conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'I Was Dora Suarez'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I Was Dora Suarez
  Mrs Betty Carstairs, 86, of 19, Empire Gate, South Kensington, and a woman of about 30 whose identity the police have yet to establish, were both found murdered in appalling circumstances late last night by a neighbour in the Victorian building, Mrs Philippa Drewe. There is no doubt that the killer entered the flat through the rear sitting room window, and left the same way. The flat is on the ground floor, but it is some distance from the back of the block to the ground, and Poland Street police are satisfied that the killer made use of the drainpipe which descends to the waste patch of garden twenty-five feet below. Mrs Carstairs died through being hurled into her hall clock; her friend or lodger was literally hacked to pieces with the killer's axe. Chief Inspector Charles Bowman of the Serious Crimes squad, who is in charge of the enquiry at present, told us in his usual energetic way: 'You can hardly expect me to make any comment on this disgusting business yet, as I have only just arrived, and may well hand over this matter to colleagues, because I am on the missing Yugoslav princess affair over in Walthamstow.'
  It was only a few lines of newsprint but a strange feeling came over me when I read them; I quickly finished up my beer and left.
  As I drove back to Acacia Circus I thought of the nights, far back, when I had made love to Edie. She told me once, just before she did what she did to Dahlia, I mean killing her, that out of all the times we had made love, there were only three when she had ever felt anywhere near me; the other times she told me she was completely absent. Somewhere inside me I knew it myself; there were nights when my hands knew, even while they were caressing her body, that she was immersed solely in thoughts of hatred and new curtains. Because of her mental trouble which, until it was too late, I never would admit that she had, she was never sincere with me about anything, but responded to any approach I made to her with a perfunctory sweetness, which in the end I found I couldn't swallow, no matter how hard I tried on account of my unending physical desire for her; until, towards the end, even such grim coquetry, which was all that madness had left her where others were concerned, could only begin after an evening of rum and cokes at the Maid's Head. Or else she might just as easily start screaming if I so much as touched her, with the child sleeping next door.
  I found that these days, so many years ago now – eight – since Dahlia's death and Edie's admission to Banstead, I now only thought of Edie when I felt that something abominable was about to happen – something capital and irrevocable in my life; and now tonight, for the first time since I had been discharged from the police, as I drove, Edie, in my mind, was treading heavily towards me yet again in her unrippable dress, drivelling her disjointed evil. Since she was a murderess, Edie, who had impregnated me so deeply with herself that I shall remember her forever with no hope either of peace from her or replacement for her, made me understand murderers better than I ever otherwise could have: their lapses, the vile din of their fugues, the whole negative concerto of insecurity expressed in absent violence, their desires expressed in ways that were thought to have died; but evil never dies. In the old days, as I reached my climax with her, Edie moaned, shouted or screamed as if in delight; but I subsequently understood that she had never understood what that word meant. I was always too hard at work, also emotionally involved with her, ever to consider her objectively, but what I slowly understood was that she was patiently trying out a range of approaches to me, all copied; and that from her point of view I was a piece of flat cardboard cut out roughly as a man. Like all murderers she knew that she must not make too many obvious mistakes, so she worked intelligently and patiently, suppressing her real drives for as long as it took her to formulate those copies of love which would blind and subordinate me to her. She held the ace of hearts after all, my passion for her, and so became my master in the end, the way she played me, knowing that her hatred must never show on those nights, rationed, when she realised that I had to have her if she were to pass, unobserved, as normal; so that when I came to her, her long hair was always arrayed on the pillow and she would immediately surround me with her thick white arms, spreading her apparently hot, solid thighs and stomach, which were in complete contrast to the thin lecturing lips and spurious eyes that she has when I go to see her at Banstead now, and muttering her love for me.
  Love which, even with the plunging sensation of my heart and mind, I could never accept was false, because I did not want to live without her body, as I should have had to if I had judged her by her mind.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I said to Stevenson: 'Right, now we've got those two sweethearts barred up, let's get back to the Parallel and take it apart.'
  Scalo said: 'Take these two people apart, will you? Ask them how they came by their set of keys to in here.'
  I said to Giorgio: 'Forget the bottle. Take that gun out of your right-side coat pocket and put it on the bar there now. Do it now.'
  I said: 'Yes.' Stevenson kicked him one in the knees, one in the fun-bag. The man fell, knelt and crouched as though in a state of prayer, holding himself together with his hands to his crotch. I kicked him in the back of the head, got the gun out and threw it to Stevenson. I said to him: 'Let's put that somewhere safe.' The man was crying. I went over him but found no more than a wallet full of credit cards. 'Bent credit cards,' I said to Stevenson.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A fresh-looking young sergeant in uniform from the local law appeared in the doorway with two other police officers behind him and hurried over to look at the body in the corner with a torch. When he had had enough, he stood up and, turning to face me, said: 'You?'
  So then I put my hands in my pockets and followed the sergeant down and out into the pouring rain. It was dawn on March 1, a season of storms, and there was a near hurricane blowing in from the east up the Thames. I had tears in my eyes for the first time since I had broken my arm at sixteen playing football, but my tears were not for me – they were for the rightful fury of the people.
  An unflinching yet deeply compassionate portrait of Margaret Thatcher's London—plagued by poverty and perversion—and an unnamed police Sergeant from the Unexplained Deaths department who may be the only one who cares about the "people who don't matter and who never did."
  The unnamed Sergeant stands up to both mobsters and his superiors while engaged in a harrowing game of cat-and-mouse with a psychopath who seems to have ties to the highest levels of the British government.
  With growing desperation and enraged compassion, the nameless Sergeant fights to uncover a murderer—not by following analytical procedure, but by understanding why crimes are committed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When he had had enough, he stood up and, turning to face me, said: 'You?'
  So then I put my hands in my pockets and followed the sergeant down and out into the pouring rain. It was dawn on March 1, a season of storms, and there was a near hurricane blowing in from the east up the Thames. I had tears in my eyes for the first time since I had broken my arm at sixteen playing football, but my tears were not for me – they were for the rightful fury of the people.
  An unflinching yet deeply compassionate portrait of Margaret Thatcher's London—plagued by poverty and perversion—and an unnamed police Sergeant from the Unexplained Deaths department who may be the only one who cares about the "people who don't matter and who never did."
  The unnamed Sergeant stands up to both mobsters and his superiors while engaged in a harrowing game of cat-and-mouse with a psychopath who seems to have ties to the highest levels of the British government.
  With growing desperation and enraged compassion, the nameless Sergeant fights to uncover a murderer—not by following analytical procedure, but by understanding why crimes are committed.