The appealing aroma of wet earth and grass filtered into Mike Gambit's nostrils as he stepped out of his car outside Purdey's flat. It had rained earlier, but already the early morning sun was starting to dry things out and it looked like a gloriously warm and sunny day lay ahead! The previous summer had been one of the hottest on record and the unrelenting heat had made the execution of some of their cases all the more difficult - particularly for Steed and himself - indeed all the male agents - being booted and suited as was the requirement (the Department's operatives weren't yet allowed to tackle cases in shorts, a T-shirt and sandals! Probably just as well); Purdey - as most women could - got away with it a little better by wearing lighter and more airy dresses and blouses (yet the girl still tended to don the knee-length boots - not that he was complaining - did any man object to a woman in boots? And Purdey did look all the more delicious in them). Alas, the men had to put up with the regulation suits. It was the "uniform", so to speak.
Gambit closed the driver's door of the Jaguar and sucked a deep breath in through his nostrils. And again, flushing out his lungs. He loved that smell - the familiar aroma of a hot day soon after a downpour had quenched hot concrete and flags - it was so natural, fresh and healthy, and such a welcome respite from the exhaust fumes and the acrid grease and grime odours of the city. He dreaded to think what the roads and cities would be like in twenty or thirty years time - clogged and gridlocked with way too many vehicles, he suspected. It was not an attractive prospect. He loved his cars as much as the next man, but there had to come a point where someone said enough was enough.
Gambit headed across the road towards Purdey's flat, the early morning sun warming the side of his face. Monday morning again. It soon came around. But at least he had had the weekend off, which had been enough to allow him the pleasure of witnessing Bjorn Borg secure his second Wimbledon title in a row. What a fantastic player he was to watch - fast and agile and super fit. And what a temperament - cool and calm under pressure; hardly ever showing any emotion; never questioning a line call. The young man was an inspiration. Indeed, come to think of it, the tennis player would make a worthy addition to the Department's ranks with all those qualities; though that was hardly ever likely to happen. Afterall, why take a substantial drop in pay and put one's life on the line? Being a Special Operative wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. The perceived "glamour", for starters, was quite a stretch from the reality (although, the opportunity of working with beautiful women - the lady he was presently about to call on, a case in point - was certainly one of the perks - and most definitely glamourous!). No, a career as a "heart throb" tennis player was far more attractive - and certainly a lot less dangerous! And Gambit was certain the young Swede had a good few more Wimbledon titles ahead of him the way he was improving with every match. The "Ice Man", as he had been hailed, had nowhere near reached his peak; indeed, he was starting to look invincible!...
Gambit dragged himself from his sporting thoughts as he headed down the short flight of steps to Purdey's basement flat, his Cuban heels beating out a tattoo on the stone.
He pulled his mind back to Department business, and in particular to Purdey and her current state of mind. How would she be feeling today? The girl always put on a brave face - always appeared cheerful and optimistic on the surface - but that was all the more worrying as you were never quite sure what was going on on the inside. That was uncertain enough, but the fact that it was less than two short weeks since her old flame Larry Doomer had been killed by a bullet, made her true state of mind all the more important to read and keep a check on. So called experts could have been brought in to monitor Purdey, but Steed - ever the "maverick" to throw away the rule book and do things his own way (and who too had recently experienced a personal case concerning an "old friend" turned traitor/defector, Mark Crayford) - thought it a far better idea to keep it "in the family" and for a friend to keep an eye on her. Hence, he had made Gambit her unofficial psychologist, psychiatrist and general "Guardian Angel"; or, as Purdey might describe the role: "Consider me a body-stocking!". Both men were quite sure that Purdey could handle it - she was a tough cookie - but they could never be 100% sure, and the last thing any of them wanted was for Purdey to crack up and break down in the field when lives were on the line. Mother hadn't been keen, had needed some convincing, but in his inimitable fashion, Steed had convinced him. Just. Yet Mother had warned that at the first sign that it wasn't working, they would have to look at Purdey's situation again and seek professional help from those employed within the Department more qualified.
Gambit still felt pangs of guilt, and had suffered nightmares in the days since he had shot Larry Doomer, in which he was being sentenced by a kangaroo court for murder. He was convinced he hadn't seen the last of the night terrors and expected to suffer recurring nightmares for a while - if not for the rest of his life on and off. He had killed many men during his time with the Department so that in itself was something he'd learned to cope with over the years, but it was the fact that he had killed a man who Purdey had once been in love with that plagued his conscience so much. Worse - far worse - was the fact that he had caused Purdey so much trauma and pain. That cut him up - would forever stab daggers into him for the rest of his life, no matter how much his training or others told him not to punish himself...
Once again, Gambit pulled himself from his tumbling thoughts and realised he was frowning. That wouldn't do - he had to look positive and upbeat for Purdey. Gathering himself together, he heaved a sigh and fixed a more pleasant expression upon his face - one that Purdey would be more familiar with and would, hopefully, help get today off on the right foot (he couldn't let Steed down either, so no pressure at all!).
That, was vital. Or there was little point to the day at all.
His mouth suddenly felt dry - like chalk had been dusted over his tongue - and he hoped Purdey had put the coffee on: he needed both the hydration and the caffeine.
He lifted a hand and rapped a knuckle against the door.