by Kate Davies
Imogen took the bag and forced herself to say, “Great. Thank you.”
“How are you doing, anyway?” asked Ava. “Are you feeling . . . stable?”
“Never been better,” said Imogen. She had to unsettle Ava somehow, to find out if she really was a Kruk. Drop a subtle accusation into the conversation, maybe. Luckily “subtle accusations” featured heavily in Big Nana’s crime homework schedule.
“I’ve been worried about you,” said Ava.
“Don’t worry about me!” said Imogen. “Just been feeling a little bit . . . Kruk.”
“A bit what?”
“A bit Kruk—it means ‘under the weather.’ It’s a word my gran uses all the time. She’s originally from the north, where they say things like ‘Eeh, by heck’ and eat a lot of pork rinds.”
Ava patted Imogen’s hand. “Maybe you should go home early if you’re not well,” she said.
She hadn’t taken the bait. Worth another try . . .
“I just need a nice bath, probably,” said Imogen. “And for someone to Kruk me dinner.”
Ava smiled at her patronizingly again and handed her a business card. “I got that therapist’s number from my friend for you, just in case. There’s no shame in getting help, you know. Even Prince William says so.” And with that she walked back to her desk, where Penelope and Willa were waiting for her.
Imogen stared after Ava. I have to find out the truth, she thought. I have to prove you’re a Kruk—and you’re involved in this somehow.
And then I have to get my family back.
After school, Imogen dropped by the cafeteria to steal some leftover chicken nuggets and corn—things were getting pretty desperate at Crim House, food-wise. Ava was there, chairing yet another charity committee meeting, standing in front of the fluorescent lights so that her hair lit up from behind like an incredibly annoying saint.
Imogen snuck into the kitchen without anyone noticing and filled her schoolbag with food. Then she decided to wait. This was her opportunity to follow Ava home—to find out who she was, once and for all.
Ava was the last to leave the charity meeting. Imogen followed her out of the building, hiding behind garbage cans along the way as Big Nana had always told her to: “No one looks behind a garbage can unless they are a rat, and rats never tell.”
Ava turned down back alleys and ran up side streets, doubling back on herself and taking the longest possible route home. If she didn’t know she was being followed, then she had a terrible sense of direction. She turned onto a main road—and then suddenly, Ava was gone. Imogen was impressed despite herself. Ava seemed to know all the criminal maneuvers, which just made it more likely that she was a Kruk. It’s a shame we’re archenemies, Imogen mused. She’d really be able to help me with my crime homework.
Imogen searched the street where Ava had disappeared, and ran round the block, but there was no trace of her. Imogen trudged home, feeling even more sorry for herself than usual. I’ll go and find Freddie, she thought as she opened the front door. He usually makes me feel better about things . . . except for when he’s making me feel worse about them. Either way, he was someone to talk to, in the absence of Delia. And her father. And most of her other cousins.
Freddie wasn’t in the kitchen, or in the dungeon, or in the secret interrogation room. He wasn’t in his bedroom, either, or in his poker room—but Big Nana was. Imogen found her lifting up the rug under the table, as though she expected to find something underneath.
“What are you looking for?” Imogen asked.
“Freddie,” said Big Nana. “I know he’s six foot four, but he’s always been particularly good at hiding.”
“Is he missing now?” said Imogen.
Big Nana nodded. “He went to the hardware store to try to steal some more netting for his booby traps and never came home. That was at eleven this morning.”
Imogen shivered. “It won’t be long until they come for us,” she said.
“Let them try,” said Big Nana. “I’ve got sharp teeth and a nasty case of rabies I never bothered getting treated.”
But that wasn’t much consolation.
Imogen felt so helpless. She hated thinking about what might be happening to her cousins and her poor father. Maybe it was time for desperate measures.
Maybe it was time to go to the police.
Big Nana held another family meeting that night—a strangely quiet one. The adult Crims were capable of making as much of a racket as the Horrible Children, obviously, but they seemed to have been stunned into silence. Well . . . almost silence. There was quite a lot of weeping and wailing, to be honest.
“My children!” wept Uncle Clyde.
