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absorbed in the crowd.
    Shocked, she leaned over the balustrade and gazed into the Liffey. The tide was low, the walls of the river dank and brown. She pretended she had not recognised him, knowing he would be furious with himself for dropping his guard, even for an instant. Strange that she, who knew his body intimately, had not noticed his height, nor could she remember anything about his features, other than his eyes, momentarily betraying him. But in that chance encounter,Carla realised they did share something in common; a chameleon quality that allowed them, when necessary, to dominate or to blend successfully into any landscape of their choosing.
    Almost a year had passed since then but she remembered that incident when she watched the evening news. A consignment of drugs had been discovered in the secret compartment of a truck entering Dublin Port. Not discovered, Carla thought, as the news report unfolded. The customs officers knew exactly what they would find when they stopped the truck. The television camera lingered over the plastic bags laid out on a table for maximum exposure. A grave-faced policeman estimated the street value of the seizure. Five hundred thousand punts, a sizeable sum. Uniformed Gardaí moved in the background. Robert was not among them. His role was covert, undercover. He worked the docks area, eliciting information, making contacts, his identity so deeply embedded that twice he had been arrested by uniformed guards unaware of his undercover work. These things he whispered to Carla in the aftermath of lovemaking, coiling her hair around his fingers, his laughter warm in her ear. He skimmed over the dangers, aware that he straddled two worlds but confident of his footing.
    ‘Did you see it?’ He rang her shortly after the evening news. The background was loud with voices, laughter, music.
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well done, my favourite mole.’
    ‘We’ve gone back to Sharon’s house,’ he told her. ‘I’m just going to have a few drinks then take a taxi home.’
    ‘A likely story.’ She knew he would arrive home in the small hours, smelling of whiskey and, probably, a late-night curry. ‘The spare room is ready and waiting,’ she warned him. ‘In my delicate condition, a drunken detective in my bed is the last thing I need.’
    He promised to be quiet, shoes off at the front door. ‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m fine.’ She wished she felt as serene as she sounded. ‘Another fortnight to go. I assume you’ll have sobered up by then.’
    He was still laughing when she hung up. Their marriage was as separate as a snapped thread from his small, close-knit team. Was she jealous, she wondered as she replaced the receiver. She thought of Sharon Boyle, with her black boyish hair and long, muscular legs, the tough-talking sister in the tight band of brothers. Carla had met her for the first time when she came to their house-warming party with other members of the squad. The group had remained apart from the general gathering. They sat on the stairs, forming a closed-off huddle that showed no inclination to stir outside their pall of cigarette smoke, shop talk and camaraderie. Robert had mingled effortlessly with the other guests but he had joined his colleagues on the stairs by the end of the night.
    No, not jealous, exactly, Carla decided. Just envious of the slash of danger that drew people together in a way her safe, glittering world of fashion could never do.
    She watched television for a while, searching the channels for light relief, a romantic comedy or an enthralling love triangle she could enjoy without Robert’s heavy breathing signalling his boredom. Nothing interested her. Her back ached and the baby appeared to have manoeuvred a vaulting pole under her ribs.
    The phone rang when she was climbing the stairs to bed. She reached the bedroom and lay across the bed.
    ‘You sound like you’ve just run the marathon,’ said Raine.
    ‘A marathon would be