Elinborg accompanied the boy’s mother to the morgue on Baronsstigur. She was a short, petite woman, in her mid-thirties and tired after a long day at work. Her thick, dark hair was tied in a ponytail, her face round and friendly. The police had found out where she worked and two men were sent to collect her. It took them some time to explain to her what had happened and that she had to go with them. They drove up to the flats where Elinborg joined them in the car and realised that they needed an interpreter. One of the policemen contacted the Multicultural Centre, which sent a woman to meet them at the morgue.

The interpreter had not yet turned up when Elinborg arrived with the mother. She accompanied the woman straight into the morgue where the pathologist was waiting for them. When the mother saw her son she let out a piercing howl and slumped into Elinborg’s arms. She screamed something in her own language. At that moment the interpreter walked in, an Icelandic woman about the same age as the mother, and together she and Elinborg tried to comfort her. Elinborg got the impression that the two women were acquainted. The interpreter tried to talk to the mother in a soothing tone but, out of her wits with grief and helplessness, she tore herself loose, threw herself onto the boy and cried at the top of her voice.