The Crims Page 8

  Imogen scowled at Freddie. “I thought you said they were in bed,” she hissed.

  “They must have gotten up,” said Freddie.

  “Wait,” said Imogen, looking around. “Where’s Isabella?”

  “Is she this speedy little lady?” asked Mrs. Teakettle, dropping her handbag and scooping up Isabella, who was crawling toward the piranha pond. Mrs. Teakettle turned toward the other Horrible Children, with Isabella tucked under her arm, and shone her flashlight at each of them in turn. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do,” she said. Her voice was still comforting, but there was something worrying about it now, like a delicious-looking cream cake that’s two weeks past its sell-by date.

  “Who are you?” squeaked Sam.

  “I’m asking the questions today, young man,” said Mrs. Teakettle.

  The Horrible Children stared at Mrs. Teakettle, mouths open.

  “I want answers, and I want them now,” said Mrs. Teakettle, shining her flashlight into Delia’s eyes. “Where did you get this pinball machine?”

  “It was a gift,” said Delia, shielding her eyes.

  “True answers, please,” said Mrs. Teakettle.

  “We bought it,” said one of the twins. “There’s nothing fun to do in the house, and Freddie and Imogen won’t let us go to the skate park or anything.”

  “There isn’t a skate park anymore,” Imogen told Mrs. Teakettle. “Sam got banned for letting his pet rats loose on the ramps, so he called the council pretending to be the mayor and got them to shut it down.”

  Mrs. Teakettle shone her flashlight into Sam’s eyes. “Good at impressions, are you, young man?”

  “Not so much anymore,” said Sam, sounding like a miserable donkey.

  “I see,” said Mrs. Teakettle.

  She moved the flashlight’s beam away from Sam and shone it at Henry, who had been trying to scrape his name into the pinball machine. “That’s quite enough of that,” she said. Henry abruptly dropped the pen he’d been using.

  Mrs. Teakettle sighed. “My dear children,” she said. “You all look very tired. Are you tired?”

  The Horrible Children nodded.

  “Would you like to go inside now?”

  The Horrible Children nodded again.

  “Would you like me to stop shining this light into your eyes?”

  The Horrible Children nodded for the third time.

  “Then you’d better own up to stealing this pinball machine from the Primrose.”

  Sam gasped. “How did you know we got it from the pub?”

  Mrs. Teakettle shone her flashlight on the side of the pinball machine.

  “I can’t see anything,” said Sam.

  Nor could Imogen. But when she stepped toward the pinball to take a closer look, she saw that there, stamped on the side, was a tiny yellow flower with the words “The Primrose Pub” in the middle.

  Imogen and Freddie looked at each other and grinned. Mrs. Teakettle was good.

  The Horrible Children slumped. Mrs. Teakettle had won.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Mrs. Teakettle, smiling a little too sweetly. “We’re all going to the pub to return the pinball machine, and you’ll promise never to steal from them again. Okay?”

  “Okay,” chanted the Horrible Children.

  Mrs. Teakettle looked at Isabella. “Do you need to do a wee before we go to the pub?” she asked.

  “Pub!” said Isabella. “Drink!”

  “Not for you!” said Mrs. Teakettle, shaking her head happily. “Underage drinking is a terrible idea, unless you’re on a cruise ship. Anything goes on a cruise ship. Right—follow me!” And she waddled up the front path, stepping over a straitjacket and several bottles marked “Poison.”

  “Wait!” said Freddie, hurrying after Mrs. Teakettle. “Let me pay you for your time!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Teakettle, smiling again. “I don’t mind going to the Primrose. I could do with a pint, anyway! See you tomorrow!”

  Imogen and Freddie stood on the doorstep and watched the Horrible Children snake down the hill after Mrs. Teakettle, like rats following the Pied Piper.

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” said Freddie. “Sometimes things really do work out for the best.”

  “She’s probably a serial killer,” said Imogen.

  “Well, if one or two of the cousins went missing, it might not be the worst thing in the world,” said Freddie. “There are an awful lot of them.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, Freddie,” said Imogen.

  “Sorry,” said Freddie, yawning. “I’m getting grumpy—I think it’s time for bed.”