“My children!” cried Aunt Bets.
“MY children!” wailed Josephine.
“Oh, shut up, Josephine,” said Big Nana. “You’ve only got one child, and she’s sitting right next to you.”
Josephine looked at Imogen with obvious disappointment.
“Now,” said Big Nana, waving her sharing stick in the air. “I’ve called you here because I have an important announcement: I am calling an end to the Crime Directive. We can worry about the most wanted list when we’ve stopped being kidnapped.”
“It’s not like any of us were committing any crimes, anyway,” muttered Uncle Clyde.
“It’s humiliating,” said Josephine. “I hardly dare show my face at the police station. You know the Masked Banana Bandit is still active?”
“No bananas anywhere,” said Aunt Bets, nodding. “Just like during the war.”
“You’re not old enough to remember the Second World War,” Imogen pointed out.
“I’m talking about the 1999 Blandington Fruit War, dummy,” said Aunt Bets. “There was a real trend for smoothies that year. You had to be extremely cunning and violent to get your hands on a non-puréed strawberry.”
“Back to the kidnappings,” said Big Nana. “What did they all have in common?”
“THEY ALL INVOLVED OUR BELOVED FAMILY MEMBERS,” said Uncle Knuckles, blowing his nose on a tablecloth. (He had such a big nose that he used them instead of hankies.)
“Apart from that,” said Big Nana.
Imogen raised her hand.
“Yes, Imogen?” said Big Nana, passing her the sharing stick.
“It seems most of them disappeared while they were doing things that only other Crims knew they were going to do,” said Imogen. “Nick, Nate, and Delia were headed to the arcade. . . . Freddie was headed to the hardware store. . . .”
“Exactly,” said Big Nana, taking the sharing stick back and pointing it at each of the Crims in turn. “So how do the Kruks know what we’re up to? We thought Gunther Kruk was the mole, but he’s gone, and the Kruks are still targeting us. When was the last time one of us pulled off a crime?”
“I CAN’T THINK; IT’S BEEN SO LONG,” said Uncle Knuckles.
“And now we’re disappearing, a few at a time, like characters in a Scandinavian crime drama! Who, if you haven’t noticed, usually end up murdered in very inventive ways! So has anyone got any ideas about what we can do to stop this madness and rescue our family? Anyone. Except you, Clyde.”
Uncle Clyde, who had been waving his arm in the air, dropped it. “Not fair,” he mumbled.
Imogen put up her hand.
“Yes, Imogen?” said Big Nana, passing her the stick. “You’re always the voice of reason. Except when you’re the voice of treason, which is even better.”
“Okay, then,” said Imogen. “This might sound crazy. But shouldn’t we go to the . . . police?”
The Crims fell silent. Even Isabella stopped sucking on her pacifier.
“How dare you,” muttered Josephine.
“I always knew she couldn’t be trusted,” said Aunt Bets.
“Look, I know it’s not the ideal solution,” said Imogen, standing up to get away from Aunt Bets, who was trying to stab her with the sharp end of her brooch, “but we’re running out of options. We could go straight to PC Donnelly—he
’s family, so he’s on our side. Usually. He got us off when Delia stole that ice cream truck.”
“I think you’ll find she borrowed it,” said Uncle Clyde.
“And he gave me some good advice when I was figuring out The Heist. Like ‘breakfast is the most important meal of the day’ and ‘horizontal stripes aren’t flattering.’ But also ‘If you’re wondering who set your family up, look for the person with the motive.’ He might be able to help us.”
The other Crims jeered and shouted and burst into such loud tears that Imogen stopped speaking and sat back down, putting her hands over her ears.
“SILENCE!” shouted Big Nana. And she turned her small, scary eyes on Imogen. “The only way I will ever enter Blandington Police Station is if my corpse is dragged in there by rats. And you know rats have a terrible sense of direction, so that’s never going to happen. We are CRIMS. Crims do not go to the police. The police are our mortal enemies. Except for Donnelly—he is a very nice boy; always remembered to wash behind his ears as a child—but still . . . He’s on the other side. He’s made his law-abiding bed, and he has to lie in it.”
