conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled Natural Causes about Sarah, Baldwin, Boston with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dr Sarah Baldwin races to a Boston hospital with a young woman whose normal labour has suddenly become a matter of life and death. As she struggles to save both mother and baby, she doesn't know that two other women have already died under horrifying identical circumstances. And so begins Sarahs own nightmare, as she learns that the prenatal herbal vitamins she prescribed are the only things these three women have in common. Soon Sarah is fighting to save her career, her reputation - her life. For she's certain there must be some unknown factor linking these women, and as she gets closer to the truth, it becomes clear that someone will do anything - even murder - to keep a devastating secret.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first two paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Natural Causes
  McLean clicked the thumbnail page. Scrolling down, he counted over a hundred pictures, and there were dozens more pages like it.
  Damn. He'd been so sure. Was still sure. But this was too much to ignore. 'That's good work, Stuart. Get a report typed up as soon as and I'll make sure the chief superintendent knows who did all the work. Meantime I still want to work on the theory we've got our sixth man still out there and he's doing everything he can to make sure we don't find him.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Squad cars blocked the road completely, forcing them to park some distance away. McLean and Grumpy Bob walked down the uneven pavement in the shade of huge mature sycamores towards the knot of uniforms clustered at the end
  At the sound of the detective constable's voice, the white figure with his back to them stood up and turned. 'You do bring me the most interesting bodies, Tony,' Angus Cadwallader said. 'This one seems to have been beaten heavily with fists. I've seen similar bruising on men injured in bare-knuckle boxing fights. Only there doesn't seem to be enough damage to have killed him.'
  McLean stepped forward to view the body. He had been a short, stout man, though perhaps bloating had made his stomach stretch at his pale blue shirt a bit more than it would have done in life. He lay sprawled in the leaf mould, arms thrown out as if he had just rolled onto his back to have a snooze. His head was tilted over to one side, his face bruised, nose broken. His clothes were tattered and dirty, a tiny red 'Virgin Rail' insignia on his dark blue jacket.
  DC MacBride handed over a slim leather wallet. 'He was carrying this, sir. Face fits the photo in his driver's licence.'
  The post-mortem on David Brown was scheduled for later that afternoon. McLean filled the time by wading through the mountain of paperwork on his desk. It didn't matter that he had been told to take a week's leave, the overtime sheets, requisition orders and a thousand and one other useless bits and pieces had still continued to mount up. What would happen if he disappeared for a whole month? Would the office eventually choke up with paper? Or would someone else finally roll up their sleeves and get on with it?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There were three storeys to the tenement, two tiny flats on each floor. None of the doors were locked, and the graffiti liberally scrawled over every available surface was at least two generations of squatter out of date. McLean stepped carefully from room to room, the beam of his torchlight playing over broken furniture, ripped-out electrical fittings and the occasional dead rat. DC MacBride never left his side, hovering like an obedient labrador, almost too close for comfort. Or maybe it was just that he didn't want to brush up against anything. Couldn't blame him, really. The smell of the place would take weeks to wash out.
  More lights flickering in the darkness downstairs were Detective Sergeant Bob Laird and Police Constable Taffy Jones stumbling through the rubbish sacks in the entrance hall. If they'd found anything they'd have shouted, so it looked like the whole episode was a complete waste of time. Just like every other bloody raid. Wonderful. Dagwood was going to be so pleased.
  McLean shoved his torch in his mouth, then trod gently in the cup made by the constable's interlocked fingers. There was nothing to hold onto except a small lip below the hatch, and he had to stretch his other leg out to the wobbly banister before he could reach up with one hand and unclip the hasp. It gleamed where until recently a padlock had swung.
  Removing the rubbish bags had helped clear the air, but the flagstone floor they had covered was sticky and slippery with fluids best not thought about too deeply. McLean watched the stream of white-suited SOC officers as they trooped from their van, along the corridor and up the stairs, lugging battered aluminium cases of expensive equipment.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: None of the doors were locked, and the graffiti liberally scrawled over every available surface was at least two generations of squatter out of date. McLean stepped carefully from room to room, the beam of his torchlight playing over broken furniture, ripped-out electrical fittings and the occasional dead rat. DC MacBride never left his side, hovering like an obedient labrador, almost too close for comfort. Or maybe it was just that he didn't want to brush up against anything. Couldn't blame him, really. The smell of the place would take weeks to wash out.
  More lights flickering in the darkness downstairs were Detective Sergeant Bob Laird and Police Constable Taffy Jones stumbling through the rubbish sacks in the entrance hall. If they'd found anything they'd have shouted, so it looked like the whole episode was a complete waste of time. Just like every other bloody raid. Wonderful. Dagwood was going to be so pleased.
  McLean shoved his torch in his mouth, then trod gently in the cup made by the constable's interlocked fingers. There was nothing to hold onto except a small lip below the hatch, and he had to stretch his other leg out to the wobbly banister before he could reach up with one hand and unclip the hasp. It gleamed where until recently a padlock had swung.
  Removing the rubbish bags had helped clear the air, but the flagstone floor they had covered was sticky and slippery with fluids best not thought about too deeply. McLean watched the stream of white-suited SOC officers as they trooped from their van, along the corridor and up the stairs, lugging battered aluminium cases of expensive equipment.