  Imogen woke up the next morning after her first good night’s sleep in days. Mrs. Teakettle would be taking care of the kids today, so they were officially not her problem anymore. She could get on with clearing her family’s name and getting out of this cursed town. As soon as she was dressed, she walked to the Blandington Bakery to buy a box of doughnuts to take to the police station.

  PC Phillips was the only officer on duty that day. He was fiddling with something on his desk as Imogen entered the station, but he slipped whatever it was into his desk drawer before she could get a proper look at it. She had a feeling it was a My Little Pony.

  “Doughnuts, eh?” he said as she held the box out to him. “You’re learning.” He took one and put it into his mouth. Then he took two more and slipped them onto his wrist, like bracelets. “In case I get hungry later,” he said. “Come on, then. Seeing as you’ve been so generous, I’ll let you inside the cell today.”

  PC Phillips let Imogen into her family’s cell and clanged the door shut after her.

  Imogen’s stomach went cold. “You’re not going to lock me in here, are you?”

  “Just shout when you want me to let you out again,” said PC Phillips, turning the key in the lock. He walked off down the corridor, swinging the keys in his nasty hand and whistling a worrying tune.

  Imogen took a deep breath. She had a recurring nightmare in which she was trapped in a tiny space with her relatives—although in the dream everyone was dressed as clowns, for some reason, and she was always late for her history exam. “Hello, everyone,” she said.

  Her family was asleep.

  “Wake up,” Imogen said a little louder.

  But they didn’t.

  “What? All these gold bars are for me? And the diamonds, too?” she tried.

  All of the Crims’ eyes snapped open.

  “Gold? Diamonds? Where?” asked Josephine.

  “There isn’t any gold,” said Imogen. “I was just trying to get your attention.”

  “OI! IMOGEN!” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “DID YOU TELL ANYONE WE DIDN’T STEAL THE LUNCH BOX?”

  “No—” said Imogen, backing away from him.

  “THAT’S ALL RIGHT, THEN,” he said. “WOULD YOU LIKE A GLUTEN-FREE BROWNIE?” He pulled something gooey and brown out of his pocket. “THERE ARE A FEW PIGEON FEATHERS STUCK TO IT SO IT MIGHT TASTE A BIT BIRDY.”

  “No one wants your disgusting brownie, Knuckles, you dumb yeti,” said Uncle Clyde, shaking his head.

  “OI! DON’T SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT! IT HURTS MY FEELINGS!” said Uncle Knuckles.

  Imogen decided to ignore her arguing uncles. She walked over to her mother, who reached out to give her a hug.

  “Darling,” said Josephine. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word about us not doing The Heist. PC Phillips said that the police have had several calls from chat shows wanting to interview us. Apparently, a lovely woman called Nancy Grace wants to fly us over so we can appear on her show in America!”

  “I don’t think the police are going to let you out so you can appear on TV, Mum,” Imogen said. “And I really don’t think they’re going to let you leave the country. Unless you tell them you’re innocent.” She took a notebook out of her pocket and casually sat down on the bench next to Uncle Clyde, looking over his shoulder. He was drawing what looked like a bird drowning in a toilet.

  “Tha
t’s a nice picture,” she said.

  “It’s not just a picture,” said Uncle Clyde. “It’s a plan for the jailbreak. I think I can bust out of here if I can tame a flock of geese and get them to swim through the sewers and up the toilet into the cell.”

  “And then what?”

  “I haven’t got that far yet,” said Uncle Clyde, coloring the inside of the toilet a very unpleasant shade of yellow.

  “Well . . . it’s a very original idea,” said Imogen, resorting to flattery. “All of your ideas are original. The Heist was brilliant.”

  Uncle Clyde looked up. “Thank you,” he said. “I never thought my work would be appreciated in my lifetime. You really think The Heist was brilliant? You’re not just saying that?”

  “Of course not!” said Imogen. “It was . . . inspired. That’s why someone stole it, clearly. . . . Maybe someone overheard you talking about The Heist?”

  “Not possible!” said Uncle Clyde, running his fingers through his hair. “I only ever talked about The Heist at home, and strangers never came to the house! Except the postman, obviously.”

  “The postman,” Imogen said thoughtfully, writing that down.

  “I always asked him in for a cup of tea. And he did seem very interested in The Heist whenever I mentioned it.”

