief. They all seemed to have forgotten she was there. The more she watched them, the angrier she felt. No one had asked her why she wasn’t at school; no one had thanked her for coming to see them; no one had even offered her one of the crookies they were passing around. (Crookies are cookies made with stolen ingredients. The flavors are a bit hit-or-miss.)

  Her family’s lack of interest in her stung, though she supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her. Big Nana was the only one of them who had ever paid her much attention. And when Big Nana had gone, they’d grieved for a bit and then each gone back to their bizarre and foolish criminal obsessions.

  No one had been as devastated as Imogen.

  And that, along with the very real desire to turn over a new leaf, was why she’d left them behind.

  Now, Imogen rattled the bars of the cell to let everyone know she was still there.

  No one seemed to notice.

  She gave an angry cough.

  “OI! YOU!” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “DO YOU HAVE A COLD? I HAVE A LAVENDER-SCENTED HANKIE SOMEWHERE IF YOU NEED IT.”

  “I don’t need a hankie,” said Imogen. “I need you all to explain something to me. What the hell are you thinking?”

  “Right now?” asked Aunt Bets. “I’m wondering what PC Phillips would taste like on toast.”

  “No,” said Imogen, trying to keep her voice steady. “Why are you all
pretending you carried out Uncle Clyde’s ridiculous heist?”

  “Are you kids using ‘ridiculous’ as a compliment these days?” Uncle Clyde asked hopefully.

  “No we are not,” said Imogen. “Come on. Mum? Dad? Admit it. There’s no way you did this. I know you didn’t think The Heist was a good idea.”

  The Crims looked at one another.

  “Well?” said Imogen, crossing her arms.

  Josephine laid down her paper. “You really have been away too long, darling,” she said. “Have you forgotten the Code of the Crims?”

  Imogen blushed. The truth was, she had forgotten the Code of the Crims—tried to, anyway. The code was “Nothing is more important than family. Except dinosaurs.” No one really knew where that last bit of the code came from, or what it meant, so they ignored it and concentrated on sticking by their fellow Crims, no matter what. For example, no one was quite sure how many murders Aunt Bets had committed over the years, but that was just one of her little quirks; she was family. And most of the Crims would have preferred it if Josephine stopped pickpocketing people at family dinners, but what could they do? She was family too. And everyone had been really hurt when Imogen had decided to change her name and go to boarding school and try to forget she was a Crim altogether—but they didn’t hold it against her (except maybe Delia). She was still family, even if she didn’t want to be.

  Imogen couldn’t bring herself to look her mother in the eye. Pulling off The Heist had been Uncle Clyde’s dream since he was a boy. It made sense that his family had tried to help him make his dream come true. A slow, horrible dread crept through her. Maybe she’d underestimated them—and overestimated them at the same time. Maybe they were guilty.

  But that didn’t matter, she reminded herself—she still had to get back to Lilyworth. If they truly had done it, she’d just have to find the lunch box and persuade her family to give it back to Jack Wooster and show some remorse. Then, if she really begged Ms. Gruner . . .

  It was a long shot. The longest shot she’d ever taken, including the time Big Nana had given her a crossbow and a pair of binoculars and told her to shoot down Uncle Clyde’s kite. But failure was not an option. She couldn’t stay in Blandington. Her future was at Lilyworth now—and in whatever high-powered, universe-running position Lilyworth led her to. Big Nana had always told her, “If you want something badly enough, you’ll find a way to get it, unless it’s my secret stash of toffee—you’ll pry that out of my cold, dead hands.” And Imogen wanted to get back to Lilyworth very, very badly indeed.