Trail Of Love. AMANDA BROWNING
own counsel. And, if the fact that she couldn’t confide in him her personal worries hurt, the disappointment was small, for in everything else they were like-minded. Neither believed in a ‘grand passion’. Their marriage would be one of mutual respect. It had always given Kay a sense of well-being to know where her life was going.
Seconds after that warming thought raised her spirits, the lift doors opened again to reveal Sir Charles’s doughty secretary. Mrs Rivers was a compact, grey-haired woman who was friendly enough in an impersonal way. She led Kay to her office before opening the attack.
‘I understand that you wish to see Sir Charles, but there seems to be some confusion as to whether you have an appointment or not.’ The secretary consulted an open diary on her desk briefly.
Kay assumed a cajoling smile. ‘I don’t have one, but...’
‘But apparently that isn’t necessary because Sir Charles is an old acquaintance,’ the sentence was finished for her.
With her bluff called, Kay was left in a difficult position. To say yes and get caught out in the lie would, she suspected, earn her short shrift, whereas the truth... Yet what choice did she have? ‘Actually, he isn’t,’ she admitted wryly. ‘I know it was wrong to lie, but I only did it because it really is so vitally important that I see him.’
Mrs Rivers resumed her seat. ‘That’s as may be. As a statement it’s hardly unique. The fact remains that Sir Charles is a very busy man.’
‘I appreciate that, I really do, but I only need to see him for five minutes, ten at the most,’ she insisted pleadingly.
The older woman sighed and pursed her lips. ‘Well...perhaps if you were to tell me what your business is?’ she offered reluctantly.
Kay had no wish to reveal anything unless she had to. ‘It’s a personal matter.’
Sir Charles’s secretary regarded her askance. ‘Can’t you be more specific?’
Shaking her head, Kay squared up. ‘The only person I can explain it to is Sir Charles. Can he fit me in, do you think?’
Mrs Rivers looked at her squarely for almost a minute, then sighed again. ‘You’re very persistent. I’ll see what I can do. All I can promise you is a long wait with no guarantee.’
That was all Kay wanted—a chance. ‘I’ll wait.’
The secretary smiled wryly. ‘You may live to regret saying that. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable over there?’ She indicated a low couch nestling behind a coffee-table on which lay several magazines. ‘I’ll let you know if Sir Charles will see you.’
Kay flashed her a smile and once more took a seat. She picked up a magazine and began to flip through it, but, having come so close to her goal, it was impossible to think of anything but the reason she was there. That, of course, was the diary.
Kay sighed at the memories that brought. There had only been the two of them since her father left them when she was only a baby, and her mother’s tragically early death from cancer had been a blow, so suddenly had it happened. It had left Kay with the sad task of clearing her mother’s house, and she had come across the diary at the bottom of a case containing various other personal items. These she had taken home with her to go through at another time. Only the diary had called for her attention. She had read it in the expectation of finding out more about her mother’s early life—a subject she had been reticent about—but the entries had been spasmodic, covering no more than a few years at most, the pages crossed in a small neat hand.
They had begun with her daughter’s birth. The entry was simple: ‘K came today. She’s so beautiful’. The wording had not struck her then, nor the singularity of her name only being referred to by the initial. But even that wasn’t so very unusual for someone keeping a diary, and Kay had forgotten about it until, several weeks later, her interest had been piqued by a television documentary on kidnapped children who had never been returned after the ransom had been paid. One case which had featured prominently was that of Kimberley Endacott.
A passing interest it might have remained, but for the anonymous letter. Addressed to her mother and redirected from her house to Kay’s flat, it had demanded money, said the writer would be in touch, and had contained clippings of the very same Kimberley Endacott case.
She had assumed it was the work of a crank, and torn it up angrily, refusing to give it credence, until one evening she had answered the telephone. The caller had asked for Jean, and when she had told him her mother had died, he had demanded to know if Jean had read the clippings.
‘No,’ Kay had told him with satisfaction. ‘I tore them up. Mother died several weeks ago, so you’re too late with your sleazy attempt to blackmail her!’ she had declared coldly and slammed the receiver down.
Only the call had added substance to the letter and somehow she couldn’t stop thinking about it. In the end she had had to go to the library and get photocopies of the clippings and then read the diary again.
Things had started to click in her mind. At first she had laughed it off as preposterous. It was only a coincidence that the first entry was on the same day as little Kimberley had disappeared. That the ransom had been paid and collected on the day her father had left them. That Kay was an odd name to call a child christened Sarah, and that the initial ‘K’ could refer to Kimberley as much as it did Kay.
All coincidences, and yet they had preyed on her mind. Because if, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, it should be true, then that could make her gentle, hard-working mother a kidnapper. For that was what the anonymous letter had surely been implying.
A thought that made her feel as if a gaping hole had opened up beneath her feet. A thought so alarming that she had dismissed it as ludicrous. This had happened in the north of England, and she had lived in London all her life. No! She was Kay Napier, an actuary, aged twenty-four. Her birth certificate said so. It also, dismayingly, gave an address in Alnwick.
Then the doubts had resurged. ‘What if?’ nagged at her day and night. Questions crowded in, but there were no answers, and no one to ask. Disloyalty and guilt at what she was allowing herself to suspect of someone who had shown her nothing but love warred with an increasing need to know. Which was why she had screwed her courage to the sticking place and come here today. Because a university degree and a down-to-earth job as an actuary in a highly reputable firm in the city couldn’t allay her primal fear. She knew it wouldn’t go from her mind until she had a definite ‘no’.
At which point she dragged her thoughts back to the present. Time passed slowly, and she had drunk a cup of coffee and flipped through two magazines before the secretary, who had slipped discreetly through a door, reappeared and beckoned her over.
‘Sir Charles has agreed to give you five minutes. Go on through.’ She nodded to the open door. With a fast-beating heart, Kay stepped into the inner sanctum.
Sir Charles Endacott was sitting at a large desk by the window. Now in his seventies, he still possessed a full head of hair, although it was silvery grey, like his moustache. Puffing on a pipe, he watched Kay approach him through sharp grey eyes.
Kay stared at him as he rose to his feet and waved a hand in the direction of a chair. It struck her then, that the question she was about to ask had far-reaching implications. This man, this stranger, could be her grandfather! And that really was absurd, because she felt nothing. There was nothing in his distinguished face that reminded her of herself.
It was enough to clear her vision and to tell her that coming here was totally preposterous. She wasn’t an Endacott, she knew it in her bones. Realising her foolishness in allowing one malicious person to manipulate her, she hesitated with her hand on the back of the chair. It would take some doing now, to extricate herself from this with her dignity intact.
‘Well, young woman?’ Sir Charles prompted in a brisk voice. ‘My secretary tells me you insisted on seeing me. Did you think I would be flattered that such a lovely young thing should seek my advice on something personal? Unfortunately I can’t say I approve of your