Free The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... by C.L. Taylor Page B

He turns left onto Zetland Road just as the lights change and I’m forced to stop.
    I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as he zips across the road and jumps off the bike outside a kitchen-and-bathroom shop and then hammers on the panelled wooden door of the building next to it, on the corner of the street. There are curtains at the window and a large piece of white card or wood – at least twelve feet by six feet – propped up inside, obscuring the view. As the traffic light turns green the door opens and the man disappears inside, taking the bike with him. It has to be the squat Jake told me about.
    There’s a space outside a tile shop on the opposite side of the road so I park quickly, half mounting the pavement in my desperation to get out of the car.
    I have to wait for one, two, three cars to go past before there’s a gap in the traffic and I can sprint across the road.
    ‘Hello!’ I knock on the door and then wait.
    A young mother walks past, pushing a red-faced, squalling baby in a pram. Her eyes are fixed on a spot in the distance, as though she’s willing herself to … just … get … home. She doesn’t so much as glance at me.
    I knock again and walk around the corner and tap on the window.
    Nothing happens. No one comes to the door and the curtains don’t twitch.
    ‘Hello?’ I lift the letterbox and peer inside but it’s lined with nylon bristles and I can’t see a thing. ‘Hello! I know you’re in there. I just saw you go in with the bike.’
    ‘They’re all drug addicts, you know.’ An elderly man, with a walking stick in one hand and a blue plastic bag in the other, pauses beside me. ‘If they’ve stolen something of yours you need to call the police.’
    I instinctively touch my handbag, slung across my body. I should call the police. Or at least Mark. But adrenalin’s coursing through me and I can’t stop myself from shouting through the letterbox again as the man continues his amble up the road.
    ‘My name’s Claire Wilkinson. My son Billy is missing. I think you might know him.’
    I reach into my handbag and pull out a flier, then shove it through me and go round the corner to the window again. The curtain twitches, just at the edge of the frame, and I catch a flash of pale pink flesh before it vanishes again.
    There’s a creaking sound and I rush back to the door. It opens an inch or two and a male voice hisses, ‘Keep your voice down would you? The neighbours hate us as it is.’
    The door opens wider. ‘Well, are you coming in or not?’

Chapter 15
    I’d expected syringes and drug paraphernalia on the floor, or at least the stench of weed, mixed with urine and shit. I’d also imagined piles of rubbish, fast-food boxes, split bin bags, dirty walls and stained mattresses. Instead the walls are white – grubby but not soiled – and decorated with posters and murals. Mark would call it graffiti. There’s a frayed sofa too, an armchair and a low table holding what looks like some kind of screen-printing equipment. A guitar is propped up in the corner of the room along with several piles of books and half a dozen blank art canvases. Two men are sitting on the sofa. One’s reading a book about Andy Warhol; the other’s asleep, his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. I should be terrified, shut in a room with three men I don’t know, but I’m too shocked to feel fear. I thought I was about to walk into a drugs den and instead it’s as though I’ve walked into a student flat.
    ‘He was up late working,’ says the large man in the red hoody who hissed at me to come in. ‘He’s off to a festival soon. T-shirts,’ he adds, gesturing towards the screen-printing equipment. ‘He does them all by hand.’
    I feel myself gawp. ‘Squatters work?’
    ‘We all work,’ says the man with the book, looking up, and my cheeks burn. Did I just say that aloud? ‘Jay busks and—’
    ‘You don’t work,’ says Red Hoody who must be Jay. ‘You’re a student.’
    ‘I