conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Cop</I, Publishing, Hell with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Blood on the Water'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Blood on the Water
  MONK LEANED FORWARD, RESTING on his oar for a moment as he stared across the water at the Pool of London. Ships from every country on earth lay at anchor, riding lights swaying in the dusk wind. The sun was low in the early summer sky and streaks of red flared across the west.
  Behind him, at the other oar, Orme rested also. He was a quiet man who had worked on the river all his life.
  In unison they bent to their oars again. There was a pleasure boat a hundred yards or so in front of them, and they could hear the music and the laughter echoing from the lantern-strung decks, even from this distance. The boat had probably been out most of the day, perhaps as far as Gravesend on the estuary. It was perfect weather for it.
  Some young men were playing around, mock fighting—too close to the rail, Monk thought. They ought to be more careful. The Thames current was deceptively swift, and the water filthy.
  Monk frowned as a man on the deck shouted loudly and waved his arms, running towards the railing as if he would jump over it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: WHEN THEY REACHED THE shore on the south side Hester and Scuff were waiting. She was white-faced, hollow-eyed, trying to hold her panic in. Scuff was standing beside her, suddenly looking very grown up. Then as soon as Monk clambered out of the boat—with help, but alive and comparatively unhurt—Scuff had to struggle not to show his tears of relief.
  Hester went to Monk immediately, not caring who watched her take him in her arms, touching him gently, as if he might break. Scuff hung back, self-conscious, uncertain if at this particular moment he really belonged.
  Scuff hesitated, and then came forward, still not sure. Only as Monk's hand closed over his did he grasp it back, then abandoned all pretense and threw his arms around him, barely aware of Monk's gasp and the gritted teeth as he returned the embrace, pain ignored.
  A few of the local men insisted on helping him home in their wagon, which was waiting just nearby. With Hester and Scuff on either side of Monk, he limped over to it, thanking the men with startling gratitude. The climb from the dockside to Paradise Place would have been nightmarish.
  It was a rattling, bumping ride home. Little was said. Monk was shaking with cold, pain filling him. When they stopped outside his house, Scuff helped him out of the wagon again onto the ground, and then inside and into the kitchen. He was stronger than Monk had expected.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Monk felt a chill. It was one of the ugly pieces of corruption he knew existed and one day he would have to deal with, but it still worried him more than it might another man who was more certain of his own past.
  The carriage accident just before he had first met Hester, over a decade ago now, had injured his body—but that had healed quickly. The loss of his memory, however, had never been made up, except in snatches here and there: Through his detection he had uncovered things about himself, by no means all pleasant. He did not know who all his friends or enemies were, not by a long shot. He had once worked in the regular Metropolitan Police. He knew the docks. Unexpected flashes of familiarity told him that: a corner turned revealing a scene known to him, a smell bringing back powerful feelings.
  The worst fear was that a man he did not know knew and remembered him. Old debts sometimes waited a long time. Monk had solved a lot of cases. If he could look back on those now, would he still be happy to own the methods he had used in all of them?
  Monk went back to his paperwork and completed it before putting it away and going outside into the dock in the late summer afternoon. He was just in time to see Hooper coming up the steps from the water. In the past the matter of the Excise men was something he would have discussed with Orme first, but it was time he allowed Hooper to step forward. When Orme retired, he would have to. Hooper would fight beside him, watch his neck, and risk his own life to save him.
  One day he would have to tell Hooper about his lost memory. One day they might talk about it, but not now. The satisfaction, the respect apparent in Hooper's face was something not to be risked yet, unless it became necessary.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Blood on the Water
  Mr Deacon had come to Venice – to that overblown, flashy little city on the waves – on a promise. Only a month earlier his wife, Abigail, had died unexpectedly. As he had been twenty years older than her he was shattered by the unexpected and brutal turn of events and found himself desperate to escape London.
  Was his bereavement so obvious? he wondered, retreating. He was feeling his age suddenly. Not looking it, but feeling it. From a distance he could pass for a young man, his walk quick and confident. But his shyness kept him at a remove from others, and he paced around the boat with his eyes averted, his hat pulled down low. He suspected that the Captain had activated the deluge of attention, but all Mr Deacon craved was a remote, and polite, disinterest.
  Mr Deacon thought back on the old promise. He was an art dealer in London, so an Italian trip had always been appealing. But although it had been mooted for over a decade, it had never happened. Perhaps, he thought with a guilty pinch, it had never been more than an intention. Perhaps Fate, that prickly little bastard, had scuppered it.
  Through all the weeks and months of her deterioration, Mr Deacon had described the city – its buildings, churches and, naturally, its works of art. He had always had a facility for maps, an unerring sense of direction, and had memorised the routes they would take. Guilty that he had never made time for the visit in reality, he created a Venice out of words, describing a city he now realised his wife would never see.
  He glowed at the compliment. "They say it's not really Titian's house, just the site of it. It doesn't matter anyway. We'll go, darling; we'll still go."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And then suddenly – bobbing up to the surface as though about to strike – came the flayed and bloodied carcass of a woman.
  Ordering a brandy, Mr Deacon slumped back in his chair. Out of season the cafe was quiet, and the manager had returned to his post behind the bar. He wiped the top of the counter several times, watching Mr Deacon, his eyes moving from him to the fog outside. Hadn't the Englishman said something about four o'clock? he wondered, glancing at his watch. Only an hour left; the police would have to hurry. He carried on wiping the counter top.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He carried on wiping the counter top.. Only an hour left; the police would have to hurry. Hadn't the Englishman said something about four o'clock? he wondered, glancing at his watch. He wiped the top of the counter several times, watching Mr Deacon, his eyes moving from him to the fog outside. Out of season the cafe was quiet, and the manager had returned to his post behind the bar.
  Ordering a brandy, Mr Deacon slumped back in his chair.And then suddenly – bobbing up to the surface as though about to strike – came the flayed and bloodied carcass of a woman
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'When Mr Deacon finally returned to London he visited his wife's grave'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When Mr Deacon finally returned to London he visited his wife's grave. The day was warm – surprising for so early in the year – and a few sturdy daffodils fought for attention under the early sun. Quite how the killer had managed to dupe him so successfully Mr Deacon had taken a while to understand, but in a grudging way he admired the man's nerve.
  But he never forgot the image of the corpse in the water. And all the time he argued with the Italian police and swore his innocence, Mr Deacon had a bizarre feeling – a sensation of something almost otherworldly. The sensation persisted after he was released and all the way home to England.
  How easy it would have been for him. He could have returned to the cafe and told the manager it had all been a mistake, that the so-called body had been no more than a discarded suitcase, and that Mr Deacon had caught his cruise ship home. The manager would have shrugged and forgotten about it. Of course back at the boat Geoffrey Deacon would have been missed, searched for, but not found. When interviewed, his friends might say that he had been depressed about Abigail's death; they might even suggest suicide. Never murder. After all, who would want to kill an English widower who had offended no one? Who could possibly have had a reason to murder a respectable art dealer?
  It could so easily have gone that way, Mr Deacon realised. He could have been killed in Venice, and forgotten. So why was he still alive?