  “Right,” said Imogen, underlining the postman’s name.

  “The dishwasher repairman too. He thought The Heist was a great idea.”

  “I see,” said Imogen, making a note.

  “And Chuck, of course.”

  Imogen frowned. “Chuck?”

  “He’s the homeless man who usually hangs around outside the train station. We tell each other everything.”

  “Okay,” said Imogen, putting her pen down. “So a lot of people knew about The Heist.”

  “You could say that,” said Uncle Clyde.

  “Everyone in Blandington.”

  “Probably.”

  Imogen sighed. “So pretty much anyone in town could have framed you.”

  “Or someone from out of town,” said Clyde. “I emailed a few old prison friends about it. One of them lives in Australia now!”

  Josephine, who was applying her lipstick, looked up from her hand mirror. “But it’s obvious who framed us,” she said.

  “Is it?” said Imogen.

  “Of course,” said Josephine, snapping the mirror shut. “Think about it. Who are our main rivals?”

  Imogen stared at her mother blankly. The Crims didn’t have rivals—they were too rubbish to have rivals.

  “Come on, darling,” said Josephine. “Didn’t I teach you anything? It must be the Kruks!”

  Imogen blinked.

  The Kruks were a crime family too, but unlike the Crims, they were actually capable of pulling off crimes successfully without maiming, bankrupting, or humiliating themselves in the process. The Kruks operated out of London, and rumor had it that they had built themselves a full-scale replica of Buckingham Palace (known as Krukingham Palace; what else for criminal royalty?) in their vast network of tunnels beneath the city. Accusing the Kruks of being behind The Heist was like getting a parking ticket and taking it up with the queen. Imogen was pretty sure the Kruks had never even heard of the Crims—or of Blandington, for that matter (although it was so boring that even if they had heard of it, they’d probably have forgotten about it straightaway). The Kruks had more important things to think about, like counting their piles of gold and being terrifying.

  “It has to be the Kruks,” said Josephine, nodding at the other Crims, who all looked pretty doubtful.

  “I really, really don’t think it was them,” Imogen said. “Don’t they operate out of London? Besides, why would they want to steal that lunch box? They don’t need the money.”

  “The girl has a point,” said Uncle Clyde. “I heard that little Violet Kruk takes her lunch to school in a bag made of unicorn skin.”

  “Don’t be silly, Clyde,” said Josephine. “Unicorns don’t exist.”

  “I heard that the Kruks killed the last one,” muttered Uncle Clyde.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” said Imogen. “Apparently, they have a waxworks exhibition but all the ‘waxworks’ are real dead celebrities.”

  “I heard their accounts are in a terrible state,” said Al.

  “I heard that they eat baby zebras for lunch,” Aunt Bets said wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to eat a zebra. Is the meat stripy? Maybe I’ll never know.”

  “DON’T WORRY, BETSIBOO,” said Uncle Knuckles, squeezing Aunt Bets’s shoulder. “AS SOON AS WE GET OUT OF HERE, I’LL GO TO THE ZOO AND STEAL YOU ONE. A REALLY RARE ONE. THEN WE’LL BARBECUE IT UP ON THE GRILL!”

  Imogen suddenly felt very tired—and strangely hungry, considering all the talk of zebra eating. She looked at her watch: nearly time for lunch. She called for PC Phillips and tried to say good-bye to her family, but they barely noticed. They were far too busy swapping Kruk stories.

  “Did you hear about their trampoline? It’s made of stolen paintings, stitched together. The ones they’re bored of, like the Monets and the Rembrandts,” said Josephine. She smiled at PC Phillips, who had arrived to open the cell door.

  “I HEARD THAT THEY HAVE TINY PET HORSES THAT THEY WALK ON LEASHES,” said Uncle Knuckles.

  PC Phillips paused with the key in the lock. “What was that?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Imogen said. “Can you let me out, please?”

  PC Phillips unlocked the door, and Imogen stepped out of the cell. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?” she said to her family. “Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”

  Outside the police station, Imogen took a deep breath and inhaled the fresh air of freedom. Unfortunately, a garbage truck had just driven by, so the air didn’t smell so much of freedom as rotten fish and rancid milk and whatever other boring food the people of Blandington had been eating that week.

