Justin Cartwright is generally associated with serious subjects: his book on the attempted assassination of Hitler, for instance, which was made into a successful Hollywood movie, Valkyrie. But he has always claimed that there is a humorous side to him, and he’s delivered a side-splitter in his latest novel, Other People’s Money.
The title is, of course, topical. The story is entrenched in the global crisis sparked by reckless trading, corruption and dodgy banking, the effects of which are still reverberating today.
Cartwright’s take on it is deeply ironic, cynical at times, but with a very witty underlay and an acute analysis of “how money works”, which is more of a hit and miss operation than most of us prefer to acknowledge.
Sir Harry Trevelyan-Tuban, CBE, is a grand old man of British banking, rich and famous, on first-name terms with the powerful. He has lived in decline for some years in a marvellous villa in Antibes, France, along with a large yacht and a faithful, unrequited secretary. The book opens with calculated pomp, with a citation of his funeral in London, replete with representatives of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh and the Prince of Wales, dukes, bishops, philanthropists and the usual crop of celebrities. It is richly entertaining.
His young wife has been kicking up her heels with a South African rugby player in London while his elder son and heir, Simon, fancies himself as an Indiana Jones wannabe, loping around the seedier parts of the world, living off his trust fund while allegedly saving the environment and the starving.
Younger son Julian has been dutifully running the ancient family bank, Tubal & Co with increasing anxiety about their liquidity. He is bent on fudging the books to cover a hedge-fund hiccup, while he brokers a lucrative deal to sell all their assets.
He is fully aware that “all this” is based on a chimera. The money that belongs to other people is the product with which they play, sell, buy and barter. It does nothing productive; it creates nothing, contributes nothing and adds nothing of tangible value to the world. It is simply there to make more money and, occasionally, lose it. It is a given that bankers are in an ideal situation to dig themselves out of the poo first, and that’s just what the House of Tubal is planning.
Things go awry when the elderly theatrical relic and ex-husband of the current, libidinous Lady Tubal loses his gratuity, paid by the Tubals to keep him docile, as part of Tubal’s belt-tightening process.
This nugget of information, not in itself explosive, is uncovered by a novice young reporter in Cornwall, and her more experienced editor recognises the tip of the iceberg. It’s then a race to see which will happen first – the exposé of the bank of Tubal’s naughty dealings or its lickety-split sale.
Cartwright has written a clever and ingenious book which cannot fail to be a best-seller. – Weekend Argus