Uncle Knuckles nodded. “I HATE TO DISAGREE WITH YOU, IMOGEN, ESPECIALLY AS YOU HAVE SUCH LOVELY TEETH, BUT BIG NANA IS RIGHT. LIKE A CRYPTIC CROSSWORD PUZZLE, THIS IS SOMETHING WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO FIGURE OUT ON OUR OWN.”
Aunt Bets grabbed the sharing stick from Uncle Knuckles and held it above her head like a spear. Glaring at Big Nana, she walked slowly toward her like a geriatric hunter stalking her prey. “When Big Nana was ‘dead,’ not one of us disappeared,” she said. “Not even when you really, really wanted them to, like when Nick and Nate were going through that chainsaw phase. What’s changed? Big Nana has come back. If you ask me, which NO ONE HAS because NO ONE LISTENS TO ME, Big Nana is behind this!” She was leaning over Big Nana now, holding the sharing stick to her throat. “Yes, you!” she yelled. “You planned the whole thing—just like you faked your own death, you treacherous cow!”
Big Nana batted the sharing stick away and pushed herself to her feet. “How dare you,” she said, her hands in fists, her voice shaking. “Everyone knows that cows are the most trustworthy of all farm animals!”
“And you are the least trustworthy of all the Crims!” said Aunt Bets, grabbing one of her knitting needles and running back at Big Nana.
“Stop it!” shouted Imogen, managing to knock Aunt Bets out of the way just before she caused Big Nana a serious injury.
“You’re in league with Big Nana!” shouted Aunt Bets, turning the knitting needle on Imogen.
“You’re the one trying to stab us all the time!” shouted Uncle Clyde, turning on Aunt Bets. “You’re the mole!”
“MY WIFE ISN’T THE MOLE!” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “CLYDE HASN’T SAID MUCH THIS EVENING. MAYBE HE’S THE MOLE! OR MAYBE HE’S JUST FEELING UNDER THE WEATHER. ARE YOU OKAY, CLYDE?”
“I’m fine,” said Uncle Clyde, pointing at Josephine. “But she doesn’t seem that sorry that Al’s gone missing. I reckon it’s her!”
“How dare you accuse me?” said Josephine. “I think it’s Imogen. She’s always been shifty, ever since she was a baby and had that so-called ‘colic.’”
Imogen decided to ignore her ridiculous family. “Big Nana!” she shouted above the din. “Do you really think anyone in this room is . . . focused enough to be the second mole?”
Big Nana’s gaze lingered briefly on Isabella, who was babbling into a mobile phone.
“Oh, come on,” said Imogen. “She’s having an imaginary conversation in baby talk.”
“Or is she speaking in code?”
Imogen raised her eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Fine,” said Big Nana. “You’re right. Probably not.”
“So maybe it’s the house itself that’s the problem,” said Imogen. “Maybe it is bugged.”
“I had the same thought,” said Big Nana. “But we can’t afford to keep the vacuum cleaner running all the time. Not when we actually pay for our electricity these days.” She pursed her lips and shook her head, apparently overcome with grief. “There’s only one thing for it: We’ll have to move out of Crim House until things quiet down. Knuckles and Bets—you’re in charge of stealing us a new house. Remember: We want at least six bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, and period features.”
“HOW WONDERFUL!” said Uncle Knuckles, dabbing at his eyes with his tablecloth, which was really quite dirty by this point. “IT’LL BE LIKE A SECOND HONEYMOON!”
Imogen turned to Big Nana and muttered, “Do you really think they’re the best choice? Aunt Bets did just try to kill you—”
“Of course they are, my pot of local honey,” said Big Nana. “Your aunt Bets is a sociopath. She’s got a better chance than any of us of fighting off a kidnapper. No one will stick her in a sack and live to tell the tale!” She clapped her hands. “Now. All of you. Start packing. And don’t forget: No one is to leave the house unaccompanied. No one is to stay in the house unaccompanied. If necessary, hire a piano accompanist to accompany you—there’s a very good one in town who specializes in ragtime. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Big Nana,” everyone chanted.
