The crime writer travels the City’s historic and deserted streets alone, but memories of her father are always there to guide her
The magic takes hold as soon as I step into All Hallows by the Tower churchyard. It’s gone midnight and at first I look right towards one of the City of London’s oldest churches. Then I turn left, with a coldness trickling down my spine as I stare deep into my own past.
My father, nearly 20 years dead now, used to take me on both day and nighttime jaunts through London. A thin, stylish East Ender, he was the sort of man who could produce a coin from your ear, magic away sickness and reveal the weird glories of London. Dad found the miraculous in everything, which is why I always carry him in my head when I go on these midnight yomps through the City.