  Her mind was whirring. Could it be the Kruks who had performed The Heist? It felt terribly unlikely, but as it was the only lead she had, she guessed she needed to pursue it. . . .

  She was so deep in thought that she almost crashed straight into PC Donnelly, who rounded the corner at that very moment carrying two steaming cups of coffee.

  “Morning, Imogen,” he said, smiling at her. “Just been on an emergency supply run. We have to keep our energy up now we’ve got so many crimes to investigate!”

  “One crime to investigate,” Imogen pointed out.

  PC Donnelly turned pink. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive. How are you holding up?”

  Imogen looked at him. He looked sincere—maybe she could trust him. He was family, after all. “I’m okay,” she said. “But listen—I think you’ve made a mistake. I don’t actually think the Crims are guilty this time.”

  “Oh, they’re guilty,” said PC Donnelly, laughing to himself again. “Who else would try to distract the victim with a greased pig? Classic Uncle Clyde! He loves using farm animals for the element of surprise.”

  “But that’s just it—what if someone else stole the lunch box, but they followed Uncle Clyde’s Heist plans to the letter, to make it look like it was the Crims?”

  “Who’d be able to pull off a stunt like that?” asked PC Donnelly.

  “Well . . . the Kruks, maybe?” suggested Imogen, watching him for a response.

  “The Kruks?” Donnelly started laughing. He laughed so hard that he dropped the tray of coffees all over his feet, but that just made him laugh harder. He laughed so hard that a man walking past thought, I wish I could laugh like that. I’ll never laugh that hard while I live in Blandington, and he went home and packed his bags and moved to Scotland to become a stand-up comedian. He laughed so hard that the birds in the trees, who weren’t used to that sort of thing, took off into the sky, sparking a hurricane in Indonesia (but he wasn’t to know that). Eventually, he wiped his eyes (and his shoes) and let out the sort of “aaaaah” noise you make when you’ve been laughing uncontrollably an
d have accidentally caused a natural disaster on the other side of the world. “No disrespect to our family,” he said, “but come on—the Kruks operate on a completely different level from the Crims. The Crims sell counterfeit gift cards on the internet for the Second-Best Steak House. The Kruks sell stolen art to the mafia. Good art—not stuff like that painting of a clown on black velvet that Aunt Bets tried to unload a few months ago.”

  “I know,” said Imogen, reddening, “but—”

  “The Crims steal candy bars from delivery trucks. The Kruks stole a man’s foot once.”

  “You’ve made your point—”

  “You know I was stationed in London when I first joined the police? I worked on a case the Kruks were involved in. They disposed of one of their enemies by covering him in honey and lowering him into a pit of grizzly bears. Then they killed the grizzly bears by rubbing them with dog food and dumping them into a pool of sharks. Then they killed the sharks by coating them in—”

  “Okay!” cried Imogen. She felt foolish, and there was nothing she hated more than feeling foolish. Except for feeling completely and utterly hopeless—and she felt that, too. “I get it! Maybe it wasn’t the Kruks! But what if someone else set up the Crims?”

  “Listen to me, Imogen,” said PC Donnelly. “No one set up our family. I’m sorry. If you want to solve a crime, you have to look for motive, opportunity, and knowledge. Who had the motive to steal the lunch box? Who lives right down the road from Wooster Mansion? Who knew how much the lunch box was worth?”

  “Uncle Clyde,” Imogen said reluctantly.

  “So if you really, really think someone set up our family—which I really, really don’t think they did—you should start by thinking who would want to.”

  “You’re right,” said Imogen, sighing. “Thank you. Look—shall I get you some more coffee?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said PC Donnelly. “You gave me a good laugh. The Kruks! Setting up the Crims! As if!” He waved good-bye and walked back to the police station, still laughing to himself.

  Imogen walked home, scuffing her feet miserably on the pavement. She thought about what PC Donnelly had said: Who would want to set up the Crims? It was a tricky question to answer, because nearly everyone who knew the Crims had a grudge against them, ranging from “They stole my Winnebago” to “They turned my cat to a life of crime.” But then she realized: There was one person in particular who would love to see Uncle Clyde humiliated. Someone who’d had a grudge against him for years.