Imogen went back up to her bedroom and started to pack her things. It felt like she was always packing and unpacking these days. She felt jumpier than usual. When her door creaked open, she spun around, picking up her desk lamp in case she needed to defend herself. But it was just Barney.
She ruffled his fur. “Did you see what happened to Freddie?” she asked him. But he didn’t answer, which wasn’t that surprising, considering he was a dog. She missed Delia with a pang. She could really have done with someone to confide in.
Freddie had left for the hardware store at about four o’clock that afternoon. The sun had been setting in the sky, painting the beige houses an unusually attractive shade of peach. He had been feeling positive, like the exciting end of a battery. Sure, his cousins kept going missing. But at least something was finally happening to the Crims. Maybe a little bit of kidnapping was what his hopeless cousins needed; maybe they’d take the threat from the Kruks more seriously after this. Or maybe they’d die, painfully and slowly, at the hands of a small German child with unnaturally sharp nails. He shuddered. All he needed to do was set up one more booby trap—at the top of the house, where the 747 used to be. If he could just catch one Kruk, he knew he could get the information he needed. . . .
Freddie turned the corner into Blandington Secondary School Street—and heard a voice calling to him down a side road. He pulled out his penknife and approached carefully.
“Hey,” said a figure in a hoodie. “It’th me. Pete.”
“Oh!” said Freddie, putting his knife away. Unfortunate Pete was too unfortunate to be dangerous. He had lost every poker game he’d ever played and every tooth he’d ever had—thanks to Freddie, who’d made him punch himself in the face when he lost a game and failed to pay up. Plus, he had a habit of dropping money in the street—which didn’t help his financial situation—and a brother called Fortunate Pete, which was just cruelty on his parents’ part. Freddie almost felt sorry for him—but not quite. “You still owe me money,” he said to him in his most threatening voice.
“I know, I know,” said Pete, holding up his hands. “That’th why I haven’t bought any falthe teeth yet. You come firth. And I’ve come up with a way to pay you back! I thwear!”
“I’m listening,” said Freddie.
“It involveth a bit of a con trick,” said Pete. “Would you be up for playing along?”
Freddie looked at Pete. He didn’t have much confidence in Pete’s ability to pull off a con trick, no matter how small. But Pete did owe him money—a lot of it—and at this point, when it looked as though the Crims might be forced to start paying taxes any minute, he was eager to get it back. “All right,” said Freddie. “What do you have in mind?”
Pete opened up his bulging rucksack. It was full of digital radios, smartphones, and tablets.
“Where
did you get all this stuff?” asked Freddie, impressed.
“I made it!” said Pete. “It’th all fake—there’th thawdust inthide, where the electronicth should be. Thought I’d take it all back to the thtore. I made a fake retheipt— Look. That online Photothop courthe I did while I wath recovering from my . . . injurieeth . . . really paid off.” He gave Freddie a reproachful look.
Freddie glanced away. Maybe making Pete punch himself in the face had been a bit cruel. He felt guilty enough that he agreed to Pete’s ridiculous plan, even though he very much doubted that any electronics store owner would be foolish enough to be taken in by the fake goods.
But then he remembered: He was in Blandington, where a bandit in a distinctive mask could steal bananas over and over again without anyone stopping them; where the police officers played with My Little Ponies during team meetings; and where the electronics store owner was a little old lady called Doris, who thought that “wirelesses” were newfangled nonsense. (She’d inherited the store from her husband, who, ironically, had died in a terrible electricity-related accident, and she spent every night throwing darts at a portrait of Michael Faraday, the Victorian scientist who had discovered what electromagnetic conduction was. Still, she felt she had to keep the shop open for the sake of her husband. Poor Doris.)
“What do you want?” said Doris when Freddie and Pete walked into the store. She was very little indeed—the top of her head was only just visible above the counter.
“To return theeth faulty electronic goodth,” said Pete, laying out his fake radios, tablets, and phones in front of her. “I bought theeth from you in good faith! And not one of them workth!”
“Not surprised,” Doris said bitterly. “Full of wires and batteries. The devil’s work!”
Freddie looked at Pete, who gave him a thumbs-up. This was a lot easier than he’d expected.
