I smiled at the thought because my story was unique. It needed to be told exactly, and above all that required time. For one thing I was certain. I was not a Russian spy.
Two hours later, after one convenience break fuelled by a complimentary coffee, I sat back having told everything I could without any omission.
‘Then you will be anxious to see your fiancée,’ Mr Gray said with a slight smile.
‘You are reading my mind.’
‘That’s what MI5 does, read minds,’ he laughed. His tune changed. ‘Of course, this is just your story. I can’t risk you still being a Russian spy, returning here to continue to spy for the Soviets.’
Was he teasing me? Why the sudden change of questioning? ‘I appreciate some of the information I have given cannot be verified, but I can give you my word. I am no longer anyone’s spy.’
‘Mr Clark. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just cannot take a chance. So where are you heading now?’
‘I’d like to phone my fiancée as soon as possible to say I have arrived in London and then get a train north to Glasgow.’
‘Very well. I have no objection and no intention of detaining you further. I have just one requirement of you.’
My eyebrows tightened.
‘You will report to the nearest police station on the first working day of each month. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but for how long?’
‘That is for MI5 to determine, not you, Mr Clark.’
‘I see.’
‘You wished to make a telephone call? Go next door. It’s a small room but has a telephone. Dial 01 to get an outside line.’
I did as I was told and dialled the number which Morag had given me. ‘Dr Sutherland?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Robert Harvie here. I’ve arrived in London. I look forward to seeing soon.’
‘Well, you have been a bit of an enigmatic fiancé. We look forward to seeing you again too.’
‘Can you get a message to Morag after classes? I assume she is at classes just now.’
‘I can phone her flat, later presumably
‘Yes, but tell her I love her too,’ I added.
‘Ah, of course.’
I replaced the telephone and returned to the interrogation room. It was empty. I left the MI5 building and made my way to Euston station. There, I posted the letter I had written on the plane.
Clearly Dr Sutherland had got his message through to Morag. I saw her on the forecourt of Glasgow Central station looking at the passengers leaving the London train. Her gaze passed over me.
I approached her, then stopped and stood still, about ten paces away. She glanced at me briefly and continued her focussed search behind me.
‘Is that not Morag Sutherland?’ I asked.
Still, there was no recognition but curiosity at what I had said.
‘My fiancée, Morag?’ I finally blurted out and ran with my arms open. We hugged briefly then we separated.
‘Goodness me, you look so different—and to be honest I don’t like that central parting.’
‘Nor do I, it has got to go.’
‘And the black hair?’
‘Yes, it’s going too. Come on, have you time for a coffee at the station cafe? I’ve much to tell you.’
Morag could see why the disguise was essential in leaving Accra and offered a restorative procedure back at her flat, dying my hair back to something close to its natural colour. What she had difficulty in accepting was my new name—Peter Clark.
‘Darling when we get married does this mean I marry a Harvie or a Clark?’
‘Let some water flow under the bridge,’ I began, but she stopped me immediately.
‘How are you going to explain that you are Mr Clark to my parents?’
I grimaced. ‘Well at least you can see why I had to do it.’
‘Yes, but my parents have been telling all our relatives and friends that I am engaged to Mr Robert Harvie.’
‘I see. So how much do your parents know my background?’
‘Not as much as you think. A Post-graduate languages student working with peanuts in Ghana is about as much as I’ve told them,’ she said with a laugh then as we clung together we kissed, like old times.
That night in her flat Morag asked me about the possible charges I might face over the five murders. Her concentration on me was almost overpowering.
‘The case died down after a while,’ I said with a sigh. ‘But on the plane, I wrote a letter to the Ghanaian High Commissioner in London. I told him about the Russians’ plot to assassinate the dissident Lorenzo Desoto using a tin of poisonous Quality Street chocolates. I explained that I was the courier who delivered them to him without knowing their significance. I told him everything, including about the children. I thought it important for them to know.’ A tear was not far from falling down my cheek. Morag held my arm and stroked it.
‘No one ever planned to murder four innocent children, but the blame has to be laid at the Russian Embassy in Accra for arranging the plot, and to the late Mr Utechin for carrying out the plan through me.’
Once more she looked at me with concern. ‘Did you sign the letter?’
I shook my head.
We agreed that that weekend, Morag would go home on Friday night with the sole intention of establishing me in the best possible light. She would give a full explanation of what had happened since we met at university, and how I had been trapped into being a Russian spy. She would say that those days were now over and that the British Ambassador in Accra had given me a new identity. The worst pill to swallow was the fact their daughter was soon to become a Clark and not a Harvie.
That same weekend I went home to my parents to explain my situation. They were mystified that my life could have followed such a path. Yet they saw I had survived and had matured through the process.
On Sunday night back in Morag’s flat, we assessed the families’ responses.
Morag said, ‘Let’s give our parents marks out of 10. 10 being no problem and 1 being a disaster and pressure to end our engagement.’
‘Wow, two extremes. Okay, we shout the numbers out at the same time, after the count of three. Ready?’
‘Just a moment,’ she said thinking through her parental encounter. I was sure of my response but hoped our results would be favourable. She nodded that she was ready.
‘Okay, 1, 2, 3—8.’
‘8’ We had shouted in unison. We hugged each other.
‘So tell me why not 10?’
Morag spent a thoughtful moment looking towards the ceiling. ‘I suppose just the embarrassment they feel having to tell their friends that Robert is really Peter,’ she giggled. ‘And for you?’
‘I suppose I didn’t write to them enough. That was the main problem but they are pleased that we have got back together.’
Morag went to the kitchen and opened a drawer.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Making something to eat, that’s all.’
‘Well stop. Get your coat on.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve just booked a table at the Ubiquitous Chip.’
Chapter 27
Postscript
By the time we met our parents again, my hair had found its natural parting, but the black hair was going to take longer to lighten and eventually disappear. In fact, our hair was not too dissimilar in colour. My beard had long since been shaved off.
I resumed studies to gain my teaching certificate and began teaching Spanish and Russian to secondary pupils at Shawlands Academy. The following summer Morag qualified as a doctor and worked at the Victoria Infirmary nearby, where my father was still the hospital’s chaplain.
I attended the Stewart Street Police Office monthly on the south side of the city for eighteen months. Thereafter a visit was required every two months and after a further six months, my requirement to report was terminated. In some ways, I enjoyed my visits. I got to know several police officers and found them to be polite and charming, despite seeing them arrive with men in handcuffs swearing like the proverbial troopers. Over the years, no retribution from the Russians came my way and I sometimes mentioned becoming Robert Harvie again but Morag was quite adamant we stayed as we were.