The Mother at Number 5

THE MOTHER AT NUMBER 5 AN UTTERLY GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER WITH A SHOCKING TWIST JILL CHILDS BOOKS BY JILL CHILDS The Mother at Number 5 Long Lost Girl I Let Him In The Mistress The First Wife Invisible Girl Jessica’s Promise Gracie’s Secret AVAILABLE IN AUDIO Long Lost Girl (Available in the UK and US) I Let Him In (Available in the UK and US) The Mistress (Available in the UK and US) The First Wife (Available in the UK and US) Invisible Girl (Available in the UK and US) Jessica’s Promise (Available in the UK and US) Gracie’s Secret (Available in the UK and US) CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Epilogue Gracie’s Secret Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Hear More from Jill Books by Jill Childs A Letter from Jill Jessica’s Promise Invisible Girl The First Wife The Mistress Long Lost Girl I Let Him In Acknowledgements * For Ilkley PROLOGUE At first sight, it could have been a giant puppet, slumped and lifeless, carelessly abandoned on the kitchen floor. The body’s limbs are twisted awkwardly, bent under its weight as it slid to the floor. One foot sticks out at an unnatural angle. Fingers that once offered love and care are frozen now into stiff, rounded claws. And those eyes. Wide, glassy and staring sightlessly upwards towards the newly painted ceiling. The panic and shock captured in them mirrors the horror of the distorted mouth. This was not a peaceful death. No tearful, bedside visits at the end of a life well lived. No disguising the fact that death has come with violence and force. The extravagant arcs of splattered blood tell their own story. They draw broken patterns across the pristine kitchen counters where they have caught the edges of cupboards, pooled, congealed and hardened on the carefully mopped kitchen floor. Later, much later, questions will be asked, by friends, by neighbours, by detectives, by lawyers. What passion could have driven someone to seize that knife, and plunge it so deeply into another person’s flesh that only the handle now protruded? Who else might have watched, might have remained silent, watching this horror unfold? And, perhaps the biggest question of all, how could such wickedness be possible, in this close, caring community? So many questions. Every one of them too late. 1 ROS ‘It’s a hard life.’ Ros turned to see who’d spoken. The woman on the next sunlounger had a neat, dark bob. She gave an ironic smile as she lifted her glass. It was brimming with a coconut cocktail, decorated with a curly plastic straw and a paper umbrella. A single plump cherry floated on the surface. ‘But someone’s got to do it, right?’ The woman winked. Her lips closed around the straw. They were artfully painted with bright red lipstick and formed a perfect O. She wasn’t much younger than Ros – mid-thirties probably – but in better shape. Long, slim legs streaked out from a slinky robe. Her dark, even tan was set off by a skimpy bikini. Ros hadn’t worn a bikini for years. Certainly not since she’d been pregnant with Sophie. Frankly, if she stopped to think about it, she didn’t expect she’d wear one ever again. But she rarely stopped. Life was too busy. She shifted her buttocks on the chair, conscious of her stomach and thighs. You’re perfect, Mummy, the girls told her. They were still young enough to be adoring and she was enjoying it while it lasted. ‘Absolutely. It’s hell, isn’t it?’ Ros smiled back. She lifted her plastic beaker of juice and gave a mock toast in reply. She and Adam always brought their own snacks and drinks down to the poolside, to save money. She’d seen the prices on the bar menu. They’d burn through a fortune if they ordered everything from there. Sweat pooled between her breasts and Ros shifted her position on the sunlounger, angling herself more fully into the shade thrown by the parasol. She liked heat but the cloudless glare of Majorca in August was challenging, even for her. She spent half her day smothering the protesting girls in sun-cream and shoving wide-brimmed hats on their heads. She shielded her eyes with her hand and watched them now. The early afternoon sun shimmered on the moving water. Sophie and Bella were screaming as they splashed each other in the shallow end of the hotel pool. It was happy shrieking, but she liked to stay alert: every now and then it tipped over into fighting. She looked up as the waiter headed towards them. He stopped at the other woman’s chair and set a platter of fresh fruit down with a flourish. Ros peered across. Artfully arranged slices of pineapple and kiwi fruit, banana, a knob of lime and a few slices of a fleshy dark orange fruit she didn’t recognise, served with a tiny fork. It looked amazing but it was an awful lot of money. You could buy a pound of fresh fruit at the local market for the same price. She could imagine some of the school mums at home snapping a picture and posting it online, just to make their friends’ mouths water and, well, yes, to show off a bit too. The waiter gave the woman a smile. His eyes were all over