Deutsche Bank alleged to have hid losses in 2007-09. Good?

The effects of what's being alleged are far from simple.

The German central bank has opened an investigation into whether Deutsche Bank failed to correctly mark credit derivatives to market during the financial crisis. The allegations, which the FT reports were made independently by three whistleblowers from inside the bank, suggest that the bank did so to avoid officially recording losses which may have prompted a government bailout.

The proper reaction to the case is more complex than it might first appear, because this is one of the first allegations of massive misevaluation which deals, not with the the run up to the financial crisis, but the response to it. And it is massive: the derivatives position under investigation was worth $130bn.

But interestingly enough, if mispricing did occur, it may have been for the best. Marking to market is the practice of repricing your portfolio, not according to what you paid for it, but what it's worth at current market prices. So the allegation is that Deutsche Bank had a $130bn position, which had dropped to – let's say – $60bn on the open market; but were apparently recording it as worth $72bn in their books, so as to avoid looking insolvent.

In normal times, that would be pretty clearly a negative. But the days after the collapse of Lehman Brothers were anything but normal. To say markets were panicky is an understatement, and so it's pretty likely that the reaction if Deutsche Bank had revealed those losses would have been terminal. As it was, the bank muddled through, and came out the other side more-or-less intact.

Now, that doesn't mean that if there was wrongdoing it should be ignored. After all, if Deutsche Bank hid losses and collapsed despite that, then the hit that creditors would have taken would have been even bigger. But if, as seems to be the case, DB was considered a healthy bank based on what was reported, and would have been considered unhealthy if it had reported those larger losses, then the world might be better off for it. After all, the last thing the winter of 2008 needed was another bust bank.

It's worth noting as well that these allegations aren't new. As DB says, they are “more than two and a half years old” and have already been investigated by an external law firm which found them “wholly unfounded”. But just be wary of chalking this one up in the "bad behaviour from banks hurts us all" column; the real affects of what's alleged are far from simple.

Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism