Wibble

I fear that Jonny has finally lost it.

For two days I've been watching him. Most of that time he has been sitting on the toilet, dressed in only his pants, with a loaded rifle by his side. He looks increasingly gaunt, he's grown a small beard, and he seems to be mumbling about killer rabbits.

One thing is for sure, that gun will be either turned on himself, or the next person to turn up at his house. There is only one thing to do.

I send Mrs Short Tony around for a cup of sugar.

Surveillance report

It's been some months now since I rigged Jonny's house up to record his every move. There's been some very suspicious activity in that house, oh yes.

First on the list is the peculiar cast of characters that Jonny keeps close to him at night. There seem to be three of these furry beasts:

Mister Mitt - an obvious anagram of Tits Met Rim.
Peter the Hanging Monkey - A clear reference to Hartlepool, is this where the terrorist attack is planned for?
Honey Bear - probably nothing more than a sex toy; clear anagram of Boner, Yeah.

What's so valuable about these cuddly toys that he has to keep them within arms reach at all times? More observation is required.

The camera in the kitchen has yielded even stranger results. Last week I captured him having sex with what appeared to be the remains of a stuffed sheep's heart. I couldn't help drop into conversation the fact that I have a camera in there. You should have seen that little sucker scouring his kitchen trying to find it! Second light-fitting from the door, Jonny, have a look there and you might get more success.

Unfortunately I have no hard proof of what Jonny may be planning.

Wall

Jonny tells me that he's asked the Friendly Builder to put a dividing wall in the attic. This is something of a blow, as the attic provides easy access to JB's house when he's out and about. Even at night time I've been known to venture into the enemies' lair. The LTLP snores like a passing freight train, so the odd creak here and there doesn't present a problem.

Why does Jonny want the attic to be partitioned? There must be some hidden secrets up there. Dead bodies? Dried blood staines? Crap old records? I'm a bit concerned that the Friendly Builder may discover the small compartment of my own that's home to some nasty secrets, but it's well concealed and he's not likely to spot the opening switch hidden inside JB's old guitar. I watch him as he builds up the wall, stone by stone. It's like he's building his own crypt. I prepare the shovel.

Installation

I use the free weekend to make some alterations.

Up through the hatch into the loft, over the accumulated detreitus, down through Jonny's trapdoor, and I'm in. I think of rummaging through his belongings for telltail signs of nefarious activities, but time is limited and he's far too clever to leave anything incriminating lying around. So I install secret cameras in the kitchen, the lounge, and above the bedroom. These little beauties will last for years.

Prague

I wait for him to leave the house. To my surprise, only three days go by before the premises are vacated. Jonny struggles out of the door with several heavy-looking suitcases.

"Going anywhere nice?", I ask. "Spain? Italy? Swaffham?"

"Well," says Jonny, "Prague, actually. You know. Eastern Europe."

I wonder at the audacity of his pronouncement. He must know that I have him under surveillance. This vicious cabaret that we are performing is beginning to affect me, psychologically.

What is there in Prague? Guns. Prostitution. Gambling. Stag parties. Maybe JB is going to smuggle back an armed poker-playing lout dressed in a Borat bikini.

Unlikely, granted.

Risk

Someone once said that the secret to performing great acts is great preparation.

I have no evidence of which particular time or date this was said, but there are a lot of people in the world, and it seems like something someone - possibly a middle manager - would have said, at some point. It doesn't really matter if it has been said before or not, it is merely by way of introduction.

For the past few weeks I have been observing this preparation occurring right under my nose. The primary target has been attending Big A's house for extensive and rigorous global warfare training. This has taken the form of lengthy games of the popular board game 'Risk' - a long-time favourite with insurgents everywhere. The aim of this game is to recruit as many fanatics as possible, before, slowly but surely, taking over the world. JB plays the game with the studiousness of a professor. It is something of a giveaway that his favourite tactic is the "concurrent attack", which features several cells all hitting their designated targets at the same time.

I continue my study of Jonny B from afar. His behaviour is certainly peculiar, although not necessary criminal.

• He has his cess pit emptied. (There are no bodies currently stashed in there.)
• He experiments with home-made explosives in the form of a can of microwaved soup.
• He travels to London to meet with some old contacts, consumes a kebab his waist-line can barely afford, talks about bingo and goes home.

I wonder whether I have done the right thing taking this assignment. If the pace of life around here got any slower, it would have to start going backwards.