conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for a story with the title 'Some Lie and Some Die'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Some Lie and Some Die
  Detective Inspector Michael Burden had made these remarks, or remarks very much like them, every day for the past month. But this time his voice held a note which had not been there before, a note of bitter bewilderment. The prospect had been bad enough. The reality was now unreeling itself some thirty feet below him in Kingsmarkham High Street and he opened the window to get a better—or a more devastating—look.
  The only other occupant of the room had so far made no reply to this tirade. He was a big, heavy man, the inspector's senior by two decades, being at that time of life when people hesitated to describe him as middle-aged and considered 'elderly' as the more apt epithet. His face had never been handsome. Age and a very nearly total loss of hair had not improved its pouchy outlines, but an expression that was not so much easy-going as tolerant of everything but intolerance, redeemed it and made it almost attractive. He was sitting at his rosewood desk, trying to compose a directive on crime prevention, and now, giving an impatient shake of his head, he threw down his pen.
  Burden shifted grudgingly from his point of vantage and allowed Wexford a few inches of window. It was early afternoon of a perfect summer's day, June the tenth. The High Street was busy as it always was on a Friday, cars pulling into and out of parking places, women pushing prams. Striped shop awnings were down to protect shoppers from an almost Mediterranean sun, and outside the Dragon workmen sat on benches drinking beer. But it was not these people who had attracted Burden's attention. They watched the influx as avidly as he and in some cases with as much hostility.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They were in a small entrance hall filled with flowers, displays of roses, sweet peas and stephanotis, whose perfume hung cloyingly on the air. Burden knocked a rosebud out of a vase and cursed softly. The living room was large and not at all Elizabethan, being done up in the style of a provincial casino with panels of pink mirror on the walls, niches containing more flowers in gilt urns, and french windows, hung with velvet and opening on to a balcony. In here the atmosphere was not stuffy or soporific. All the doors were open, showing a bathroom whose floor was cluttered with wet towels, and the interiors of two bedrooms, one containing a huge double bed and the other two singles. All had been occupied until recently as the rumbled bedclothes showed, but as to who had occupied which and with whom it was impossible to tell. Both bedrooms, like the living room, were littered all over with discarded clothes, magazines, records, and suitcases spilling out their contents. A lusty gale blew through the open windows, shaking the flowers and making the curtains billow and thrash.
  Nell Tate looked blue with cold, her arms spiky with goose-flesh. Not so her companion, who, bare-chested, sat at a table by the window eating roast duck with the enthusiasm of one who has been brought up on baked beans.
  Vedast didn't get up, but his hairless, polished-looking face, all bones and almost Slavonic planes, split into a wide grin. 'Hallo. Good evening. Have some coffee.' His voice had no affectations. It was still what it must have always been, the local mixture of Sussex burr and mild cockney. 'Make them send up more coffee, Nello, and take all this away.' He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating the two other plates on which the food had only been picked at, the covered dishes, the basket of melba toast. 'Phone down now. Go on.' No one had touched the cream trifle. Vedast took the whole bowl and set it in his lap.
  Like discontented slaves, the Tates did his bidding. Tate took an almost empty bottle of brandy from a pseudo Louis Quinze cabinet and tipped what remained of it into a glass. He stood drinking it and watching his wife darkly while she phoned down for more coffee. Vedast laughed.
  The coffee arrived before Vedast could reply to this. Tate took one look at it, swallowed his drink and searched in the cupboard for a fresh bottle of brandy. While his wife poured coffee, he found a bottle tucked away at the back and quite full though already opened. A liberal measure in his glass, he took a long deep draught.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' But she had a very real connection with the festival's charismatic star, a singer who inspires an unwholesome devotion in his followers.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Wexford smiled rather sadly. 'Poor John. Somehow I don't think he'll get the Sundays album for his birthday now.'
  Years as a policeman in the placid village of Kingsmarkham have taught Inspector Wexford that the most unlikely people are capable of the most appalling crimes. But what kind of person would steal—and possibly murder—two children? Wexford's search is complicated when his colleague falls in love with the mother of one of the missing youngsters.
  In spite of the dire predictions, the rock festival at Sundays seems to be going off without a hitch. Then a hideously disfigured body is discovered in a nearby quarry, and Inspector Wexford must ask how an event devoted to peace and idealism could become the setting for a murder. The victim is a distinctly unglamourous local girl who lied about her friendships with celebrities. But she had a very real connection with the festival's charismatic star, a singer who inspires an unwholesome devotion in his followers.